Seeking a High in a Snow Storm (Oisin)

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A large island and a few smaller isles in the Arova River, this hub of nomadic wick life is home to the annual Wick Festival.

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Aziza
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Mon Apr 29, 2019 6:01 pm

Bethas 5, 2719 | Early Afternoon
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There was so much snow and yet it kept pelting out of the heavens. So much gods bedamned snow that the young woman wondered why she'd ever left Mugroba to come to this comparatively chilly kingdom. The reason why she'd come to Anaxas was currently banging her way around the stationary kint, tugging open doors and drawers and containers before slamming them closed again. Aziza didn't understand why their dwelling was receiving such aggressive treatment although she knew that her mother was in a foul humour because she hadn't wanted to come to the festival in Surwood. It had been a victory on the young Mug's part, the spoke finally putting her foot down when Nazia whined about going to the festival, making her usual web of excuses that were so difficult to make head nor tail of, the woman opting for confusion rather than lies. After so many months in Old Rose for her mother's sake, after so many years of doing things for her mother's benefit again and again, the witch had decided that they were going to the festival and that was clocking that and Nazia was welcome to go wherever she pleased on her own if she was so against the idea of going with her. The defiance from her daughter obviously didn't sit well but she'd shut up. Why she was so against the idea of mixing with other wicks - her own kind - seemed difficult to fathom but Aziza suspected it had something to do with her mother's frequently muttered phrase about all of them being liars. Her mood had been nasty since their arrival a few days previous and it hadn't been improved by the snow whirling down outside, which was keeping them cooped up together.

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.

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Oisin Ocasta
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Sat Aug 24, 2019 11:39 pm

Early Afternoon - 5th of Bethas, 2719
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There were many words that could have described Oisin Ocasta in that moment. To his own mind, the most accurate was 'numb'. It was an evocative word, a physical sensation as well as a mental state. Oisin's fingers felt numb, assaulted by the kind of cold that he'd endured so effortlessly in the past, a talent apparently stolen from him by the scorching sands of Mugroba. His senses felt numb, sounds muffled and distant, sights disconnected and largely unnoticed, as if he were perceiving experiences of the world that belonged to someone else. His skin and limbs felt numb, as if the very essense had been drained from him, as if somehow his soul had come adrift within the shell of his body, every motion and action sluggish and lethargic, even the simple act of breathing or speaking feeling like some great, overwhelming ordeal that was a mere handful of repetitions away from becoming an insurmountable task.

Oisin had felt this way before, or at least, some variation of it. It had always been there on some level: the sensation that he didn't fit, that he didn't belong, that life was a story he just wasn't supposed to be part of. He watched it unfold around him, a silent witness to the lives and joys of others, watching them laugh and love, watching their cares and passions, and finding none of his own. He was a ghost of a person, an echo, an imitation, going through the motions of living without any of the aspirations or investments that made other people's stories so engaging, so fascinating, so intoxicating. Or at least, had made. Somewhere along the way, Oisin's talent for reading people had been stolen away as well. Now people were just there, just shapes around him, no more relevant to his mind's interest than fellow beasts shuffling idly along in a herd.

It was that numbed perspective on the world that dulled Oisin's reaction to the shouts of the Mugrobi woman that singled him out. The lying sort with drugs. Oisin was so numb to his own story that he couldn't judge if the description of his character was accurate or not. He'd thought himself a great many things over the years, only to learn in time that he was one of them, so why not this? He didn't have the drugs that the woman sought, but perhaps he was the kind of person who could have; should have. The lying sort. Liar. That, in particular, felt like it could be true, though most of Oisin's lies were directed at himself rather than others. He'd told himself the great elaborate lie of who he was, the kind of man - a kind man - he was, and he had believed it. At least no one else had. If a liar was what he was, then at least he was only adept enough to fool himself.

The woman was angry. Violent. Good. Perhaps he deserved that. No. He did deserve that. After all, had violence not been his trade these past years? He had delivered it, manufactured it, confident in the belief that it was justly distributed. There were times when that definition had stretched, of course, but he had assured himself that even when unjust, the violence was justified. He was a mercenary. It was his vocation. He did the job, and he was paid. But if the very foundation of everything, his sense of self, was exposed as a lie, then what else came tumbling down around him? If he had lied about who he was, then had he lied about what he was? Was he just a thug? A murderer? An assassin? Perhaps not the kind of sinful that the elder woman had intended, but the blood on his hands was hardly a virtue.

