There was something more to Nazia's movements though, her attitude not simply cantankerous but perhaps a little desperate. She seemed to be searching for something that she wasn't finding as she periodically coughed with enough violence that Aziza was sure that she should be spitting up blood and tissue; it wouldn't be the first time that she'd coughed her airways into such a state of rawness. Sometimes she resented being asked if she wanted help, more capable of navigating the inside of the kint alone than she could manage outside. The world outside the little wagon typically required the use of a wooden stick for balance, especially when one of her spluttering fits or weak spells struck but in here she was free, able to grasp parts of their home's interior for support and balance, aided as well by the things that her daughter had strung up for her to grip.
Free to break the place apparently.
"Juela! What's wrong with ju?" the young woman asked in Mugrobi, feeling free to use it given that they were alone. She watched from the warmth of a nest of blankets on her bed, her osta, Hanaa curled up with her. As she watched, another earthenware container was opened, the lid smacked down with such viciousness that it bounced and cracked on the floor, splitting in twain. The elder's booted foot kicked it.
"Yar'aka!" the woman cursed, shocking her daughter with the intensity of her language.
"Juela-"
"Ju! Maguala! Ju're what's wrong! Ju oveka, useless.... child! Your fault. Ju did this!" Nazia spat, the venom in her voice making Aziza flinch, staring at the other and shocked to see the age and strain in her face. She'd been so much worse in recent months, so much sicker and the toll of it showed in her weathered face, new lines etched into the soft malleable skin that were born of pain and suffering. The dark brown eyes were more like pits in the earth except there was some light within them, some hidden luminescence giving her a manic look. She realised that her mother's actions hadn't been born of petulance but desperation.
The twitchiness, the petulance, the desperate searching suddenly all clicked into place. Her mother's addiction to any and all drugs that Aziza could get her for her pain and to ease her breathing had increased over the years in Anaxas. While initially her mother had been almost reluctant to use anything her daughter bartered and begged for her, these days she considered it something as necessary as food and drink, more necessary in fact.
Since they'd arrived in Surwood, they'd been dealing with snow but even so, the young woman had ventured out, more than a little selfish and disinterested in her mother's condition. Surely if the woman had run out, she would have said something. Perhaps she hadn't expected the girl to listen. Perhaps she wasn't thinking straight at all. When had the woman last taken something? Didn't withdrawal mess with the mind? It was certainly messing with Nazia's.
Without any further explanation and muttering darkly to herself, the older spoke snatched up her stick from beside the door and shoved her way out it into a flurry of flakes.
"Juel- Daoa!" she called out after her, switching awkwardly from Mugrobi - which really shouldn't be used around foreigners - to Tek. She struggled to disentangle herself from her cocoon of warmth, Hanaa hissing in displeasure and giving her a hard swipe to the arm before hopping down and ducking under a low table; green eyes glared out at her from under it. Rubbing at the marks on her dark skin and smearing some of her own blood around in the process, the witch wrapped herself up as warmly as she could, wearing blankets like shawls as she tugged on her boots and staggered out after her mother.
A blanket went up over her head, forming a hood, giving her a chance to see and track. Her mother had actually gotten surprisingly far in a relatively short space of time. Given the reduced visibility and the gatherings of kints and tents and everything else, the woman wasn't immediately visible. However, the tracks she'd made traipsing through the snow were visible. Unfortunately, it seemed that some others were braving the weather, dealing with the lashings of icy liquid against their skin. It was coming down but there were a few different footprints. However, they didn't come with a straight trough where a stick had been dragged through the drifts so her mother's were easier to distinguish. She set off after the trail, keeping an ear open for the sounds of her mother above the whirl as she trekked after her.
The woman had a headstart and she was being fuelled by desperation. All the same, it took her a few minutes to stumble upon the area where Nazia had gone, the sound of the woman's voice helping to draw her to the right spot.
"Ye're the sort! The lyin' sort wi' drugs! I know!" she heard her mother calling, stumbling onto a gathering of wicks, the Mugrobi woman having singled out a man with brown hair and tired features, a strangely weathered quality to his skin. There was something familiar about him though, not that she had the chance to assess him properly given the stress of the situation.
Her mother was almost as high as him, shy of his stature by an inch or so and while she didn't have the healthiest look - there was a yellowish cast to her skin she noticed now, the glare of the snow seeming to bring it out - her mania and the stick she carried probably made her seem plenty intimidating. Nazia was stuck on a loop, convinced that the man lied, convinced that he was the kind to have drugs. To be fair, a lot of wicks probably were carrying drugs but her mother was being bloody aggressive. Any denials were met with shrieks of 'Liar' and 'Sinful ersehole', Aziza horrified by what she'd stumbled onto perhaps too late.
She rushed into their midst.
"Wo chet! Calm, daoa, calm! Ye're gonna do yerself harm, ye chen?" she gushed out, holding out a hand as if to halt any retaliation on the part of those her mother had disturbed. "Epaemo! Epaemo! She dint know what she's doin', out o' her mind, ye chen?"
Her glamour was tight, taut with worry as she considered drawing it near, seeking some spell she could use that might soothe the woman. She wished she had the fancy spells that the gollies had, the kinds that would more than likely put the woman to sleep and let her - and everyone around her - have peace for a little while.
As if sensing her thoughts on magic, she felt her mother's glamour move, sigiling and yet strangely wobbly as she tried to concentrate on whatever it was she was planning on casting on the wick before her. She was muttering words of Monite that weren't unfamiliar but their meaning was strange to her, unable to understand the words that were being woven but feeling that their intent was malicious. She didn't know what else to do with her; she slapped her full across the face.
The smack of flesh on flesh seemed to ring in her ears, the sting in her hand driving home the horror of it.
"Epaemo," she whispered, gaze shimmering. Aziza didn't know if she was apologising to her mother or the man she'd just saved from some nasty spell. Possibly it was both an apology to and for her mother.
Her gaze moved to the man, mouth tugged down in an expression of misery and shame. She didn't know if she was more ashamed of herself or her mother but as she turned her attention to him, the feeling ebbed as surprise usurped it.
"Oisin?" she gasped, gaze wide, the beginning of a smile curving her lips as she recognised him. He looked older and not just because a few years had passed since she'd seen him last. "Hulali ha' mercy, ye look rough, brunno!" the Mug blurted out, no shame in her own honesty.