INANILOQUENT – (adj) speaking foolishly or saying silly things
Avarice was fascinated by this Immune. He spoke the silliest of words, trying to tell her things that she was just never meant to understand. He touched her charm and skin and jabbered on. The sounds mingled into strange Infected language that she could almost for certain tell wasn't what he meant to say.
The Jockey avoided direct contact with the Immune, even in their sleeping pile. She wasn't used to being in the center of a pile. It was too warm. At one point, she had scurried free and gone off to be in the coldest corner she could find. The next morning, the Immune looked upset that she had moved from the pile.
One day, she took to a tree, wishing to be alone. The Jockey was missing, probably to bring her more food to munch on. She was getting antsy. The Immune was cleaning his hurtful stick, muttering to himself aloud. She didn't like the fact that he kept it up and running: she was volatile and could eviscerate anything that dared to attack her. Maybe he was expecting her to lose her temper, take out anger on him.
A tear dribbled down her cheek. She wasn't a monster. Not like the other criers. Not like other...she shuddered at the thought of the derogatory nickname bestowed upon her kind. Witches, as far as she could recall, were hated by people. They wore their manes pointed and flew on sticks and people burned them.
A sudden explosion rocked her from the tree and she tumbled to the ground, landed strangely on her side. A sharp pinch overcame her right side and she shrieked in pain. The Immune hurried over, kneeling by her side. He blabbered on, trying to calm her. But she was frightened. The noise, the sound, the memory.
She didn't know what to do. Red was painting everything she saw, expect for the black blood that was seeping through her veins. This creature, who looked similar to the one in the kitchen, was trembling and fumbling with metal casings. She charged with a single screech and tore through his chest. It opened its mouth to cry out in its terrified language when she drove her free hand through its neck. The red began to fade as depression crawled through her veins. She took off, its undecipherable sounds ringing in its ears.
She pushed up with a gargled cry and couldn't feel her side. The Immune was pressing something into her side that made everything fuzzy. She fell against him, his too-cold skin against her burning flesh. She felt sick and tired at the same time. What was happening? What had the Immune don...