Depredations, Blame

[Guppy]

The two girls stood, supporting one another against both wind and horrors dancing within their minds. Noura wondered if they would both tumble over if they parted completely. At mention of their skills, a soft smile dawned on the wildling's features.

"That, combined with our stubborn refusal to leave well enough alone, should serve us well," she remarked, playfully. A sharp elbow, joined together, was aimed in gentle jest towards Gloria's padded ribs. Snow clung to both of their backsides. It was ignored. Their movement would knock it away in time. A sudden wind caught their breath and stole it from their lungs. Noura tucked her nose against Gloria's shoulder and her mouth open to gasp in oxygen. All at once, she began to shiver and tug lightly upon the other's arm. There was little cover at the edge of the forest and they were vulnerable to its whims here.

"Yes, we should go elsewhere now. Come. The sun is falling, the wind is worsening, and I am going to lose my fingertips if we do not leave," she coaxed, attempting a smile at the title she was granted. A smile that froze when her mind lingered on her unnamed suspect.

Surely she was wrong. Surely it could not be.

She was quiet as they carefully picked their way across the field and towards the waiting files at the Inquisitory.

[Rance]

The wind bit words out of her mouth; an acquiescence, an agreement as to their qualifications--

Instead, as Noura shivered against her, the larger of the two girls unhinged herself from Noura's hand, but only to readjust the placement of her arm. After a squirming burst of laughter at the prod in her elbow -- should they laugh when death was around, should they find mirth even with blood still vibrant and red behind them? -- she wrangled her broad arm across Noura's shoulders and nestled her away from the brisk gusts. This, she could do. If not tracking, discovering, investigating, then she could lend the breadth of her frame to the slighter girl and warm her with the Sun that still pumped through her veins.

"Don't lose your fingers," she said to the half-hidden wildling, shrugging off the shoulder of her cloak to drape it warmly across Noura's. Though it carried with it the sulfuric odor of her perspiration, it was a furnace they should share, for the cloak -- an object claimed from the belongings of a dead woodcutter -- had been seamed for far greater girths than theirs put together.

Her free hand reached across, gathered up Noura's, and resumed the friendly contact that had been eschewed if only to offer the insulating garment.

"It's nice," she said, confidentially, "to hold hands. Everyone else seems to avoid doing so when it comes to mine."

But that was not knowledge offered with a frown, or with weight; no, it was given with relief, an untold appreciation, a closeness.

In the Inquisitory, there would not be red, red wax. No dead does, no dead boys.

They needed only survive the trek from the Crant farm toward the town, their cheeks turning against the frigid day, Gloria's laughter heightened, her words vibrant, playful as if to compensate for the whelp's lack thereof--

--because that, if only a temporary solution, was the sole method by which to disenchant the aura of violence and death.

[catch]

They waited.

They were told to wait, and they waited. The Mother-love wished this.

They waited until the sun set. They waited while the moon rose, silver and frozen, over the snow. It was very cold, now. They felt the cold keenly, and huddled together for warmth.

Two pairs of muddy, brown eyes gazed hungrily at the den-entrance. And they waited, even as the sun rose.