I'll Wear Your Jawbone 'round My Neck

Eyes that spoke of not enough sleep but that shone with the zealous intensity of someone convinced of themselves and their task, the nun entered the Wayward. Binder under her arm, a small brown paper package as well, she went to the counter. The package she left for Hannah, her borrowed and neatly laundered and folded clothes tied up with string and a handwritten thank you note inside of it.

After ordering a coffee, black, she went to the chalk board that advertised the day's specials while it brewed. Using the hem of her sleeve she erased the special and used the chalk to write Rugaru, her handwriting a very last century copperplate script that, should someone merely glimpse and not read it, look like an artistic offering of a dish.

Hunters, those that knew the beast she needed put down, would of course know it was an offering of another sort. An entree of danger with a side of horror and only a soupcon of any reward beyond personal or moral satisfaction.

Genevive went back to get her coffee and took it to a four top, her binder on the left, coffee on the right, and watched to see who would order the Special she'd just put up.

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