Then he heard it: the sweet, beautiful music, the only thing in his life that still felt like it had meaning, that still felt like it made sense. It was monite, not his own utterance but the woman's. It didn't seem to make a difference in the moment. To have cast his own magic would have been a blissful release, but to be the victim of another's spell would be a relief of its own kind. Either way, the mystic tongue would summon the mona, usher them unto them, reunite Oisin with the closest thing to family he had: the only ones who listened, who cared, who were always there for him. He could feel them, like a buzzing in the air, sweet ecstacy as their ears pricked at the sound of the words meant only for them. And then it ended, the sickening slap carving through the symphony, shattering it into silence. Oisin recoiled, startled, horrified, a split second of feeling something before the cool dark waters enveloped him once again.

She said his name. It took a few moments for Oisin to understand why, to wade through his drowned thoughts and dredge recognition of his own from beneath them. Aziza. The girl from the desert. A past misadventure. A victim of his myriad lies and deceptions. It made no sense that she was here, so far from where he'd known her to be, here enduring the same exile to the past that Oisin had been sentenced to. But some lies were good lies. Aziza had smiled. Surprised to see him, but not unpleasantly so. If a liar was who Oisin was, if deception was what he did, then why stop now? Why run from it, and not embrace it?

"Aziza?" He mustered a smile of his own, letting his brow fall momentarily into a frown before encouraging surprise and recognition to spark in his eyes. "What the blazing sun are you doing here? Did you finally succeed at running away?"
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Aziza
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Wed Sep 11, 2019 5:06 pm

Bethas 5, 2719 | Early Afternoon
Wick Festival, Surwood
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She'd been quick to recognise him - once the distraction of her mother had been dealt with, of course - but that recognition seemed delayed on his end. Truthfully, he was only a few beats behind her but before it happened, she had a chance to take in his face and general demeanour and realise that something was off. It was as if he was disconnected, switched off, ready for something to come along to animate him but in the interim, he was there but vacant. Some drugs did that, she'd certainly taken ones that zoned you out, made the world around you a distant place but she'd seen it from the outside as well - in others. Maybe that was why Nazia had zeroed in on him, the numbed look making her believe that he would be the perfect wick to score from here. Honestly, you could probably throw a rock in any direction and manage to hit a spoke who was carrying something good on them. Obviously, there weren't as many Tekaa to choose from as usual. The snow had made a number of them squirrel themselves away in their kints but there were still another of them out and about, those who were used to cooler climes.

No matter. If Oisin was high then maybe he had drugs on him that would satisfy her mother. Nazia had become a bit sulky, shuffling off a few steps to stand huddled, propped up by her stick with a scowl on her face. The woman might be quiet and seemingly well-behaved for the nonce but her daughter wasn't going to trust that she'd stay that way. It appeared that drugs would be necessary and given that she knew the man before her, he might be easier to barter with than some of the strangers around here; Tekaa should be family but some tyats could be nasty little buggers!

"Could ask ye tha' question s'well, brunno? Ye were in Mug las' I heard," she shot back, her smile broadening into a wide grin. "I can say tha' it's benny t'see ye but... I ent one for lying so I cannae say ye look well. Ye look like spitch run over by kint an' kenser. N'offense!" Aziza added with a laugh.

"Dint be rude," Nazia snapped, earning an incredulous laugh from her child.

"Ye were gonna hit him wi' a nasty bit o' vroo but I'm rude? Dze!"

A hand flapped dismissively in the matriarch's direction setting bracelets chiming off one another. The young woman angled her body so that she had her back to Nazia, moving so that she was between the older Mug and her old friend.

"Dint dust or an'thin'. Ent like tha'. 'Sides, if I dusted, would I bring me daoa?" the witch questioned dryly, jerking her head to indicate the woman behind her. Her expression drew more sombre, brown eyes growing moist as she cast them downwards. Hunching her shoulders, she pulled her shawl of blankets around herself more tightly.

She sighed heavily, glancing up at him from beneath her eyelashes.

"Me da passed on, Oisin. He got sick, daoa got sick an' I got us movin', hoped he'd get better; he dint. Daoa did... sort of," she admitted quietly, the former exuberance gone, shoulders sinking further as she felt the invisible weight of responsibility fall on them. The icy wind made her eyes sting, the beginnings of tears growing gritty and uncomfortable in the ducts. A knuckle dug into the corners to clear them before the hand disappeared back into the warmth of her blankets.

