[ She can still see him, even when he's still, but the form wavers in and out of focus. Panic rises like a tide in her throat and she feels sick, suddenly, wants to scream at him to get out before she's more wendigo than human, before the hunger and anger and violence is greater than everything she feels for him.

What do people promise within their marriage vows? What did it mean for the husband when his wife, or future wife, became a monster? ]

All right. [ She agrees despite herself, but as she says it, a chorus louder than her own thoughts hisses in displeasure. No, this is wrong. Bad. Mistake. Louder than that is hungry, starving, famished.

Careful to keep herself at some distance from him and the dog, hood drawn up over her morphing features, the Inquisitor begins to follow. ]

You know I don't trust Hope. [ Cecily says quietly, not looking at him. ] He may well have known about this. He plays us all for fools more often than not: why should this be any different?

[ Can't, can't be healed. Won't. ]