Sær materializes at the bonfire in a puff of smoke. After bowling over a whiskey stand, he had no choice but to snatch a bottle and bolt back to Priscilla. He had left all of his souls as payment, but if the welts on his back from thrown empty bottles are any indication, it wasn't enough.

Panting slightly, Sær heads through the forest in the direction of the great tree.

After all the villagers had been freed from the gnarled, parasitic roots, the forest began to die, the trees to close to get enough individual sunlight and water. The leaves had wilted, the bark had dried, and even the ferns on the forest floor began to wilt. If things had continued that way, the people of Darkroot City would have been forced to leave in the abscence of fresh food.

One day, though, a peculiar thing happened. Old man Petrus--once a merchant with an eye for relics-- had succumbed to exhaustion on a stroll through the woods. Father time had worn away at his old soul, and his time had finally come.

Or it would have, if not for the roots.

He was quickly found, half-buried, underneath the only green tree in the entire forest. No sooner had he been dug out, he good-naturedly exclaimed; "Put me back! Those trees are better company than the likes 'o you!"

It had occurred to the villagers that not one of them had aged in the dozens of years they were kept underground. They wanted for nothing; the trees kept them alive, and they fed the trees.

Within weeks, news had spread, and all the village's old and infirm gathered in the square. The town held a massive celebration, full of tearful goodbyes from friends and family. Finally, when all were good and ready, they climbed into a massive hole and were quickly ensnared by the roots, then dragged off to whatever area of the forest needed them most.

Sær shudders. It's strange to think that under all the forest's vibrant verdancy lies dozens of living people, but at least they are alive and happy.

Finally reaching his home, Sær approaches the massive front door. On it's face, about ten feet up, is a curly, neatly painted name in peach, white, gold, and pale blue:

Priscilla

Below, a smaller door is cut into the larger one, with a name sloppily carved into the wood.

s Æ r

It looks as if the 'artist' had tried to carve it with a manly flourish. They had failed miserably.

Unlatching the smaller door, Sær pushes into his home, greeted by the smell of old soup and the sound of a wheezy crossbreed. Kicking off his shoes and shaking himself dry, he ruffles around in his pack for the whiskey, snapping the cap open loudly once he finds it.

Priscilla's ears twitch, and she grabs the covers with both hands and peeks up over them. "Dahlig? If dat you?"

Sær pops out from around the corner smiling and holds out the bottle proudly.

"Wha if dat?" Priscilla asks, suspiciously sniffing the bottle.

"Alcohol," Sær replies. "Doctor Logan said it will help you get better."

Priscilla cautiously takes the whiskey, sniffing vigorously at the mouth of the bottle. Convinced it isn't more icky medicine, she tilts the bottle slightly and takes tentative laps at the amber liquid.

Her face blanches slightly as she tastes it, but she swallows it all the same.

"Taftes funny."

She takes another sip, smacking her lips contemplatively. "S'okay," she mutters. she takes a hefty swig, a content look across her face. "Id taftes a bid bedder, now..."

Soon, the color has returned to her cheeks and her congestion has cleared up. Sær snuggles up to her happily, occasionally rattled by her hiccups. By the time the bottle is almost empty, Priscilla's face is flushed scarlet, her eyes hazy and unfocused. She eyes the bottle sadly, then shakes the last few drops out onto her tongue.

With nothing more to catch her attention, she turns to Sær. All at once, a saccharine, euphoric smile appears on her face, and she squeals happily as she squeezes the poor undead so hard that the breath is driven from him.

"Shærrrr," she slurs. "We haven't touched in sho LONG! HIC!" She nuzzles his face, and her horns scratch Sær's forehead painfully. The crossbreed giggles uncontrollably, her peals of laughter inturrupted by loud hiccups.

"Shær, Shaaa-airrr! I wuv yooouuu~!" She curls up around him, her tail thumping happily.

Sær is in panic mode, the air squeezed out of him as the giant fluff-ball clumsily sates her all-encompassing lust for cuddles. Reaching into his pack, Sær quickly pulls out his pyromancy glove as spots begin to dance across his vision. With a snap, he casts iron flesh and he finally breathes as Priscilla is unable to squeeze any harder.

Priscilla yelps, dropping the heavy hunk of husband as she jumps back. Her eyes narrow as she realizes exactly what had happened.

"Oh, I shee," she says angrily. "Finally shick of the shtinky owd cwoshbweed?"

"What? No, I-"

"I should've HIC! Known. Who would want a fweak wike me, after all?"

She buries under the covers, and the sheets start to shake as she emits small, hiccuping sobs.

Sær sighs. For all her power, Priscilla still has terrible insecurities stemming from her abandonment as a young crossbreed.

He climbs up to her, pulling the edge of the covers up and crawling in. Priscilla's large face stares at him sullenly. Crawling forward, Sær nuzzles her cheek, then laps up her tears.

"You're overreacting, you big dummy," He says softly. "I literally went to hell and back just so I could marry you. Do you think I would do that if I didn't love you?"

Priscilla looks away, pouting, and lets out a small hiccup. Irked, Sær darts forward and nips her ear, smirking as she yelps.

"I'm not cooking for you until you give me a kiss," he warns sternly. Priscilla purses her lips huffily.

"Fine then. I guess this fancy, freshly caught tuna is allllll mine." Sær pulls the covers back and begins to leave.

In a flash, Priscilla snatches him back, plants a smooch on his cheek, pulls the covers back, and hurls him bodily into the kitchen. One of the perks of having an undead husband; you can be as rough with him as you want.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Days pass, and Priscilla's condition improves steadily. The abscence of the cuddle ban does wonders for her mood, and in no time the only sign of sickness is the occasional sneeze.

With a grunt, doctor Logan pulls a giant glass tube from Priscilla's mouth, studying the crimson liquid within.

"Good, good," he mutters. "Steady improvement! A day or two of bed rest should do the trick, I think."

Priscilla smiles serenely. The crackling fire, toasty-warm blankets, and fish soup spoon-fed to her by Sær seem to have lulled her into a stupor, and she nuzzles into her pillow as her eyes droop. The doctor gives the couple a curt nod before ambling out the door.

Sær nuzzles his wife's nose. "Did you hear that? Just a few more days till we can go out on adventures again!"

"Dun' wanna go on adventures," she grumbles sleepily. "Wanna be spoiled more."

"But I've been spoiling you all week!"

"More," Priscilla whines. It has been her first time being tended to, and she isn't willing to give it up just yet.

"Fine," Sær huffs. "But you know the price."

The sleepy dragon leans over and plants a loud, wet kiss on his cheek before turning right back over and falling asleep.