House Call

[Guppy]

There was a long moment of silence as it became clear who had come to call on her. "Sera Mercy?," she parroted, as if she were having a bit of difficulty believing the healer had come to call on her. "I've no case of the sniffles, I promise. I've no need for a personal healer, whatever your thoughts on the matter," she called, with a heavy dose of confusion.

The masculine voice, thick with sarcasm, that sounded soon after caused the wildling to fall silent.

As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, pupils widened to drag in as much light from her dim fire as possible, they would note the young woman standing at the back wall. Those eyes were focused on them and the smoldering flames were kept as barrier between them. "Already paid my rent to the lord of these lands," she answered, her own voice heaped with sarcasm. The sheen of a blade in her hand caught in the light, her pinched expression bringing to mind a cornered animal. Cautious, but not without claws.

"What is it that you two want? Hardly proper not to bring a housewarming gift."

[girl]

Consternation flares, though on the outside no obvious traces are shared. Lips press together, and the physician picks her way into the cave a few more paces. An exasperated exhalation of breath is issued as she stumbles over an inopportunely placed rock, and all forward momentum is halted.

"I realize you are not afflicted with the common malady. However, my orders are not my own," Mercy begins, voice modulated to be as unobtrusive as possible. With a little more hope in her voice, the physician calls out again a few moments later, "Have we your permission to come in?"

That pervasive sense of foreboding was in her bones, now--the cold clenching at her relentlessly. She shoots a gaze at the sellsword, who'd taken up a very brave position behind her, and rolls her shoulders in a noncommittal sort of shrug.

"If she denies us entry, that's plausible reason to turn around and go back to a place that isn't an angry, dark cavern," she whispers to her bought companion.

[Serrus]

The sellsword hadn't moved from his lax, nonchalant pose against the cave wall, but did eye the nervous wildling girl backing up, knife in hand. He couldn't blame her in the slightest, the man always slept with his, and was often seen brandishing it at the first signs of trouble under his own roof. Strange people arrive in your home, one of them armed to the teeth, who wouldn't be ready to defend themselves? After Mercy's own introductions and explanations, the sellsword adds his own.

"Ease up there, girl," he says to the wildling, voice as warm and relaxed as it always was... when he wasn't angered about something. "Lady Mercy's here from them healers back over the Rememdium. She was sent t'make sure you was good of 'ealth, is all. Mind, body, an' soul, an' all that. Wer't come'ere to make a mess o' ye place. She just needs me 'ere in case your neighbours start makin' a fuss, like they did last time I was round."

The sellword turns back to the healer, shrugging at her quiet reflection upon the situation. "It's 'er 'ome we've walked into, luv," he mutters quietly in reply, at a volume he's certain the girl wouldn't be able to hear. "I'm 'ere in case things get out of 'and. You want me t'force 'er 'and, well .. that's gonna cost ye a lot more than we agreed. I bloody seen what this girl's magic does, Sera Mercy, an' by all the Saints, it sure as shite ain't pretty."

[Guppy]

The girl glanced from one to the other, cautious but not overly uneasy, despite their intrusion. The mercenary's explanation, simple as it was, seemed to soothe her soul. Enough to drop her hand that clutched that knife to her side, at least. "Why would they think that I ailed at the Rememdium?," she questioned, with uncertainty written upon her features as obvious as if it were on parchment.

Then, Mercy spoke and she blinked. Once. Owlishly. "Oh." She offered. And again, "Oh."

She made a rude noise in the back of her throat, an almost-laugh, and stooped. The knife was tucked into her boot again and she lifted a sharpened stick with blackened end. She poked sharply at the embers of her fire and nodded impatiently.

"Might as well come in, then," she returned. "The stew is just about done and you'll share it before the cold of the swamp takes you, if you're wise," she added. There was a modest-sized iron pot with savory-smelling stew bubbling merrily. The wildling lifted it carefully from the fire with the same stick so that it might start to cool. Instead of bowls, she produced numerous spoons.

