Open Chronicles When your cat's prescription is a little more wild

Aurelie Dankworth · May 1, 2025

Morning crept in through the leaded glass windows of the apothecary, spilling golden light across rows of neatly labeled jars and bundles of drying herbs. The shop breathed with a quiet, comforting rhythm—the scent of lavender, sage, and something faintly bitter from the simmering cauldron in the back mingled in the still air.

Aurelie moved barefoot across the cool wooden floor, her cloak traded for a loose linen blouse and a worn apron dusted with chalk and crushed petals. Her fingers were stained faintly green, a sure sign of wild mint harvesting at dawn. A lock of her unruly red hair had slipped from its braid, brushing against her cheek as she leaned over the mortar and pestle, grinding dried elderflower into powder with slow, practiced motions.

Every movement was purposeful. She worked like someone communing rather than laboring—every herb an old friend, every tincture a whispered spell. Small vials clinked like chimes as she arranged them in the window display: rose oil for grief, willow bark for pain, valerian for troubled sleep. Each was labeled in her fine, looping script, accented by notations in Elvish no one in the village could read but which she wrote anyway, as if the plants deserved the courtesy of being named in more than one tongue.

She paused only when she heard the soft jingle of the bell above the door. A breeze curled through the opening, tugging at the hanging herbs, carrying with it the scent of rain-damp earth and something else… a presence.

Aurelie didn't turn right away. Instead, she let her fingers brush along the edge of the counter, grounding herself, before lifting her chin with a serene smile.

"Good morning," she said gently, her voice like mist through trees. "You've the look of someone who's either lost something… or found more than they expected. Which is it today?"

Her eyes met those of the visitor, bright as springtide leaves, calm but watchful—ready to listen, to tend, or to warn, depending on what walked through her door.

Baise · May 3, 2025

"What a charming way to greet your customers!" Baise declared in his sing-song voice.

He was as well dressed as ever. Today he had a pale pink tunic that hung from his slender shoulders and a pale linen waistcoat over it.

"Judenotouching!" he hissed quickly.

Behind Baise was the young boy with a shock of red hair. His little hand reaching towards a jar.

"We don't touch anything at an apothecary," Baise said slowly.

"Apothecary!" Jude repeated, who was clearly enjoying the word for its sound.

"Now, the matter at hand," Baise said, turning to the red haired elf.

"I'm here on the matter of a suspected haunting. I don't think it's actually real in this case but I was looking for some rotofrass to burn to prove it either way."

Aurelie Dankworth

Aurelie Dankworth · May 3, 2025

Aurelie’s smile bloomed slowly, a quiet amusement curling at the edges of her lips as she watched the newcomer’s extravagant entrance. She could already tell there was something different about him—the way he carried himself, the way he spoke, the pale pink of his tunic. His every movement seemed deliberate, theatrical almost, as though he were playing a role in some unseen story.

And then there was the boy. His little hand reached for the jars on the counter, his face alight with innocent curiosity. Aurelie couldn’t help but feel a fondness for him already, as if he were one of her plants—fresh and unbothered by the world, eager to learn and explore.

Without missing a beat, Aurelie bent down, her fingers brushing across a basket at her feet, and plucked a sprig of chamomile. She held it out to the child, her voice soft and playful.

“For courage and curiosity,” she said, her smile widening. “That’s all you need today, little one.”

As she straightened up, her green-stained fingers brushing against the worn linen of her apron, she felt her gaze drift back to the man. She was still watching him when she spoke, her words carrying the gentle rhythm of someone who asked more out of genuine curiosity than anything else.

“Pink suits you,” she remarked, as if pondering the color for a moment. “Though I suspect it’s not so much for blending in, is it? More to… charm the ghosts away, perhaps?” Her eyes twinkled mischievously, as if she had just uncovered some secret.

Her fingers danced across the shelves, running lightly over the smooth glass of the jars. She didn’t rush—her pace was measured, unhurried, the way someone does when they’re both waiting and wanting to be surprised. She found what she needed—a jar with a faded label, its wax seal marked with an old Elvish rune. She opened it slowly, as if savoring the moment, and retrieved a small bundle wrapped in mulberry paper, tied with twine in an old-fashioned knot that had been passed down through generations.

“Rotofrass,” she said, setting the bundle carefully on the counter, her eyes never leaving him. “Dried under the eclipse moon. It holds its strength in the quiet hours… when the world seems to listen just a little harder.”

