“I ain’t lyin’, Anna!”
“Asta.” The woman corrected. Really, one would think that someone would learn to the name of a person carrying a giant battle axe on their back, but Otto was the sort of old man who couldn’t remember a name much less a face. It made his story about the were-weasels highly suspicious and probably unlikely. The only thing that was in his favor was the fact that Asta could smell the rancid lycanthropic scent of her kind that sent her on edge. Worse was the twinge of sweetness and salt.
Another infected, yet not so far gone that it would look like a monster.
“Alice, I swear on me life. I swear on my dog! There was a big ass weasel runnin’ around with me chickens!” Asta glanced down at the old mutt on the porch that was blind in one eye and missing a ear from a coyote attack. The dog looked up at her with a happy pant, wagging his tail from the slightest hint of attention.
“Well don’t swear on the old boy.” Asta said, kneeling down so she could give the good boy a scratch behind his still there ear. Her golden gaze went back up to Otto, arching a brow in question. “So your chicken coop was broken into, all your chickens and their eggs gone.” She reconfirmed. Otto nodded his head. “And you saw a weasel the size of a dog.” He nodded his head more vigorously. “Huh. Well, he probably won’t be coming back if the chickens are gone.” The man gawked at her.
“What if he does? What I do then?” Asta stood up and patted Otto firmly on his shoulder. She wanted him to feel her strength.
“He won’t. Trust me, he’s already on the hunt for more blood. Any other farms nearby? Not from the east, mind you, I just came from there.” Otto huffed, pulling his shoulder back. Asta’s hand went to her hip.
“Naw but there’s an inn a few miles west from here. The inn takes horses. Has chickens, too. And rabbits.”
“Well, sounds like the perfect place for a weasel to be. I don’t think he’d want to stay in the fields so I’ll be off. Thanks for your help, Otto.” The man didn’t say good bye, but Asta did hear him call her another name under his breath. With that, Asta began to follow the road westward, a brisk stride taking hold of her. She wouldn’t try tracking it through the fields, even if the trail of blood and feathers would be helpful.
She needed to get to the next spot to set up a trap. She figured the inn would work. If she was lucky, she’d get there before sun down. The infected always liked moving around at night.
Thalassran Hargraven
“Asta.” The woman corrected. Really, one would think that someone would learn to the name of a person carrying a giant battle axe on their back, but Otto was the sort of old man who couldn’t remember a name much less a face. It made his story about the were-weasels highly suspicious and probably unlikely. The only thing that was in his favor was the fact that Asta could smell the rancid lycanthropic scent of her kind that sent her on edge. Worse was the twinge of sweetness and salt.
Another infected, yet not so far gone that it would look like a monster.
“Alice, I swear on me life. I swear on my dog! There was a big ass weasel runnin’ around with me chickens!” Asta glanced down at the old mutt on the porch that was blind in one eye and missing a ear from a coyote attack. The dog looked up at her with a happy pant, wagging his tail from the slightest hint of attention.
“Well don’t swear on the old boy.” Asta said, kneeling down so she could give the good boy a scratch behind his still there ear. Her golden gaze went back up to Otto, arching a brow in question. “So your chicken coop was broken into, all your chickens and their eggs gone.” She reconfirmed. Otto nodded his head. “And you saw a weasel the size of a dog.” He nodded his head more vigorously. “Huh. Well, he probably won’t be coming back if the chickens are gone.” The man gawked at her.
“What if he does? What I do then?” Asta stood up and patted Otto firmly on his shoulder. She wanted him to feel her strength.
“He won’t. Trust me, he’s already on the hunt for more blood. Any other farms nearby? Not from the east, mind you, I just came from there.” Otto huffed, pulling his shoulder back. Asta’s hand went to her hip.
“Naw but there’s an inn a few miles west from here. The inn takes horses. Has chickens, too. And rabbits.”
“Well, sounds like the perfect place for a weasel to be. I don’t think he’d want to stay in the fields so I’ll be off. Thanks for your help, Otto.” The man didn’t say good bye, but Asta did hear him call her another name under his breath. With that, Asta began to follow the road westward, a brisk stride taking hold of her. She wouldn’t try tracking it through the fields, even if the trail of blood and feathers would be helpful.
She needed to get to the next spot to set up a trap. She figured the inn would work. If she was lucky, she’d get there before sun down. The infected always liked moving around at night.
Thalassran Hargraven
