No one mourns the wicked.

[syl_thorn]

[Early evening, Wednesday, August 13th, day 444]
[The woods outside town]Woke up'is mornin' when the sky wuz th'deep blue'a th'sea bottom, m'breath stranglin'n m'throat, and a pain'n m'head't threatened t'push m'eyes from'eir sockets. I sat up, chokin' 'n clawin't m'throat, wond'rin' dully if'n m'head wuz gonna burst 'fore I strangled, an'en't wuz

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[catherineknight]

The root rips its way from the ground like the rend of flesh, and it winds around Reed's ankle like a serpent. It is so sudden that I freeze, just for a moment, but it's long enough for the witch to hurl a bag of powder into my face. I cough and choke on the foul-smelling dust, and before I can catch my breath I'm surrounded by a buzzing, stinging cloud. Wasps dig their stingers into the skin of my face, flies batter their way into my eyes, my nose, my ears. I shriek in pain and surprise, wrapping my arms around my head, and over the humming of wings I hear the crashing sound of the witch escaping.

No. No, it cannot be allowed! Not when we're so close!

I scrub my face against the leather of my jerkin, striving to wipe the powder away, and swat at the insects with my hands. My face is swelling, but I can see Reed hacking away at the bushes that hold her. She can't be allowed to escape!

There's a bottle of water at my belt; I seize it and upend it over my face, splashing and scrubbing. Oh, it hurts, and it's swollen and itching, but the insects are starting to dissipate. I snatch my knife and move to help Reed.

[syl_thorn]

Christ all-fucking-mighty, too damned close. Dunno how long they'll be kept busy, nor how much mojo I got left in me. Run wit' m'right hand clamped tight over m'bleedin' shoulder; least th'blood seems t'be clottin', so guess I don't gotta worry 'bout bleedin' t'death.

Full dark now, an'I can't hear th'curses 'n yells no more. M'side's pulled tight inna stitch, an' m'shoulder feels fulla th'same wasps I sent't th'blonde, Lean 'gainst a big tree t'get m'bearin's. Felt like I wuz gettin' t'know'ese woods pretty well, but th'woods when't's dark 'n ye're bein' hunted are a diff'rent animal from th'day, an'I really ain't so sure where th'fuck I am

[glass_beddau]

They're hacking away at the branches, and hope for a moment that the plant twined 'round her is strong and green, and that they slip and cut themselves as well. Push back the cloak, pick up another rock as I draw up to Syl, touch her on the good shoulder and wave to the direction we ought be taking.

Fine, it's dark. Night's not come yet where that's a problem for me. Being out this long, mind, it's starting to bloody well hurt.

[pirate_mystic]

Get me cut free. Skin's all scraped, bleedin a bit where Catherine nicked me. Can just see her in the dark: face swollen up, an her eyes're wild. Things in the air round us - one hits my face, stings. Hornets?

"After her," I says all hoarse, an we're goin on. Ain't easy without light, but I know these woods like the back of my own hand. Listenin', smellin'. Snapped twigs and such showin the way she went. 'F she can do that, what all else can she do? Cold all up my swine though I'm sweatin like a pig. Not frightened: angry. In my town. My town.

[catherineknight]

We work together, hacking through branches and roots. My knife is near to blunted by hacking through the wood, but it is still sharp enough to serve. I think that I nicked Reed's skin, but she makes no complaint. But it takes time, it takes so much time. By the time she is finally free, darkness has fallen fully and the witch is nowhere to be seen.

But Reed doesn't seem phased; in fact, if anything, she seems more determined. "After her," she says, and shows no hesitation. She can track, ah, thank you, God, for bringing us together. My rifle is safe under my arm, and I follow Reed with a light heart.

[syl_thorn]

A hand falls on m'shoulder, an'I jes' 'bout scream. Rip m'good hand free'a th'wound, snatch m'knife outta m'belt, whip 'round, an'...

"Jesus FUCK." I says, quiet, all th'wind rushin' outta m'lungs. "Jesus Christ onna jumped-up chariot-driven diesel-powered CRUTCH, girl, I thought you'd run back t'town. How'd you...?"

Then i see th'way 'er body's hidden b'hind somethin'...c'n see folds'a cloth, but also see th'way't keeps'er hidden from view. "...Jesus. Might ask ya 'bout'at later." I says, still whisp'rin'. Got no idea where th'two bitches are, but ain't about t'make't easy ferrem t'find us.

Glass seems t'know th'way outta th'woods, an'I follow'er. Shoulder hurts like a bitch, but if'n'm real lucky, 'at's th'worst'll have t'deal wit'.

[glass_beddau]

Should've taken that I'd startle her. "Tangled story," covers it well enough, and nod to matter of it coming up later. Ought ask her about Silence, I suppose, when we've time.

Have some measure of where we are; be a sight closer to Excolo and the Carnivale both if there hadn't been that little matter of needing to run from a pair of guns, but on balance giving the not running can't say I'd complain. Nothing I can do of the moment for her shoulder, not with cloth blown into it and whatever she may've picked up from falling, and so it's best we keep moving.