Aurelie tilted her head slightly as she studied him, her smile never faltering but growing more curious. There was a certain light in her eyes, as if she were peeling back the layers of a mystery. "And yet... You don’t seem frightened of whatever it is that’s led you here," she continued, her voice gentle but probing. "You must have a good reason to be so certain. But tell me—why rotofrass? What makes you believe it will make a difference?"

She watched him carefully, almost too intently. Her fingers idly traced the rim of a nearby jar, as if she were waiting for the air itself to reveal the answers.

“Why this, and not something else? I’m sure you’ve tried other things before, haven’t you? Or is this just your... next experiment?" Her voice softened with the last question, the word “experiment” floating between them like a secret.

Aurelie tilted her head the other way, as if trying to look at him from a different angle, and then added, almost to herself, "I’ve always wondered… why people come to me with things like this. Ghosts, hauntings, curses… Why not just let the silence be? What are we afraid of hearing?”

Her voice lowered, growing more thoughtful as she watched the man’s every move, her fingers now absentmindedly twisting the chamomile sprig between them. “Do you think the dead have something to teach us? Or are we just running from what we can’t explain?"

It wasn’t just the herbs she wanted to know about. It was him, his story, his reasons for being here—everything. Aurelie had a way of asking questions that felt like invitations rather than interrogations. She didn’t know the normal rules of social engagement, nor did she care for them. Instead, she cut straight to the heart of things, drawing out the quiet truths that most people avoided even looking at.

The way she studied him, as if she were both entirely intrigued and utterly unfazed by whatever answers he gave, made her presence impossible to ignore. There was an ease about her, a comfort in her curiosity, as if nothing—nothing—could startle her.

Her eyes never left him, unwavering and expectant, but somehow full of warmth. She wasn't just interested in his story—she wanted to hear the small, unnoticed details, the ones no one ever thought to share. And, if she was being honest, she wanted to see what he would reveal when he realized she wasn’t judging him, just listening.

Baise · May 4, 2025

Aurelie Dankworth said:
“For courage and curiosity,” she said, her smile widening. “That’s all you need today, little one.”

Jude seems perfectly happy with a simple sprog of chamomile. At least for now, Baise thought to himself. Jude twirled the stem, sending the white petals spinning around yellow.

Aurelie Dankworth said:
“Pink suits you,” she remarked, as if pondering the color for a moment. “Though I suspect it’s not so much for blending in, is it? More to… charm the ghosts away, perhaps?” Her eyes twinkled mischievously, as if she had just uncovered some secret.

"Why ever would anyone want to blend in?" he asked rhetorically. Baise stood tall and pretended to brush something from his sleeve.

He watched as she worked across her shelves in a meticulous and unhurried manner.

"Oh if only I could charm every paranormal danger," Baise replied. "By which I mean there are some you can, but I can personally tell you the cost of changing the mind of a faerie that way can be high."

Aurelie Dankworth said:
. “Do you think the dead have something to teach us? Or are we just running from what we can’t explain?"

Aurelie Dankworth said:
"You must have a good reason to be so certain. But tell me—why rotofrass? What makes you believe it will make a difference?"

She watched him carefully, almost too intently. Her fingers idly traced the rim of a nearby jar, as if she were waiting for the air itself to reveal the answers.

“Why this, and not something else? I’m sure you’ve tried other things before, haven’t you? Or is this just your... next experiment?"

He left the bundle of rotofrass on the counter. Baise was easily distracted by interesting conversation and even more easily distracted by interesting people.

"When rotofrass is burned under two moons and you let the incense spread through a house it draws forth any lingering spirits," Baise replied. He placed both hands on the counter, meeting the elf's gaze.

"But people say a lot of things do a lot of other things and most of them are lying. So why would you believe me?" he mused.

Aurelie Dankworth · May 4, 2025

Aurelie tilted her head slowly, considering him—not just his words, but their weight. The corners of her mouth twitched upward in a small, crooked smile, not quite amusement, not quite skepticism, more like someone intrigued by the way a clock ticks just slightly off-beat.

“I don’t know that I do believe you,” she said, the confession airy and unbothered, as if belief weren’t the point at all. “But I do believe you believe it, and that’s far more interesting.”

She leaned slightly over the counter now, her red braid slipping forward over her shoulder, a dried petal caught somewhere near her collarbone. Her green-stained fingers paused in their absent tracing of the jar and instead reached toward the bundle he’d left untouched.

“I’ve burned rotofrass myself,” she said, almost musing aloud. “Once during a blood harvest, once on the night of a fevered comet. The first time, the air turned cold as breath in winter. The second, every candle in the house guttered at once and didn’t relight until morning.” She glanced up at him then, blinking slowly. “But no spirits. Just silence. Which might be louder than ghosts, in the right places.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly—not suspicion, but an intense kind of curiosity, the kind that tended to unnerve the less forthright. “What did you see the last time you used it? Don’t say anything. You don’t carry anything on your shoulders like that.”