Her eyes glanced pointedly to Serrus, who leaned so effortlessly upon the cavern wall. "Come and sit, then." Seems he had little choice in the matter.

"What is it about me that makes others want to save me? Does it matter that I did not ask for any help, I wonder?," she asked, peering sidelong at the both of them as she took a seat upon a flat rock. The floor would have to suffice if they joined her.

[girl]

The sudden shift in the wildling's behavior, seemingly at the simple explanation does not put the physician at ease. She could understand outright aggression and its inverse, but the sudden shift left the girl feeling cold, a sentiment made more keen by the diminished light and the pervasive damp of Noura's subterranean home. The hostility in their welcome fades, is turned into an invitation not only to approach, but to share a meal, and the physician swallows hard, chin pulled down to her chest. Though she did not specifically fear for her safety, the cautions offered to her from those who were more familiar with Noura had aggrandized her sense of wariness.

A single look is given to Serrus, an apology of sorts. Their easy out had been denied and, mantled with that realization, Mercy starts forward, boots clicking out an echoed and smooth rhythm. She speaks once again, once she'd come close enough to no longer have to raise her voice. “I thank you for your invitation,” comes the reply, all smooth and without further hesitation. Any inward trepidation was not betrayed by her comportment.

The wildling poses her question, and the physician certainly has an answer for that. She smiles, gently, and then begins speaking in that casually patient tone. “I have been dispatched because you have been barred from the Rememdium, but you do not deserve to be without treatment. Your treatment just cannot come at the cost of the well-being and safety of others,” she explains.

The command to sit wasn't pointed at the physician, which is good, because there was little to no chance she was going to put herself on that damp and dirty floor on purpose. She merely stands a little ways away, positioned so Noura would not have to crane to look up at her while they conversed.

[Serrus]

If Mercy seems apologetic regarding the fact both are have to stay after all, this doesn't seem to bother the sellsword, who is getting paid by the hour for his time, after all. This, given how broke he's been since arriving to Myrken recently, will be all the more reason for him to stretch the time out for as long as possible. Sup with some stew? What a grand idea! Mercy hadn't agreed nor suggested that they would be forcing the wildling's choice in the matter, which he supposes will work out better in the long run. At Noura's invitation, the sellsword finds himself pushing off the wall, shifting boots at great ease, as if the whole experience was a practiced or easy affair.

"I'm 'ere as Sera Mercy's employ," the sellsword explains, nodding to Noura and the healer, "so wouldn't be nice or' proper fer me to slack on t'job, like." He looks to the old pot. "Will 'ave m'self some o'that strew, though." He finds a rock not too far from the fire to sit himself, high enough, he supposes, that he can be quick to his feet if needed. The press of the sheathed dirk at his rear left could be felt, and there was a warmth coming from the silver ring tucked within one of his fingerless gloves, much warmer than the usual cold press of silver to skin.

"'If you're wise', she says," Serrus comments amusedly, sparing a glance to the healer. He regards the wilding for a moment; a brief look of scrutiny. "Saint Mourne's teeth, where'd y'learn t'talk, girl? I been 'ither an' yon... been up round them far parts o' Mythago Wood, down Amasyn Valley, as well as t'far parts o' them Red Hills. I come 'cross plenty wildings in my time, an' most of 'em couldn't speak a single word o' Common, let alone form a sentence." The man is intrigued, if nothing else, at the girl's form of speech, being near eloquent as far as he sees it, a far cry from her wild and savage appearance.

[Guppy]

At Mercy's thanks, she waved at the healer to join her around the fire. Serrus pushed off of the wall and strode towards them. He did not seem overly concerned with her condition, at least. Two spoons, one for each of them, was thrust in their direction. The wildling scooped a spoonful of her own and her lips pursed to blow relatively cool air across its surface. A toe nudged the kettle of stew closer to the sellsword.

