Wine and Hemlock (WARNING: Assisted Suicide Themes)

While the Darkspawn brought a quick and violent passing, the taint was a slow and tortuous killer. Purple veins bulged on a sick one's throat, as if they were strangled by an invisible demonic hand. The tendrils wriggled like corpse worms, rotting the skin and giving off a putrefied smell. Death within a few hours was common. Worse yet were the drawn out instances. Very little could be done but watch.

Jorah had received word, a plea, from western Ferelden. They asked for supplies that Antiva was never in short supply of: Wine, and poison.

The crow had stared at the tattered parchment message as he felt his stomach turn at the request. A town west of Amaranthine could do nothing but watch their sick wither away. He'd shot an order to make the arrangements, and now, today, he was here.

Valefort was a small town. Refuges, with their dirty faces and crying children, loitered the streets. Their lost eyes watched him and the crates a few young crow-pages were carrying in his trail. Meanwhile, he personally delivered a very special flask of brown herbal liquid that with but a pin-prick, put a creature to sleep forever.

[color=orange]"No distractions,"[/color] Jorah reminded them, as their roving curious eyes caused one to stumble and the glass bottles tinkled as they were jostled.

At last they came to a tent, set away from the village, with many ill laying on the grass with pillows of their own sacks and rolled up coats. The taint consumed them in all its stages.

[color=orange]"Don't touch them,"[/color] he warned the teenagers. The three huddled beside him, trying to sneak glances at this world so different from their home. Jorah did the proper looking, but even he was lost too.

[color=orange]"Where is the healer?"[/color] Jorah finally called, raising his voice.