Then, softly and with genuine wonder: “Do you think they’re real because you’ve seen them, or did you start seeing them because you already believed?”

There was no accusation in her voice—only fascination, like she was holding up a new kind of stone and waiting to see how it caught the light. She stood straight again, brushing dust from her apron absently, then reached beneath the counter to withdraw a little tin box, dented at the corners and sealed with a wax mark that looked almost like a falling star.

She set it beside the bundle and tapped the lid. “If you’re going to burn it, burn it with this. Dried thistle, bark of black alder, and just a whisper of fennel pollen. It doesn’t change what comes—it just... helps you listen. Or so my grandfather said, and he wasn’t wrong very often. Except for wine. And trousers.”

Her expression softened slightly as she glanced toward Jude, still happily twirling the chamomile.

“Is this haunting something you’re walking into… or walking away from?” she asked suddenly, tilting her head the other way. “And does the boy know the difference?”

She blinked again, as if startled by her question, then gave him a sheepish, lopsided smile. “Sorry. I’m always asking too many things. You don’t have to answer. But you can. If you want.”

Her hands folded over one another, resting lightly against the counter. Her presence, like the scent of elderflower and mint in the room, was gentle but insistent. Not pulling. Not pushing. Just... waiting.

Baise · May 5, 2025

Her curiosity only inspired his own. As she leaned across the counter, Baise listened to every words.

Except for one brief moment where he warned Jude against reaching for the shelves. Baise had eyes on the back of his head. The boy might not have been his by blood but he had his own curiosity. He went back to playing with the chamomile.

Baise adored stories. They were almost like their own currency. They were supposed to be bartered and traded at all the places people gathered in the world. Baise didn't like stories of heroes and monsters, he liked to learn about people.

"There is no need to apologise for questions!" he declared.

He turned over one palm and narrowed his eyes. A green flame came to life. Barely an inch high, but it took the rough form of a person and walked around his palm in a circle.

"Dad you said no magic in the city!"

Baise smiled and closed his hand.

His magic was fae in nature. Whilst he welcomed questions, what he did walk away from was not something he spoke about.

"Spirits and monsters and magic and creatures of mischief all exist," he said softly. "I tend to go looking for them. In this case I think someone just lives in a dark creaky house. Deeply disappointing if I am honest. But even in a city there are interesting things to be found. Like this charming store!"

Monifa Oya · May 8, 2025

The door creaked open, letting in the damp morning air. Monifa Oya stepped inside, rainwater glistening on the tight coils of her braids. She paused just beyond the threshold, her broad shoulders blocking the grey light for a moment before she closed the door behind her with a quiet click.

"Peace upon your hearth," she murmured, her voice low and warm like distant thunder. "The rain has made the wild thyme sweet today."

Her dark eyes swept across the shop, taking in the drying herbs, the cluttered shelves, and the people within. Her nostrils flared slightly as she breathed in the scent of crushed lavender and something bitter beneath—perhaps the remnants of a recent remedy.

Noticing a bundle of vervain hanging too close to the window, she reached up to adjust it. "The sun steals this one's voice if left too long," she commented, rotating the stems so the shaded side faced the light.

Nearby, a small boy reached for a low shelf where jars of seeds sat within easy grasp. Monifa moved smoothly, kneeling beside him with a rustle of linen.

"Little sprout," she said, her voice softening, "these are not for small hands." From the folds of her sash, she produced a sprig of lemon thyme, its leaves still glistening with morning dew. "But this one sings when chewed. Would you like to hear its song?"

Across the room, a man in a pink tunic leaned against the counter, his fingers absently tracing the edge of a bundled herb. Monifa's eyes flicked to his sleeve, where faint green ash dusted the fabric.

"Traveler," she observed, her tone neutral but her tusks pressing briefly into her lower lip, "your fire has left its mark. The yarrow salve by the honey pots may ease its sting."

She turned toward the counter where the shop’s keeper stood, her fingers stained green from morning’s work. From her belt pouch, Monifa withdrew a small clay jar, its wax seal imprinted with the faint shape of willow leaves.

"Marsh-mallow root," she explained, setting it down beside the mortar. "Harvested when the creek runs clear after rain. For your... special confections." The pause was deliberate, her dark eyes knowing but not presuming.

Aurelie Dankworth · May 10, 2025

Aurelie looked from Baise’s flame to Jude’s wide-eyed protest with the kind of delight most people reserved for fireworks or fox kits in spring. Her fingers curled loosely around the edge of the counter, her smile curling with mischief.