Now that the initial adrenaline that had coursed through her had dissipated and she was standing still, Aziza was quickly discovering that the blankets didn't afford much comfort at all, no matter how closely she tried to clasp them to her. Icy fingers still crept under the folds, seeking exposed flesh to jab at and thin fabric to seep through. The air itself was uncomfortable when calm but as soon as the gusts started up, any tolerance shattered and she was set shivering anew, errant flakes left to cling frostily to hair, eyelashes and cloth. Wiggling a bit of blanket up, she tried to manoeuvre it over the tops of her ears, certain that they were going to splinter apart as cold stabs went through them; she gritted her teeth.

"Dint like this spitch," she explained, kicking at the snow beneath her feet. "Daoa's chest could ne take the desert an' the dry heat. Dint know this is much better. D'ye mind comin' t' my kint? Need me an' her out o' this chill 'fore we meet the Circle!"

Nazia, who'd been engaged in a rambling discussion with a kind stranger, perked up at her daughter's invitation.

"Yer kint? Dint think yer inviting ne kov. I chen what ye're like," the woman spat, poking a finger in her daughter's spine; the youth's face grew dusky with a blush from fury as much as embarrassment.

"Close yer head, daoa! I ent gonna listen t' yer... yer... Dze!"

A hand flap and a jingle of bracelets once more.

"Dint suppose ye have any drugs, Oisin? It’s why she’s on denk. Things like chan an' coca help. She gets pain an' tha'. Hard on her chest, 'specially this weather." Leaning closer and lowering her voice, she added, "She needs it for... more'n her health. Goes a pina bit moony with ne... stuff."

Aziza leaned back, smiling apologetically. She had a funny feeling that she was going to be stuck out in the cold until she could sort out her mother's score because no way in hell was she going to stay still in the kint if they went there now; she hadn't been able to before which was why they were out here now.

"If ye dint have any... can ye help me get some? This chill ent good for her."

"Ye're all useless," Nazia grumbled before shuffling away, apparently on her own quest. The dark-skinned youth cursed, torn between running after her and waiting for word from Oisin. His help would certainly be appreciated.
Last edited by Aziza on Sat Oct 05, 2019 4:54 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Oisin Ocasta
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Wed Sep 25, 2019 9:29 pm

Early Afternoon - 5th of Bethas, 2719
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It was like getting swept up in the current of a raging river, but then conversations with Aziza always had been, and for now Oisin was merely content to listen and let himself be washed downstream. It was almost welcome in a way, the weight of the conversation resting on another's shoulders. It was the kind of conversation that Oisin enjoyed best, the kind where you didn't have to think, or figure out what to say; where someone else made all the choices; where there was no such thing as the wrong thing to say.

But as the conversation meandered, that changed. Aziza's words demanded words from Oisin: words of comfort, words of sympathy, words of solidarity, something. Yet, he found himself without any to offer. He didn't lack for empathy, or sympathy, or emotion; he merely lacked the capacity to distil them into words. It would have been easier if it had been monite. When it came to the mona, he always knew what to say. Perhaps it was because they spoke with actions, rather than words: if there was ever judgement of what he said, or how he said it, they had no way to communicate beyond not acting - and for the most part they never had. They were silent, and dependable; the closest thing to friends that Oisin had. Perhaps that was why it had become so hard not to talk to them of late, so hard to resist the temptation toward magic, regardless of the toll it had begun to take upon him. Given the choice between that, and the loneliness he felt when he did not speak to them, there really was no choice at all.

Of course, loneliness was not an imminent concern; not in an external sense, at least. A slight smile curled at the corner of his mouth as Aziza turned away to bicker with her - what did that word mean again; mother? It carried a bittersweet note as he watched the fraught familial exchange, something familiar but from the outside only. It reminded him of other things, other families, other Mugroba he'd known that he wasn't quite sure if he was allowed - or supposed - to call friend. They were fond memories, and warm, like the desert sands where they had taken place. But like the Mugrobi sun, they too were gone, and as the chill of the Anaxi air ushered them away, only the frosty sadness of remorse remained. Aziza's father had died, she'd said; and their desert toll had turned against her mother as well. Not the only family that Mugroba had stripped away, through sickness, plague, and other means. Not the only family for Oisin to lament. So strange, and so sad: so many families to mourn, and yet not one to call his own. Even in his despair, Oisin didn't fully belong.

The emotions managed to drain away from his face as Aziza turned back, and he managed another small smile, deliberately this time, at the ironic full circle that their conversation had come. "You know, I should probably be insulted that both you and your mother think that I look like I'm on drugs." The smile turned a little rueful at the edges, and for a fleeting moment, Oisin wondered if perhaps he might even have meant it, some flicker of genuine positive emotion lurking within the desolate maw that felt as if it had hollowed out his insides. "I suppose this is what I get for letting myself look like I got run over by a cart."

