Xander guides us down a dimly lit corridor, its walls adorned with faded portraits. Finally, we arrive at a sturdy wooden door, intricately carved with swirling patterns that shine under the soft glow of the hallway lanterns. Xander gently turns the brass knob and enters a room bathed in a warm, golden light.
He carries Janie, weary from our arduous journey, tenderly placing her upon a plush bed covered with embroidered pillows and a canopy of cascading silk. Xander turns to face the rest of us and gestures towards the corridor. 'Most other chambers along this passageway should be unoccupied and at your disposal,' he says.
Mister Kal gracefully leaps onto the bed, curling up beside Janie in a display of unwavering loyalty. Warrick and Orelious exchange a silent nod and step out towards the other uncharted rooms.
Warrick ventures into the first room on the left and swings the door open. Adjacent to our chamber, Orelious and Imogen embark to their own personal haven. Their door swings open, revealing a space brimming with cozy charm. Soft, embroidered curtains sway gently in the breeze, casting playful shadows across the room.
Stepping into our lavish chamber, we are greeted by an opulent sight that takes our breath away. The room's centrepiece is a regal four-poster bed with sumptuous purple pillows. The bed's canopy, crafted from the finest silk, cascades in elegant folds. In a deep shade of royal purple, the matching curtains frame the large windows, allowing slivers of moonlight to filter through, casting an ethereal glow.
'Let me down, Warrick. Carrying me is only making the bleeding worse,' I tell him. His eyebrows furrow, 'But you're shaking,' he says. 'It's okay,' I reply, and I feel as though I'm lying because honestly, I don't feel okay, but neither does he with his wound and the burnt flesh on his hands.
Hesitantly, he puts me down, and I walk him over to the bed. His nakedness is more obvious now that he's lying down. I blush and rush to the closet, where I find a large shirt and trousers.
Placing the clothing on the bed beside Warrick, I turn my attention to another door, curiosity guiding my steps. I push it open to reveal a breathtaking bathroom, its centrepiece a magnificent wooden tub hewn from a single, majestic tree. The tub stands proud in the centre of the room, its edges intricately carved with motifs of cascading vines and blooming flowers.
Aware of Warrick's increasing agony, my focus shifts back to him. I swiftly locate a stack of fresh linens and gather them. Returning to Warrick's side, I find him struggling to don the trousers, his pain evident. With gentle hands, I aide him, lifting his legs onto the bed to alleviate his suffering. Grateful that his modesty is now preserved, I apply pressure to his wounded ribs, stemming the flow of blood.
Suddenly two witches and two identical elves burst through the door with urgency. The clinking of jars marks their arrival, the rustle of bandages, and the faint scent of healing herbs fills the air. Startled, they pause, their gazes sweeping over my dishevelled state. My ears and tail draw a raised eyebrow before Warrick's groans of pain capture their attention.
One of the witches, an older woman with brown hair and cautious yet friendly brown eyes, steps forward, her presence commanding respect. She locks eyes with Janie and asks, her voice filled with trepidation, 'Is it true? That the Mystic Council is dead?'
I nod. 'Yes,' I reply softly, my gaze steady. The witch's eyes shift to Warrick with uncertainty. 'So, this really is Warrick the werewolf then?' she inquires, seeking confirmation.
Once again, I nod, sensing the wariness and fear that holds them back. 'He won't hurt you,' I assure them, gently removing the cloth covering his wound. 'Please, you must help him,' I say to them, my eyes pleading.
The older witch turns to face the two elves and her fellow witch. 'Xander has given us orders to attend to Warrick, regardless of how we feel about this situation. This is our duty,' she declares firmly, her gaze returning to Warrick's and mine. She directs her companions. 'Peaches and Pumpkin, clean the wound. Sable, prepare the remedy. I'll get ready to suture the wound closed.'
‘Yes, Ayla,’ they reply.
The two elves, Peaches and Pumpkin approach Warrick cautiously. Pumpkin takes over, holding the cloth while Peaches races to the washroom, returning swiftly with a water-filled bowl. With careful precision, Pumpkin washes away the blood, revealing the raw wound. At the same time, Sable, the witch with a mortar and pestle, diligently grinds purple flowers with a mysterious liquid, concocting a paste.
Ayla steps forward, her skill evident as she deftly sutures the wound with fifteen stitches. Then, she applies the purple paste, spreading it gently over the wound, providing relief from the pain. She bandages Warrick's chest, securing the dressing in place.
Warrick's surprise is evident as he speaks, 'It barely hurts anymore.'
Ayla nods and explains, 'The paste numbs the area.' Satisfied with her work, she nods, a glimmer of relief flickering in her eyes.
Ayla's attention shifts to Warrick's hands, her expression unreadable as she notices the layers of burnt flesh. She requests Warrick to hold his hands out, palms up. Cringing at the sight, she proceeds to soak his hands in a fresh bowl of cool water, adding drops of a green liquid from a glass vial. She pats his hands dry with utmost care before applying more soothing purple paste and wrapping them in bandages. Satisfied, she nods at her work and steps back.
Ayla stares at him, unsure what to say. The silence becomes awkward. The Mystic Council were loved by most Felderians, after all, oblivious of their true agendas. Ayla probably even thought of them as kind and caring, and then we’ve come along and killed them. So, I don’t blame them for being uneased and wary of us.
'I'm Rose,' I introduce myself to Ayla, breaking the silence that hangs between us. Her gaze lingers on me, curiosity evident as her eyes trace the outline of my ears and tail.
'It's a new trend in the werewolf packs,' I offer, shrugging nonchalantly, eager to dispel any unease caused by my unique features.
Ayla's brows furrow slightly, processing my words. 'If there is nothing else, then we shall take our leave,' Ayla states, her tone carrying formality.
I nod in understanding, gratitude filling my voice as I reply, 'Oh, okay. Thank you again.'
Ayla nods in acknowledgment, her gaze lingering on Warrick for a moment before she retreats from the room, Sable, Peaches, and Pumpkin following in her wake.