Her eyes darted from her food to meet the mercenary's gaze as he mused over her eloquence. "I have my doubts about the simplicity of my origins," she mentioned, with dry humor, as if she were not entirely aware of them. Her eyes danced at him playfully. Secondarily, she also seemed to be using as large words as possible for his benefit. "Besides, Lady Rhaena turned me into a proper young lady for her pet Knight before she decided that he could do far better," she added, not bashful about giving him a little insight into her past.

Mercy's mention of her condition caused the wildling's attention to shift towards her again. "The creature keeps me as healthy as it feels necessary," she remarked, closing one eye and tapping her index finger to her temple. "So, the only real ailment you might wish to combat is the creature itself. Surely you did not bring a man with a sword and healing herbs to combat the powerful spirit of a creature far older than us all combined?," she questioned, pointedly. "A creature who lives in the safety of my head and can not receive either healing herbs nor can be hacked out of my mind like an abscess."

"Luckily, her violence is limited to trading barbs, for the most part," she offered, in soothing manner. She could not help the amusement that lingered in her voice nor the playful dance of her gaze.

There was something there behind her eyes, watching them like a predator considering prey.

It was enough to bring gooseflesh to skin.

[girl]

Mercy takes the spoon when it is offered to her, though she has absolutely no intention of eating anything. Anxiety has its own way of filling up the belly, after all. She and the sellsword converse for a moment, and she listens politely, turning that spoon over and over betwixt her fingertip and thumb, the motion repetitive in a way that was stimulating to the physician's thought process.

"I was not aware that your passenger had the power to maintain your health," the physician responds blandly. She does well to keep the distaste out of her tone, knowing full well that that parasite that had glommed onto the whelp was listening--or, at least, it had the capacity to do so.

"Although I suppose that makes sense, considering that It needs a host that is alive and well," she muses aloud, voice passed between the pressed pout of an expressive mouth laden with contemplation. Silence overcomes the physician for a few measured moments, her gaze turning to a region over the whelp's head.

"So, then, Sera Noura," Mercy begins her question, the hollowed round of the spoon thwacked dully into the palm of her hand for punctuation. "Are you pleased with that extra presence inside your head?" The question is rendered in the lightest of tones, while the physician's gaze skips from the section of wall she'd been memorizing to the younger woman's face, eager to catch the responses both verbal and not. The other woman's responses, after all, would dictate the remainder of their interactions. If their alliance was commensal or, better, beneficial, the physician would make her report back to Physician Jule, emphasizing the difficulties naturally faced when one tried to treat a malady that, to the patient, did not exist.

[Serrus]

Rhaena. Such a name bore such ill will in this town, a curse upon lips, a name uttered with despised contempt. The tales seemed to exemplify the woman's infamy, and it would seem her influence knew no bounds to most of the denizens of the city, including wildlings living in recluse for the most part. Such a conversation might be a topic for another occasion, another chance meeting, but this is neither the time nor the place for it.

Serrus takes the offered spoon with little ceremony. He couldn't recall the amount of times he'd eaten without a bowl, but there had been many times he could recall sharing a stew w have been more than one, men huddled about a small cookfire, not near enough flames to warm them from the biting winter's chill, each sharing one bowl, passed in a circle. He supposes sharing spoons was no different, if perhaps more practical for a group of people. He blows on the spoon much the same, taking a small morsel to chew on.

"Venison," he comments offhandedly, rolling a shrug as he recognises the texture and taste as best he could. Too many nights without shelter and a roof, he rarely turned a free meal down, even the simplest of foods was a kind enough gesture, even if her habitat was nothing he'd consider homely. A decent shelter, for sure. A comforting place to stay the night? Only if one was desperate... or a wildling.

