| Nerta the Cursed sighs and scrubs her face as she rises and tries to collect her spear. “Well thank you for your help, whoever you are. Then I guess I’d best head to the medical wing.”
The blonde woman cuts a slice off the old cheese and mumbles between bites. “I’m Lucia, and…” Setting the cheese and knife next to the wooden figures, she reaches for the bandaged arm and begins to unwind the linen. “...and I don’t think the medical wing can help.”
“Fortune brought you here. This infection isn’t fully physical. Within your arm is a shard of the Necromancer’s malice. It tries to devour you from within. That you’ve survived even a week like this, tells me you might be okay.”
The exposed wound is alien, with pale white flesh along the edge of a blackish core made of a tar-like material that sticks to the bandage. As the long strands snap one by one, Lucia pales and puffs her cheeks.
“Oooo… might be okay.”
Though the wound looked worse it felt no different and Nerta eyes the increasingly alien limb with an air of calm. “So what then? Do I pray to silent Gods for a boon? The Wolf Lord will not heal me; the Dark Mistress would have me join her in death; the servants of the Crystal Maiden caused this mess; the Ice Queen fated it all; and the Masked One cares not. Only the Ephemeral Emperor’s good luck has brought me here and you say even the vaunted scholars of the Academy can do nothing. Better to cut off my arm in that case.”
“That the most devout priestess of the Old Gods would offer her arm rather than a prayer tells quite a story.” The blonde smiles and begins to rub Nerta's bicep. “But we’ll save that for another time. Right now I want you to think about something happy.”
After a heartbeat, the bemused wanderer breaks into laughter. “Happy? I’ve had precious little of that, Lucia.”
“I know. I know.” The woman pauses her massage and pushes up her glasses. “But just… try.”
Nerta shrugs and scratches her nose. “The Festival of Lights was,... nice. I've not been able to attend one in a few years now.”
“It did sound lovely. All the coloured fires, and the paints for lovers. I think I’d read about it once. It’s an old Foederati celebration, isn't it?” Lucia continues to massage Nerta’s arm.
“Yes…”
The lingering silence contains an unspoken question of whether her heritage would be a problem, but Lucia either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.
“And you went for purple paint, the colour of the Eternal Flame. Is there someone special?”
Nerta props one foot against the chair. “An idiot bard with a taste for the exotic.”
“Can you really blame him?” Lucia winks, those fingers digging in just above the wound.
“I can, and do," Nerta's tone dry, mirth dancing in her eyes, "regularly.”
A giggle matches a careful massage back up the arm. "Sounds cute. Okay, you've got a bard, a festival. Friends?"
Nerta’s lips compress in a thin line. “I’ve met some I trust, many of them are dead now.”
“Ah.” Though she wilts for a heartbeat, Lucia rallies. “Many, but not all. Does one come to mind?”
“I have a friend, Jacinda. I call her the Driven.” The Weaver’s voice softens. “She’s a fool; wants to save the world.”
“Pot/Kettle, eh?” Fingers trace down the wriggling veins of darkness toward the pool of tar that marked the wound. “Okay, okay… hobbies?”
The wanderer smiles faintly. “You could say I dabble in weaving.”
“Weaving? Oh. I see. Clever.” Lucia’s chin points down toward her ink-stained shirt. “Maybe you can make me a shirt later.”
Nerta's chuckle at the comment slides into a hiss of pain that tightens her voice. “What… What are you doing?”
“Shhh it's okay, it's okay. I know it hurts, just think about the good times at the Festival, Soren, your grandmother’s songs. Almost…”
“How…?” Twisting in the grip, something clicks and chitters in the back of Nerta’s mouth. It isn't a tongue. “...Soren. The songs. Priestess. I didn’t say… Y-You're an Auger.”
“Yes dear. Just a bit longer.” The massaging fingers dig in around the wound. Old black blood oozes as Nerta’s head swims and Lucia’s voice calls from far away. “You're doing well, your grandmother would be very proud. Just a bit more, focus on the happiest memories, focus on the love. It'll contain the malice.”
Contorting against the table with tears of pain, a hand claws at Lucia while the woman's expression grows increasingly grotesque. But the librarian merely hums an off-colour drinking song and works a thin black needle free of the wound.
The sliver of darkness jutting up from Nerta’s forearm pulses as though a beating heart, and begins to vibrate in the air. Such a tiny thing had caused so much corruption, who can say what the shard of malice might do next. Not waiting to find out, Lucia stabs the cheese onto the needle before wrenching the entire thing free and hurling it into the flame.
Blackish blood is everywhere, splattered across papers, Nerta’s cloak and Lucia in equal measure. Yet the woman merely smiles cheerfully and dabs at Nerta's rapidly colouring wound. “Thanks for not biting me, Nerta. I know that hurt and I'll try to answer your questions while you collect yourself, and put your face back on.”
“Yes, I see visions because I'm an Augur. The Ice Queen showed me that I needed to help someone who’d trip over a book in the hall one day. Well, two someones. Apparently you today, and maybe this Jacinda later. You know how visions are, vague in many ways and far too detailed in others.” A fresh bandage is pulled out from behind the wooden figures. “Anyway, everything I told you was true, with one exception. The poison. It’s fed by sadness and loneliness. Unfortunately, familiar companions for you. I'd suggest you lighten up: get a few more friends, hobbies, lovers if that does the trick, but I think you’re actually going to hit me right now…”
Nerta hisses and strikes the woman in the stomach as her jaw settles back into place. “And why not? Crystal Cursed, that hurt and, more importantly, you lied about cutting it out.”
Doubled over, the sneaky Librarian coughs and tries to catch her breath. “No, I misled. A knife wasn’t needed.” Lucia’s cheeks puffing, she exhales slowly. “Besides, the pain wasn’t caused by me but the shard of malice. Opening up, that can hurt but when we do, wonderful things can happen. We got a Festival of Lights because you decided to share part of your people’s heritage. That brought a lot of joy to a lot of folks.” Casting a glance toward the still smouldering wedge of cheese. “All that joy, friendship and love you’ve found is why I could pull the needle free. If you were still alone as when you started. Nothing would have saved you.”
Her face paint smudged, Nerta refuses to turn from those brilliant, ice-blue eyes so full of care. Finally she nods and huffs aside a few stray hairs. “Then I guess I owe you my thanks, and a shirt.”
Lucia can’t fight a growing grin as she inspects her now almost black shirt. “This? I mean I get to run a new experiment. Figure out how the black blades grow.” Her words hitch before coming out in a rush. “Not that I’ll infect someone!” Clearing her throat, the distracted Librarian wrinkles her nose. “Ignoring that: if you’re offering, I'd love a violet shirt. Now head back to the festival and give Soren a kiss. He kind of saved your life. Sort of. Ish.”
The Weaver snorts, collects her spear and shakes her head. “Again? Great. Knowing our luck, I’ll have to save him by next week.”
As Nerta turns to leave, the blonde librarian calls, “Oh. If you could grab the book about trapdoor spiders in the hall? I have to return it later and get one about pots & kettles.” | 
