Winter; she was many things. A snow-laden playground, ebbing maturity in the face of puerile joy. A vile smile, teeth sinking into flesh and spreading cold poison. A time for family, gathered in front of the swaddling warmth of the fire. A yearly trial, for those without home nor flame to free them of her gelid bite.
Erosandros would see each and every side of winter's multifaceted body. Not a day would go by without mirth contrasted against pain. Not one. It wasn't unusual to see a gaggle of children wallowing in thick dollops of snow, and then, not even ten steps away from such merriment, an unfortunate soul that'd passed during the night, swaddled by winter's cruel arms.
Erosandros was used to it. It was normal. But, occasionally, a single question would breach the surface, threatening the monotone of otherwise mundane thoughts:
His gaze landed upon a trio, a mother and father, with a baby who looked far too thin and sickly to warrant life. They sat at the flank of the snow-crusted road, the one that weaved to-and-fro to the jarl's abode further up the city's heart; silent, for breath racked down their throats like claws. He stared. Then, after a moment's pause, he plucked his pouch half full of coin from his hip, and offered it to the mother. There was hesitance in the father's face, fearing a bargain lurking in the gift like a veiled pit viper, but all Erosandros asked was for them to get some warm food and perhaps a bed for a couple of nights.
"If your little one needs help, my clinic is just a ways up along this road. Take care."
He took off before they could fully comprehend what had happened.
Other than his spurt of generosity, today proved to be a slow day at the clinic. Most individuals that dragged their boots in were looking for cures or alleviation for common ailments; stuffy noses, coughs, sore throats. Things that winter brought with her, wherever she settled.
A woman left with a few potions in tow, and shortly after, came another. The doorbell, hung above the threshold, let loose a lilted, metallic chorus upon entry. Erosandros was midway through chatter with Mirvon when it hit him—the stench. The malodour.
Lycanthrope. Specifically, the werewolf strain.
The door's maw came to a clicked close. A nord stood a step, maybe two, into the foyer. The way the nord's nares flared, the stomach-plummeting realisation washing over his features as his gaze landed upon the medical duo. There was no doubt in Erosandros' mind; he knew too.
"Mirvon, please, leave us."
It took Mirvon a beat, maybe two, before realisation, too, dawned upon that small window of his face. He glanced, nervous and nigh frightful, at the newcomer, before shambling away. Violet eyes landed upon blue.
"How may I help you today, sir?" The words were polite enough, as were his tone, but juxtaposed with the rapidly taut atmosphere, they bore a ... particularly unfriendly sharpness to them. Erosandros didn't close the distance between them, rather giving the nord wide berth.
It felt suffocating enough as it was.
