[ P ] in the viper's den

The crackling of the fire provided a live backdrop to the voices that gathered round. Various fires had cropped up around the fortress as soon as the sun had gone down. Anaca DeArc had learned from her first moment in the Highlands that night was a special time, that they worshipped the moon and reveled under her pearly glow. There was always something cooking, someone singing, a small group throwing stones for games in the corner. There was action. She had to admire that about the Highlander people, even though she was not one herself. They knew how to use every moment of every day.

She leaned into the fire before her and jimmied out the meat she'd had cooking on a slab of rock. She picked it up in her teeth immediately, ignoring the heat that bit into her jaws, and moved away from the fire, leaving its other occupants alone. This was her habit. She did not speak much, and she most certainly did not chitchat. She had no interest in making friends. And she had not made one since she'd gotten here. She'd stayed quiet, followed orders, and kept to herself.

She found a solitary space far enough away from the fires that it doused her in a half-light. There she sat. One might think she would tear into the meat with the ferocity of a street rat, but they'd be wrong. There were whispers about her, the Outlander girl who told rumors and spread secrets, the one with a viper's tongue. And that's what they called her now: the Viper. She liked it better than the Phoenix. That reminded her of a past she'd rather forget. The Viper was new. It was deadly. And it was good at what it did.

Roisin Samaire always did what was expected of her. Since returning home from the mainlands it felt like she had exchanged one cage for another. She was one of Jacob's warriors now and that should have granted her some acceptance among her peers, but they still treated her like a curiosity, a foreigner that didn't belong. Her limited understanding of Gaelic was holding her back from mingling with the crowds. There were a few words tossed in her direction that she understood and they were not meant kindly. They called her tir-mor peata, a mainland pet, and she did her best to ignore it despite the flush of shame that rose to her cheeks. She wanted to bite back, but she knew it would earn her no favours.

It had taken an intense interrogation for her to be allowed into their ranks. They'd accused her of being a mainlander spy and she'd denied of course. It wasn't true. She had every reason to hate the mainlanders and she did. So why did they still mistrust her? A low growl rumbled under her breath and she wandered away to find a place where she could find some peace. There was a spot in the corner, but as she approached she noticed that it was already occupied. It was the girl her people had taken to calling The Viper, or an nathair in gaelic. She wasn't sure if it was meant to be complimentary.

"Mind if I sit?" she asked politely before making any moves. The mainlander influence was still heavy in her accent despite her best attempts to be rid of it.

table ; bunny

"mind if i sit?" The words hung in the air, and Anaca's eyes slowly moved up to the woman's face. Unlike some, the woman actually seemed to mean it as a genuine question; she had not already been sitting down before she propositioned Anaca to do so. A few things were quite plain immediately. The stranger had an accent to her voice she now associated with the Mainlands, one that was quite unfrequent in Jacob's army, though not unheard of. Lowlanders and Outlanders were allowed in the group, though their interrogation was intense. She knew that well herself, as an Outlander. But Mainlanders were much fewer and farther between. They were relegated only to the rank of spy, whereas even Outlanders had more options.

Anaca did not make a habit of visiting the compound often. As an informant, she did not like to linger too long, lest her fur catch the woodsmoke and earth scent of the army and betray her during her travels. So it was entirely possible that she'd just missed this woman until now. Certainly they had never been introduced. An Nathair kept to herself. And, normally, she would have continued to do so. But that accent intrigued her. Was the other a spy, doing the same groundwork she was? Perhaps there was something to be learned, then.

So, with a small, slight movement, she nodded, and waited for the other to settle down. When she did, Anaca said, after a small, slight bite of her food: "A spy, then?" Her own voice was unmarred by a regional dialect of any type; she was other. But it was sort of funny how that was not as crucified as Mainlanders these days in the Jacobian Army.

Infection

You look down and cringe as you notice a rash spreading over your right paw. It is ugly, red, and starting to cause the fur to fall away.


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The silence stretched, red eyes watching blue eyes, waiting for some sign of rejection or acceptance. Her scrutiny made her fur prickle as if the sun were bearing down upon her. She hoped she might find some kinship with the outlander spy as a fellow outsider looking in.

A nod gave her the welcome she had been seeking and she settled across from the spy so that they could speak comfortably without feeling like she was encroaching on her space. "A spy then," she was asked and she blinked in confusion before giving her head a fierce shake. "What? N-No! I'm a highlander," she blurted out, feeling a little flustered by the fact that her origins were still so questionable. She loathed the mainlander influence on her tongue. It was like an insidious poison that had slowly stripped away her highlander roots. "I spent a few years in the mainlands," she admitted, knowing it was a truth that she couldn't hide. Everyone was suspicious of her. Chief Samaire's blood didn't save her from scrutiny.

"And you're a spy, right?" she asked, peering at her curiously. It took a brave individual to ally themselves in a foreign war. "I'm Roisin Samaire. You might have seen a big, angry looking wolf with red eyes marching around and barking orders. He's my father," she offered as an introduction, amusement obvious in her tone. She was trying to connect, trying to find some light in the dark smothering depths of rejection and isolation.

table ; bunny

The woman reacted violently to Anaca's words. "what? n-no! i'm a highlander." That was unusual. She was good at picking up dialects. It was part of her job to be observant. "i spent a few years in the mainlands." Anaca's brow arched, and she took a contemplative bite of her food, saying nothing. There were many reasons why this woman could have been a Highlander in the Mainlands for years. But the fact that she was here, now, meant that she had passed the test they'd all been subjected to at the beginning.

"and you're a spy, right?" "Yes." She droned out the syllable, because the fact meant little to her. "A proper Outlander position, or so I am told." It was impossible to tell how she felt about that fact by the tone of her voice. She figured the woman wondered why she'd chosen to be on the aggressor side of a war in a foreign nation. She sometimes asked herself the same question. But then she remembered what was waiting for her if she ever returned to her home, and she decided she'd rather die immediately fighting in a stranger's war than die over the span of many lonely, cold years in the same vicinity as her mother's corpse.

"i'm roisin samaire. you might have seen a big, angry looking wolf with red eyes marching around and barking orders. he's my father." Anaca's pale blue eyes slid back to the woman -- Roisin. What a predicament this Roisin had gotten herself in, with her Mainlander accent and her bulldog of a Jacobite father. "I've heard about you," she said. "Here, and in the Mainlands." She didn't elaborate on it. She just continued: "I am Anaca DeArc." She so rarely used her true name now that it felt a little odd on her tongue.