"Easy lass," Sybyll said, tapping the table with a loud -THUNK- to get the Oak Witch's attention. "I know it's rotten. Me own uncle drank 'imself ta death 'fore I could kill 'im," she said bitterly. "He didn'a suffer enough by half 'fore he died. But dead is dead, an' dead by 'is own son's hand is a bad way ta go. Nightweaver venom isn'a a kind way ta go neither," she reminded the brooding witch.
"Virve," Heila said, reaching out gently to rest a hand on the bearish woman's furry forearm. "He might linger on for months if the humans send their miracle workers to care for him," she offered, even though the odds were poor for a man of Bors Lothian's advancing age. "And Dame Sybyll is right, the poison will only grow more painful once the madness takes hold. Even if he doesn't fall under your claws he, he won't meet a peaceful end. He'll suffer for what he did."