“No magic in the city?” she echoed, glancing at Baise like someone who had just been offered an unwrapped secret. “Is that a rule, or a superstition? I never remember which ones are which anymore.”

But her gaze lingered a breath longer on the place where the green flame had danced—half-suspicious, half-awed. Fae magic had its rhythm, and she wasn’t immune to its hum.

She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the counter now, chin in one green-flecked hand, and added softly, “You carry stories like bandages—wrapped neat, but always a little stained. I won’t ask what you walked away from. Not yet. But I will wonder. And I’ll leave the kettle on for the day you feel like telling.”

Then the bell above the door chimed again.

Aurelie straightened at once, brushing invisible dust from her apron. Her expression did not shift so much as... open, like a curtain drawn back. The scent of rain and thyme preceded Monifa’s entrance, and Aurelie took it in as she would an old poem: eyes bright, head slightly tilted, heart already halfway to trusting.

"Peace returns to you," she said at once, in a tone that could’ve passed for ritual or intuition—it was often hard to tell with her. “And the wild thyme has gone sweet. I noticed it near the millstones just after dawn—maybe it missed the thunder.”

She moved with ease around the counter, not in a hurry, but with a grace that came from years of weaving between shelves and memories. Her hands hovered, not to take the marshmallow root from Monifa’s offering, but to admire it first, palms open, as if receiving a gift in church.

“Oh, this is very fine,” she murmured, reverent. “Clear Creek harvest—was it morning light or near dusk? They steep differently depending on the time, you know. One sings to the throat, the other soothes the belly. Both are gentle, but only one dreams.”

There was something not quite elven in the way she moved when truly curious, like she was too eager for answers to be graceful, too thoughtful to be careless. She was already reaching under the counter for a glass jar to tuck the root away before stopping, blinking at Monifa.

“You noticed the vervain,” she said, slightly breathless. “Most people only notice the smell, if that. Thank you.”

It wasn’t just gratitude—it was something more intimate, like someone being seen after a long time alone.

She glanced over to where Jude.

“Your timing’s uncanny,” she said to Monifa. “The shop’s only just taken a breath this morning, and now it seems to be listening. As if we’re all part of something it was waiting for.”

Then, lower, to no one in particular: “I wonder if it ever gets lonely, when no one listens back.”

Aurelie caught herself then, shook her head slightly like a cat shaking off water, and flashed a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I do tend to babble when interesting people walk in carrying rain and riddles.”

She looked between them—Baise, theatrical and flickering with secrets; Monifa, rain-drenched and grounded in old knowledge—and her voice lowered, like a spell that wasn’t meant to be cast but slipped out anyway.

“Perhaps the haunting wasn’t in the house at all. Perhaps it just needed to lead you here.”

She turned away before the words could land too heavily, heading back to the simmering cauldron in the corner, her braid swinging behind her like a metronome, off-beat, and entirely her own.

Monifa Oya · May 10, 2025

Aurelie Dankworth said:
She moved with ease around the counter, not in a hurry, but with a grace that came from years of weaving between shelves and memories. Her hands hovered, not to take the marshmallow root from Monifa’s offering, but to admire it first, palms open, as if receiving a gift in church.

“Oh, this is very fine,” she murmured, reverent. “Clear Creek harvest—was it morning light or near dusk? They steep differently depending on the time, you know. One sings to the throat, the other soothes the belly. Both are gentle, but only one dreams.”

Monifa smiled, slow and small, the kind that started in the eyes and took its time reaching the mouth. She watched Aurelie’s reverent hands hover over the clay jar as though it were sacred, and for a heartbeat, Monifa allowed herself the warmth of being understood.

“Dusk,” she said simply, her voice low and steady. “The creek still murmured, but the frogs had begun their songs. It’s the dreaming kind.”

She tilted her head, one long braid brushing against her shoulder, and added after a breath, “I thought you might need a dream more than a meal, today.” There was no pity in her tone, only a quiet certainty—like someone who'd once had to choose between sleep and survival.

Aurelie Dankworth said:
There was something not quite elven in the way she moved when truly curious, like she was too eager for answers to be graceful, too thoughtful to be careless. She was already reaching under the counter for a glass jar to tuck the root away before stopping, blinking at Monifa.

At the comment about the vervain, Monifa gave a faint shrug, though her gaze softened.
“Herbs speak before they wilt,” she said. “The rest is just listening. Most don’t.”

She didn’t elaborate—it didn’t need it. Instead, she glanced toward the hanging bundles once more, the way one might check on sleeping kin.

