Whilst perusing a market, Waithvine’s companion hands hir a small statuette of an odd winged God. Nothing seemed to be odd about it, but, when ze handed it back, and statuette soon reappeared in hir pocket. Try as ze might, it always returns, while the merchant who sold it is long gone and the mysterious curse grows ever tighter… -- Deathshead419
Wraithvine had grown used to Girrautuvit sticking her hands in hir pockets. She had yet to learn that it was inadvisable to do that. Especially with attempted withdrawals. But since Girrautuvit was a twig-thin, undersized waif with no real name, Wraithvine was willing to put up with a lot more from her.
This time, she made a deposit.
It was a small, gilded idol of a figure with wings and a beard. There was a heavy toga and boots in the figure's ensemble. There had been gemstones in the eyes, but only one remained. It looked angry, and seemed primed to strike out at a moment's notice. "Girra," Wraithvine warned. "What and why?"
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