He let out a small sigh, and willed his limbs into reluctant motion. "Come on, we should probably catch up with her before she starts shouting at someone a little more easily offended."
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Aziza
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Sun Oct 06, 2019 12:16 pm

Bethas 5, 2719 | Early Afternoon
Wick Festival, Surwood
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The former mercenary seemed to be quite off indeed. If he wasn't high then there was certainly something wrong with him. He was so serious, so miserable. Oh he tried to hide it, clearing his face of the negativity when she glanced his way but there was a moment here and there where she saw the truth. Not only was he plastering a smile onto his features for her benefit but she actually got to see the plastering job.

The witch could admit that he had seemed quite serious when she had known back in Mugroba but she recalled that he'd been determined, seeming to have something to prove. He'd had a sense of humour then, had still been able to see a brighter side of things. Now he seemed... old. Yes, that was it, aged before his time and jaded. Was he bitter and cynical? Not that Aziza could tell. Maybe she was wrong to think as she did but she could see apathy in his gaze, feel the tint of despair in his glamour. And to think that she had thought drugs. Drugs would have been easier to explain, would have made no sense.

Had he always been like this and she had just misremembered him? More childish eyes had regarded him before, naive and unseasoned so it was possible. An odd determination arose within her, the Mug's own little mission to coax a smile out of him to prove that he was still the man she remembered. At the moment, he was probably cocooned in something and maybe it was the weather that was getting him down; it seemed to be affecting him almost as much as her and she'd had a couple of years to acclimatise.

His comment was met with a tilt of the head, brows tugging together as she smiled puzzledly. "Insulted? Why? They're jus' drugs. Ent like there's any harm in 'em. I take 'em, my mother takes 'em, an' I'd usually have some 'cept we've been travelling," she explained with a shrug. "Bounce o' the kint makes her use faster, must have gone through it all over the stretch we did. She just dint tell me and then this spitch dropped on our 'eads and weren't like I'd go lookin', ye chen? Rather ne be freezing me erse off."

She gave a little wiggle of her hips and rear in bawdy illustration, sly grin curving her lips before shrugging as if to say 'it is what it is'. Dark eyes moved in rapid scrutiny over his face, bemusement remaining on her face. Did he think looking like you were on drugs was bad? Did he think taking them was bad?

"Prob'ly looked worse on some o' me benders. I din't think ye- Dze, ye clearly dint have any. 'S benny, some tekaa will have 'em, dint worry," Aziza added, attempting to be kind as she reached out to give him a comforting pat on the arm.

There was a quiet sigh of relief and a nod from her as he moved to follow her mother, taking the need to choose between Oisin and her mother away from her. She fell into step beside him, parting her blankets so she could fling them over him, envelop him so that they could share in each other's warmth. The idea that he might not want her close never occurred to Aziza. She simply scooted in close, including him as she attempted to link arms with him. She hugged his arm, a surprising amount of intimacy in her actions as she pressed against him although she thought little of it.

Her mother would have been disgusted if she'd bothered to pay any attention; her quest for coca or the like was consuming all her attention. The older witch hadn't found a likely source yet but she might be able to sniff them out; her ability could be uncanny at times.

"Dint want to wander round in the cold fer too long so dint s'pose ye know where I can find what she's after, eh?" she questioned Oisin, giving a little shudder as the chill air prodded her. She snuggled against him more tightly, heedless of what sort of response that might elicit as she squirmed against him.

She caught a whiff of something on the air and inhaled deeply, nose wrinkling at the chill in her nostrils. But in the midst of that fresh, biting scent of snow was something sweetly smoky. It was the smell of something burning, yes, but it wasn't that of a cooking fire. The young woman chewed her lip, considering their surroundings and squinting as an icy flurry weighed down her eyelashes and made it difficult to see.

"Can ye smell.... weed, Oisin? Am I imaginin' it?" she questioned, turning to try to catch his eye. "If we find the source then maybe... Daoa! Dig yer heels in, would ye? Come back here, would ye?"

Her mother threw a dirty look back in her direction, her step slowing a tad but not coming to a standstill.

"Daoa! I might know where I can get ye some spitch!" she called out exasperatedly, rolling her eyes as the woman perked up and shuffled slowly back towards them. To Oisin, she said, "Ye're good at finding things, found me when I din't want to be found so... think ye can sniff out summat good for me dao- me mother?"
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