Most of the afflicted had been quarantined; many of the quarantined had died, despite the efforts of the priests and mages. For some reason, some were easier to keep alive than others, requiring less magic laid on them. There was no rhyme or reason to it, no difference determinable relevant to age, vocation, or strength. Except that those who had been afflicted first seemed to require less. It was speculated that the plague grew in strength as it was transmitted.
Vionora studied the afflicted man. He was shackled to the hull of the ship, down in the hold with a few other cursed and the cargo. Drugged unconscious, he and the others were unaware of her presence. On the hands of each was a mark: two nearly overlapping circles.
"How can you hunt when chained?" she murmured.
At her touch, the shackles broke open. The cursed fell to the floor in senseless heaps, and she frowned. Once, she would have been able to cure them. No longer.
"Maybe Silvermoon," she said thoughtfully.
Wouldn't that be ironic.
She stood there awhile longer, in no hurry. There was little light down here, andall the activity was abovedecks as they prepared to set sail. She would be gone before they did, but she wondered where they were going.