“Pray, forgive me,” Adelicia pleaded sheepishly, withdrawing her outstretched hand back to her chest. She nervously averted her gaze from either hunter and stiffened up. “I did not mean to imply- I meant simply-“

Struggling for words to express herself, she sighed before admitting with a tone of lament: “I- I can’t take this.”

She felt the blood rushing to her rosy cheeks and awkwardly pulled her hood over her head again. How childish she acted again – truly a disgrace to herself and the church. Dignity was one of the chief qualities of her office and here she was, once again, demonstrating all the grace of a little child instead of the elegant resolve a grown woman her age ought to have. Surely the eyes of the hunters were at her now, regarding her with loathing or, at the very least, pity. Perhaps they were inwardly laughing at her, even, just how the orphans had laughed at her in a distant-feeling past.

Feeling her eyes well up again, she hastily wiped the moisture from them and hoped that nobody noticed when she lifted her gaze once more. Much to her relief, Raine and Victor had both stopped paying attention to her, the one retrieving his weapon, the other moving away from her. Legs feeling like lead, she stiffly began to follow the imposing huntsman, still relying heavily on her staff for support. What a blessing, she thought, to have such a thing.

In her efforts to catch up with the hunters, with Raine urging haste and reminding them that other beasts may be attracted to the recent sounds of battle, Adelicia remained nonetheless careful to avoid contact with any and all puddles of blood smeared across the cobbled road in broad strokes like the deranged art of a mad painter. As she did so, eyes focused on the crimson pools that began to dry on the stones, or pooled in the gaps between them, she wondered what it might taste like – the blood of beasts. As soon as the thought entered her mind, she felt the almost instinctual need to recoil, as if kissed by the lash of an unseen tormentor. Forbidden, as many things were. The blood was foul, tainted with rage and corruption. So her church had taught her. But was it truly? Was it really the corrupting agent that clerics were making it out to be? What if it tasted of remorse or desperation? What if it tasted of fear? She had certainly savored that note in her own blood once, when curiosity got the better of her. Her cravings for blood were rarer than most, but she was adamant in her belief that no two doses had ever tasted quite the same.

Suddenly reminded of the situation she was in, and realizing she had stopped moving to stare at a particularly vile splash of blood, she hurriedly resumed following the pair of hunters, gasping a brief apology as she went.