Aurelie Dankworth said:
“You noticed the vervain,” she said, slightly breathless. “Most people only notice the smell, if that. Thank you.”

Her gaze drifted toward Jude again, thoughtful. The boy reminded her of seedlings pushing through storm-thick soil—curious, unbothered by what had come before. She offered him a soft smile when he turned the lemon thyme over in his hands.

Then she looked back to Aurelie, and for a brief moment, something flickered behind her eyes—a wistful sort of recognition.
“It’s rare,” she said quietly, “to walk into a space that feels like it remembers how to listen.”

She placed a hand briefly on the worn edge of the counter, grounding herself not unlike Aurelie had earlier.
“Maybe it gets lonely. But maybe it waits, like anything old and wise enough to know the shape of silence.”

Aurelie Dankworth said:
It wasn’t just gratitude—it was something more intimate, like someone being seen after a long time alone.

She glanced over to where Jude.

“Your timing’s uncanny,” she said to Monifa. “The shop’s only just taken a breath this morning, and now it seems to be listening. As if we’re all part of something it was waiting for.”

Then, lower, to no one in particular: “I wonder if it ever gets lonely, when no one listens back.”

Aurelie caught herself then, shook her head slightly like a cat shaking off water, and flashed a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I do tend to babble when interesting people walk in carrying rain and riddles.”

Monifa chuckled, a low, warm sound that crackled like embers rather than chimed like bells.
“You’re not babbling. This place—it stirs people.”

She turned her gaze toward Baise then, studying him—not unkindly, but with the steady patience of someone who knew how to wait out thunderstorms.

“And him,” she added, tilting her head. “He’s walking with echoes he hasn’t named yet.”

Her attention returned to Aurelie.
“Let them rest here a while. The spirits won’t mind. And the vervain is safer now.”

Aurelie Dankworth said:
She looked between them—Baise, theatrical and flickering with secrets; Monifa, rain-drenched and grounded in old knowledge—and her voice lowered, like a spell that wasn’t meant to be cast but slipped out anyway.

“Perhaps the haunting wasn’t in the house at all. Perhaps it just needed to lead you here.”

She turned away before the words could land too heavily, heading back to the simmering cauldron in the corner, her braid swinging behind her like a metronome, off-beat, and entirely her own.

Monifa watched Aurelie turn, her gaze lingering on the sway of that braid like a rhythm the world forgot how to follow. She didn’t speak at once. Instead, she touched the carved bone charm at her neck, as if consulting an ancestor before answering a prayer.

“Then may it be so,” she said softly, not chasing Aurelie but letting her words drift like incense. “Some spirits don’t come to frighten. Some only come to guide—quiet as moonlight, patient as rot. Not every haunting is a curse, and not every house has walls.”

She turned her face to the steam curling from the cauldron, breathing deep. “If it brought you here, maybe the haunting knew exactly what it was doing.”

Monifa’s lips curved, just faintly. “Maybe it’s not a haunting at all anymore. Maybe it’s the beginning of daffodils.”

“What do you make of that, Lady and Traveler?”

Baise · May 10, 2025

Aurelie Dankworth said:
“Is that a rule, or a superstition? I never remember which ones are which anymore.”

Jude decided to answer, tilting his head back to look up at the shop owner.

"Dad says that it's best not to use magic in a city cos folk there are st..."

"Superstitious," Baise interrupted. "Because people in cities - humans in particular - can be superstitious about magic. They say that a lot of people used to be able to read in the Age of Wonders."

There was a caw before the little bell sounded. They had left the ravens Tiberius, Vaspien and Fabrice outside pottering around on the roof.

Monifa Oya said:
"Little sprout," she said, her voice softening, "these are not for small hands."

Jude's expression briefly turned to one of mild annoyance, but he was immediately distracted by a new frond to play with.

Monifa Oya said:
"your fire has left its mark. The yarrow salve by the honey pots may ease its sting."

Baise looked down at his open palm. There was a small warm mark. Nothing too painful, but he supposed a little salve would ease that.

He wasn't short of coin and it was another excuse to pass some to the shop owner.

There were orcs in all corners of the world. They came in different shapes and sizes and with a far wider variety of skin tones than humans. He had met few who spoke in such flowery prose before.

Aurelie Dankworth said:
“Perhaps the haunting wasn’t in the house at all. Perhaps it just needed to lead you here.”

Monifa Oya said:
. “Maybe it’s not a haunting at all anymore. Maybe it’s the beginning of daffodils.”

“What do you make of that, Lady and Traveler?”