The wildling talks of the 'creature'. Strange name for something that inhabited her body like a rowdy housekeeper or a back-wagon passenger. At least she knows what it is. She didn't seem to use words like friend, though she did name it her protector. She talks of the man and his sword, the hand-and-a-half saber which hangs sheathed at his left, though the man's hands have not yet strayed to rest upon the kriegsmesser's hilt. He still felt the press of the dirk near the back of his belt, and the ring underneath those short gloves seemed to stay warm against his finger, though he knows it's not from her fire. 'The powerful spirit of a creature far older than us all combined', the wildling said. Should have brought a priest of The Order. Maybe a half-dozen. His thoughts are not betrayed though, for the sellsword appears friendly enough, sipping at the meal, and still very open to conversation, and not bothered at all by the rapacity that gleams behind the wildling's eyes.

Mercy's own replies are curt and firm. The girl is on edge, and it's evident in her posture, her stiff neck and lip, the way her shoulders are taught, the way her fingers are wrapped tight. It's what he'd taught himself not to do in such situations, even when faced with great hostility, the sellsword is quite experienced at remaining calm as a cucumber, that is until all the bloodletting begins of course, at which point all bets are off. At the healer's question if the wildling has any compunctions with the presence inside her, Serrus glances Mercy's way before turning to the wildling with raised eyebrows, appearing perhaps not quite as curt or informal as Mercy is in addressing Noura.

"In other words, girl: Is 'she' a good 'ousekeeper, or does she piss all over y'garden flowers an' upset t'neighbours?"

[Guppy]

The healer mentioned the creature's powers of healing and the wildling nodded her head impatiently. "Your employer knows," she mentioned. Abruptly, her hand lowered to wrap around the hilt of her hunting knife. She did not seem to understand the threatening action - so any activity of the man across the fire from her would certainly be warranted, but they would also come as a surprise to her. She tugged it free and held out an arm, fist closed and facing the ceiling. Blood, bright red at the addition of oxygen-rich air, welled in a thin line as she drew the blade in diagonal cut across the pale surface. Her fingers opened and she lowered her elbow. Gravity brought the pregnant drops of blood down in thin rivulets. The skin knit together and her spoon was placed on the flat surface of her lap before the opposite hand wiped the crimson fluid away.

Demonstrated finished, she wiped her hand upon her skirts and succeeded in smearing her blood upon the white cloth. She reclaimed her spoon and fished for another bite of stew, nodding at Serrus and grinning around the bite she chewed. "Caught it yesterday. Buried it close, deep enough that the animal won't stumble upon it," she admitted, with pride.

"I think pleased is a strong word," she admitted, honestly. The other woman's earnest tone deserved an equally truthful answer. "Though our arrangement is symbiotic in most ways," she said, with a strained smile. Her shoulders lifted carelessly. "I made a decision to live instead of die long ago. I intend to live with the decision I made. The creature saved me, banished my memories of my old life, and raised me. She is as close to a mother as I know, by her own design. It was practical, if unkind. She can not help that she was not human in life."

She glanced at the mercenary as he asked for more detail. "She keeps me hidden from death, protects me against those who seek to harm me. She has taught me about my own magic. She is company when there is no other to be had. Though, there is plenty of upsetting neighbors," she agreed, with a sudden, violent grin. "Still, one can not chose family." Even if she had.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, to peer at Serrus. "Tell me you would not make the same decision. Life instead of death. How can that gift be rewarded by banishing the creature who granted it?"

The demon stared at him through the girl's pupils.

[girl]

Mercy lifts a hand and opens her mouth wordlessly as the whelp lifts that blade, and then winces visibly as the girl slashes that blade across her own flesh. And then, as that slit, seemingly of its own prerogative, seals itself back together, the physician continues to stare—though this time the horror in her wide-eyed gaze is matched with a sickened but intense interest. Wonder-filled revulsion surfaces in the curl of her lips, in the way she's leaned forward, bent at the waist.

“That is remarkable,” the physician breathes, hands moving down to twist in her skirts to prevent them from reaching out towards that recently-unwounded skin.

