the Curse

[Viola Thistle]

In the pale moonlight of the waxing moon, Viola Thistle entered a small grove of trees on the western peninsula. Fervently she collected an arm load of dried branches and threw them on the ground in the center of the clearing. She brought her hand up to her swollen mouth, the metallic taste of blood fresh. Hastily she started the fire. Its growing flames casted eerie shadows on the Halfling’s face. Her dark hair, which normally hung in ringlets about her face, was frizzed and out of place.

With her face twisted in a grimace, she shoved her hand into her leather pack and withdrew a handful of herb blossoms. She separated them evenly between her two hands and closed her hands into white knuckled fists. She closed her eyes and brought forth the image of the man who caused her harm, this day and so many before it. Being a Halfling, Viola easily shrugs off attacks, even those causing her harm, but she had been pushed past her limit.

The image of a tall, red-clad man with white hair floated within her mind. He would have been handsome if it were not for his cold eyes and smirking smile. Crushing the blooms in her hand, Viola’s fingernails dug into her palms. She was transferring the image and energy of this man’s image to the blossoms as her Gran had taught her.

With hatred and control, she began:

Upon this man with hair of white
I caste this curse - face with blight

Boils - red and puffy, bursts and bubbles
As repayment for my troubles

Ye shall be cursed at least a week
As putrid puss continues to leak.

All the while, she tossed the energized blossoms into the fire. When finished she sat, staring wide-eyed into the fire.

“This just a warning. Next time I shan’t be able to hold back,” she spoke aloud though no one was near to hear her words.


((OOC: You know who you are!! *wink*))