Baise smiled. He enjoyed a conversation that following a winding path. Life could be boring.

"So your theory was that events unfolded to bring me here?"

Baise canted his head to one side.

"It could be. Although I still have to check on Mrs Merryl's house as I promised to exorcise the ghost," Baise laughed.

Aurelie Dankworth · May 13, 2025

Aurelie turned slightly, pausing in her slow stir of the cauldron as Monifa’s final words settled into the air like a drop of elderflower on the tongue—sweet, unexpected, lingering.

“Daffodils,” she echoed softly, amused and haunted all at once. “They’re the first to bloom and the first to fall, poor things. Always rushing toward the sun as if it might forget them.”

She straightened, wiped her hands on her apron, and stepped back toward the counter, though her movement was never linear. She passed by Jude on the way, gently plucking a sprig of dried feverfew from the folds of her braid and slipping it into his hand like a secret. “Just in case any ghosts try to make a nest in your pocket,” she whispered with a wink, then tapped her nose like it was a pact.

When Baise laughed, her eyes flicked to him—not to judge the sound, but to collect it, like one might collect rainwater. Carefully. Lovingly. A laugh like that weighted it. Most things did.

“Oh, I don’t doubt Mrs. Merryl’s house creaks,” she said, voice light but lined with something darker beneath. “But some houses learn to creak when no one listens anymore. Like old bones pretending to ache, just for a bit of company.”

She leaned her hip against the counter, watching the mark on his palm with idle interest, as if she could read it like tea leaves. “Besides, if there is a spirit there, perhaps it isn’t angry. Perhaps it’s bored. I’ve met worse things than bored ghosts. Like bored widows. Or bored cats.”

Her grin curved slowly. “Or gods.”

Then her eyes danced again toward Monifa. “We should bottle this storm,” she said, almost to herself. “Whatever it is you two have stirred up. The kind of energy that makes the shop watch back. It’s not just listening now. It’s curious.”

The shadows around the herb shelves seemed a little longer than before. The scent of boiling root had shifted, too—something softer now, like lilac bark and memory. Aurelie sniffed the air, nose crinkling.

“Oh.” A pause. “That’s... not what I put in the cauldron.”

She turned back around slowly, inspecting the simmering brew with narrowed eyes. A strange fizz of lavender and thyme had begun to form patterns in the rising steam—circles, then spirals, then something like an eye before the image vanished.

“Well, that’s unsettling,” she said, too cheerfully. “Usually, the brew waits for permission.”

Then she laughed, airy and unapologetic, and reached for the ceramic ladle hanging from the hook above.

“Monifa, did your willow-sealed gift carry something extra with it? A little mischief, perhaps?” she teased, then glanced toward Baise again. “Or perhaps one of your ghosts left us a love letter.”

She dipped the ladle into the cauldron and lifted a small portion of the shimmering liquid, letting it catch the candlelight.

“It smells like... truth,” she murmured, tilting her head. “But not the kind of people tell. The kind that climbs out when no one’s looking.”

Then, grinning: “Baise, if your ghost follows you in here, be a dear and introduce it properly next time. I prefer to set out tea.”

Aurelie set the ladle back gently, the steam curling around her fingers like a familiar old friend. Her eyes shone—not just with mischief, but something more ancient. A woman who’d been waiting longer than she realized. A woman who still hoped that somewhere, beneath the layers of charm and choice and chamomile, the right door would creak open.

Even if it came with a ghost. Or three.

Monifa Oya · May 14, 2025

Aurelie Dankworth said:
“Daffodils,” she echoed softly, amused and haunted all at once. “They’re the first to bloom and the first to fall, poor things. Always rushing toward the sun as if it might forget them.”

Baise said:
"So your theory was that events unfolded to bring me here?"

“Yet they bloom, even when the sky forgets to promise spring,” Monifa murmured, twirling a valerian stem between her muscular fingers. “Just like a midwife who stirs the air with blood, not lullabies. A strange sight—one who should call life into the world instead of conjuring storms.”

Her eyes flicked to the cauldron, then to Aurelie. “Perhaps the flowers know something we don’t.”

Aurelie Dankworth said:
“Monifa, did your willow-sealed gift carry something extra with it? A little mischief, perhaps?” she teased, then glanced toward Baise again. “Or perhaps one of your ghosts left us a love letter.”

Monifa sighed as a small smile formed. “Mischief? They are mainly used for treating umkhuhlane lomphimbo and madzi a pakamwa. They are less mischief than the ones I usually work with: Ewe Akoko and Gbogbonise to mention a few.”

