[h3]Domhnall MacRaith[/h3]

	People said this, people said that, hearsay was not overly reliable either way, or there would be three thirty-foot tall man-eating bears lurking in every second village (it was usually people getting drunk). 
[i]“It’s probably a coincidence. I have a hard time believing that some monster just happens to fill the air with something that cures the Withering. But if this guy got better, there must be something there.”[/i] 
	"Unless we're dealin' wi' a coincidence of a differen' kin'," remarked the hunter mumbled with deadpan pragmatism, mostly to the younger black-eyes. "Coul' be the feller af'er all. Or [i]real[/i] chance. One in million million kind. Why'd ye think I aske' if there'd been o'ers?"
	The rest was all the lad explaining why no one had [i]really[/i] tried to replicate the "miracle", no matter how small the odds of it being true. Either the will to survive of those people here was much smaller than those back home or things did not quie add up. 
	"I's very recent, then?" he guessed, finally dropping his hand from his face, gripping the saddle and even leaning a bit forward (but not too much, given his rather precarious situation) as he stared at the lad, eyebrows raised. "Less than a week?* It starts as wee gray bruises, aye? These ones can walk, an' there shoul' be plen'y o' those wi' friends an' families. Those jus' afflic'ed, they won' [i]care[/i] if they die, since they'll die [i]anyway.[/i] An' mithers an' lovers, they'd be jus' as desperate even when unblemish'. They'd go, whe'er ye le' 'em or nae."
	"An' this," he motioned his head vaguely towards the refugees, "it jus' started today, nae? Wha' happen'd tae these people, anyway?"

	*Not applicable if we're dealing with Meila's father or anyone before that point, among others.