The conversation rolls on, here and there, and then towards the subject of the duality of Noura's nature. Mercy's head cocks to the side when she speaks of symbiosis, of the life the pair have created together. And, though the young woman does not understand enjoying sharing a single physical existence, she does have a very keen familiarity with the idea of reliance outside the self.

“So,” Mercy says, pausing to bite her cheek for a moment, still thoughtful. “You do not need assistance with matters internal, and you have no desire to try to solve the sharing of your person. My presence here is, then, strictly unnecessary.”

The physician grins a little, feeling a bit chagrined.

[Serrus]

There are ways to know the intentions of another person carrying steel. The mere reach of a hilt or grasp of a knife isn't something that immediately should cause alarm on its own. There were signs to know of another's intent, and whether that intent is indeed malicious. A shift of the eyes, a tensing of certain muscles, movements in the throat, a swallow, or a sudden shortening of breath, intense gaze, one looking through you or at the area in which they wished to strike.

The girl shows none of these things, and so when she reaches for the knife, the sellsword sits as he sat before, nary a movement nor a stirring as she takes that blade, as if she had merely taken the spoon to eat some more of the cooked stew. When she slices her arm, fist bared upwards, and that blade cuts through skin and flesh, rendering sinew and coursing blood down the wrist, over palm to trickle through fingers, he does cant his head a slight, not sure what this is about. Some of the wildling folk in the north wetlands and southern hills were reputed to do the same, blood rituals, moon sacrifices, the usual druidic nonsense. He didn't know how much of this were true, or whether this was relevant. But when that blood stops, clotting as if it had healed for days, when the wound seals shut like a a tightened seam, there is another look upon his features. Distaste. Aversion. Black magic. It's with this aversion the man turns his head to the side and spits through teeth onto the cave floor -- a superstition often carried in the Grange.

Mercy seems bothered, or perhaps taken aback, and there's a look in the healer he doesn't like, as if this were something she were not expecting. Serrus had a good inkling what to expect from the get go, and this is nothing but devilry, through and through. Something he could not and would not be part of. Though the wildling girl does not speak of any notion of wanting the creature gone, and with that, the healer assures that there was no further requirement of her services.

He turns a glance back to the wildling girl at her question, words spinning through his head. The creature saved me, banished my memories of my old life, and raised me. How many memories had he forgotten, and how many had the man taken from him? Forget her, she's nothing to you now. Never was. It was a relief, finding an easy way to forget one's past, to simply forget the horrors as if they never were, so you could live without them. That, for the most part, he understands completely. As for the other choice, however...

"There's but life or death girl. There's no middle ground. Anythin' that comes betwixt that is nowt but devilry. Would I choose life over death, by makin' some bloody pact with a daemon?" He leans forward, meeting the girl's pupils, stare for stare.

"No."

A glance away as he turns to regard Mercy again, nodding once with one hand slapping a knee. "Can we go now?" he asks facetiously.

[Guppy]

"It is a testimony to your character that you made the trip, all the same," the wildling offered, to the healer, gratefully. "I know how dangerous it can be," she nodded, with respect.

As Serrus answered, as if it were no question at all, the whelp looked taken aback. The expression rapidly shifted to something far more amused as dark shadow stretched and filled her eyes. He had tempted out the creature hiding within her soul. "Ah, well. They will very likely speak your praises atop mountains. The pious and saintly ... mercenary, was it?," the demon drawled, voice deep with sarcasm.

"Don't you have anything better to do than to cast aspersions on the young for a choice made in the depths of desperation?," she asked, leaning forward, towards Serrus, with that dangerous mirth playing in the abyss of her gaze. "Your morals can be bought and sold, so save the righteous indignation. Do see yourselves out, hm?," she rose from the floor of the cave and brushed the packed earth from her backside.

Gone was the slightly awkward youth of the girl. Those swaying hips were far more knowledgeable about the world in which they lived. Unless they made a move to stop her, she vanished from the mouth of the cave with a chortle that brought to mind fire and brimstone.