As she picked up a valerian from the floor, her pupils slightly dilated. “Pardon me—I meant pharyngitis and aphthae. The old terms tend to linger. Habit of apprenticeship.”

Aurelie Dankworth said:
“It smells like... truth,” she murmured, tilting her head. “But not the kind of people tell. The kind that climbs out when no one’s looking.”

Monifa eyed Aurelie as she graced the cauldron with candlelight. “You work with such honesty. It’s rare. A niche, maybe.”

“Are there any places nearby that lack care—no midwife, no coin for delivery? I travel sometimes. Keeps my energy moving. Keeps my heart from fraying after all the years of tears.”

Baise said:
"It could be. Although I still have to check on Mrs Merryl's house as I promised to exorcise the ghost," Baise laughed.

Monifa turned to Baise, the valerian still resting between her knuckles. “Your path walks beside death, but doesn’t seem to fear it. That stirs something in me. Tell me—what kind of work lets you stand in its shadow, as your sun attempts to stay high? It appears your duty is a way to become what you hunt.”

She tilted her head slightly, half-smiling. “And this Mrs. Merryl you’ve spoken of—another spirit in your tale, or just an acquaintance?”

Baise · May 18, 2025

Aurelie Dankworth said:
Her grin curved slowly. “Or gods."

"Bored gods."

Baise's expression darkened for just a moment. It was a gathering of storm clouds that dispersed before the rain could start.

He had known bored gods. He had loved one for a few hundred years.

Aurelie Dankworth said:
Then, grinning: “Baise, if your ghost follows you in here, be a dear and introduce it properly next time. I prefer to set out tea.”

Baise smiled back.

"Oh I don't think any ghosts have come here with me. If you've summoned one to your potion I am afraid that is entirely on you."

Monifa Oya said:
Tell me—what kind of work lets you stand in its shadow, as your sun attempts to stay high? It appears your duty is a way to become what you hunt.”

She tilted her head slightly, half-smiling. “And this Mrs. Merryl you’ve spoken of—another spirit in your tale, or just an acquaintance?”

"Oh I don't work as such," Baise laughed.

"We simply travel and help where we can. I merely answered a concern about ghosts I heard at a tavern."

"You are both welcome to join me staying in a haunted house for a night. I suspect nothing will show itself."

Aurelie Dankworth · May 23, 2025

Aurelie leaned on the counter again, that one stubborn braid sliding forward over her shoulder like it had something to say. Her fingers absently tapped a rhythm—an old lullaby or perhaps just the beat of her thinking. She tilted her head at Baise’s invitation, and her smile bloomed slowly and sideways, like a sunbeam slipping through old shutters.

“Oh, I adore haunted houses,” she said, dreamy and unbothered, as if he’d offered her tea in the garden and not a sleepover with ghosts. “They have the best manners. Always knocking things off shelves and whispering your name dramatically through the walls—much more romantic than the living, in my experience.”

She met his eyes then, the mirth still present but quieter, gentler, like the flicker of a candle’s second flame. “Besides, I’ve always found it comforting. The idea that something would want to linger. That even after everything… some part of a soul still believes in staying.”

Aurelie reached across the counter, plucking a strip of dried lemon balm from a jar without looking, her fingers sure as if guided by memory. She twirled it once between her fingers, then tucked it gently beside the simmering truth-cauldron, like an offering. Not to a god. To the moment.

“I think I’d rather sit in silence with an honest ghost than trade pleasantries with a dishonest man,” she mused, eyes flicking to the steam that still curled in peculiar, lingering shapes. “Ghosts at least have the decency to be transparent.”

Her gaze drifted again to Monifa at the mention of travel and care. Her expression softened—more serious this time, touched with something almost reverent. “There’s a clutch of villages west. Small, scattered. Proud folk with very few coins and too many daughters giving birth alone. I send tinctures when I can, but—” her shoulders lifted in a light shrug, “—they need more than brews in bottles.”

She paused, then added more quietly, “They need hands that know where to press when the bleeding won’t stop, and how to sing over the ones who slip away.”

Aurelie stood straighter suddenly, catching herself, as though the truth had curled too close to the bone again. She let out a breath and waved it away like steam.

“But I’ll take you up on your haunted invitation,” she said brightly to Baise, the weight tucked back beneath her usual glow. “I’ll even bring biscuits. Spirits adore shortbread, you know. Something about the butter.”

Then, with a teasing glance: “And if nothing shows itself, well, I suppose we’ll just have to invent a ghost for the sake of tradition. I’ve got a few names left unused.”

