Lys: Druids

Cathair cursed hotly, only just under his breath. Aithne stirred, and he realized he'd inadvertantly tightened his grip and sat forward, jostling her. Damn them! Ignorant, superstitious fools... He wasn't terribly pleased with his own side, either. Why was it that the great ones always had to keep their one weakness locked up, when it was so blasted easy to destroy?

And now it was most likely in the wrong hands. How someone had managed to get to it, he had no idea. But there was an anti-druid edict running loose in the land, and the woman he held in his arms was close enough to one for a mob's judgement.

I'll keep watch, Aithne. May God strike me dead if I allow you to be taken off again. His hand closed over the hilt of his knife, and it gave him an odd sort of comfort to know it was there. It was to be a waiting game, then. He hadn't minded too much before- he would've sent Aithne to the hills when the battle came, and they would not have bothered to look. But now, it seemed, she would be in more danger than he, and that was enough to make him want to ride out right now and hunt down the cursed knife and he that stole it.

Aithne stirred again, blinking open sleepy eyes and looking up at him, slightly disoriented. For a moment, she looked like a newborn foal, trying to make sense of her world. Then she came fully into waking and sat up, looking around. "I fell asleep again?" She turned to him. "Oh, Cathair, I'm sorry. Here..." She slid off his lap and back to her place beside him. "I don't know what's come over me. I guess... you're just... comfortable." she blushed. Then, tucking her hair back in place, she asked, "What did I miss?"

Cathair set his jaw. "Our Lord Ambrosius just signed his own death warrant." And yours. "Pardon my bluntness, sir, but why in the name of all that is holy did you not simply destroy the cursed thing?"