She turned back to the cauldron, her silhouette limned by amber firelight and swirling mist, and her voice dropped just a touch:

“Anyway… what’s the point of being afraid of the dark, if it’s the only place the stars can be seen?”

And with that, she reached again for the ladle, her fingers brushing the rim like one might touch the edge of a dream.

Monifa Oya · May 24, 2025

Aurelie Dankworth said:
She paused, then added more quietly, “They need hands that know where to press when the bleeding won’t stop, and how to sing over the ones who slip away.”

Monifa watched the steam coil like a waking serpent, its patterns dissolving like half-remembered verses from an elven lullaby—one she’d learned in secret, though she’d never admit why. With the deliberate care of a scholar handling fragile parchment (a habit too refined for Orcish hands), she tucked the valerian root into the cauldron.

“Those villages...” Her voice roughened, the Orcish gravel in her throat overtaking the elven lilt that sometimes slipped through. “I know their stories. Births where the only midwife is dirt beneath calloused feet and fear thick as swamp air.”

Her voice softened, almost reverent. “I was taught that midwives are the quiet keepers of thresholds—not only between life and death, but between the seen and unseen. We do not seek the spirits, but neither do we turn away when they come.”

Her fingers—broad like her mother’s yet moving with an elf’s precision—traced the counter’s edge. “My Orc kin say a midwife walks between worlds. The elves...” She hesitated, the word sticking like a burr. “...they call it ‘tending the veil.’ But names change nothing. The work stays the same, so I’ll follow through with my calling.”

The firelight caught the ritual scars along her wrists, but her eyes flicked away before Aurelie could notice how they formed angular patterns—too deliberate for tribal markings, too precise for anything but elven script.

Baise said:
"You are both welcome to join me staying in a haunted house for a night. I suspect nothing will show itself."

The valerian trembled between Monifa’s fingers. When the others spoke of ghosts, her breath hitched with the memory of that summer night when her magic had erupted—wild and hungry, a thing of claw and shadow. The scent of burnt ozone still haunted her.

"In my mother’s tribe," she said, forcing the words through the guttural restraint of Orcish emotion, "we set water by the dying so their spirits don’t thirst on the journey. The elves..." She swallowed. "...they burn herbs to clear the air. Superstition, maybe. But I’ve seen what lingers when rites are skipped."

The steam coiled mockingly, forming shapes that made her pulse race—a spider’s leg here, a war-axe there. She looked away before the others could notice how her pupils dilated unevenly: one wide as an owl’s in darkness, the other slit like a cat’s.

"A midwife guards the threshold," she muttered, her claw-tipped nails (filed blunt, but still sharp enough to draw blood) digging into the valerian. "But spirits don’t knock politely."

She pressed the herb to her lips —a gesture too reverent for Orcish pragmatism yet too rough for elven elegance—then let it fall. "If your ghosts come, I’ll stand with you, Traveler, Lady, and Young Warrior.” Her gaze lingered on Jude as she spoke the last title, noting how the boy with rustling ravens stood poised between Baise’s shadow and the firelight—not quite hidden, not quite safe.

The firelight caught the edges of her tusks as she let them show—not the full threat display of an Orc warrior, but the careful revelation of someone who understood teeth could be both weapon and welcome. It was the look of a huntress deciding whether to loose her arrow or lower her bow, the moment when a Drow assassin might pause to see if their target would flinch first.

"But names matter." The words left her lips like smoke from a ritual fire, carrying the weight of her mother’s words. "Names are the ropes that bind us to the living and the dead." In the mountain holds of her mother's people, names were given during the Bloodmoon ceremonies, roared into the wind so the ancestors might remember. A warrior's true name was shouted before battle, whispered in healing tents, and finally carved into the standing stones when their spirit joined the eternal hunt. To speak a name was to bind oneself to its owner—in honor or vengeance.

Her father's lessons had been quieter, taught in the stolen hours between his duties. Drow names were like hidden blades, he'd explained—known only to kin and sworn allies, lest they be used to slit your throat in the dark. She remembered his long fingers tracing the scars on his forearm where his own house name had been burned away, the flesh kept raw by ritual salts. "Some names," he'd said in that melodic Underrealm accent he could never fully disguise, "are safer buried than spoken."

Now she stood between these truths, her midwife's hands still smelling of valerian and blood. How many names had she given squalling newborns these past years? How many times had she pressed her thumb to tiny brows and spoken the first blessing while secretly envying their unmarked futures? The contradiction sat heavy behind her ribs.

The words settled between them like a ritual dagger placed carefully across open palms—at once warning and offering, threat and invitation. "Even the ones we bury beneath better stories." Her fingers twitched toward the empty space at her belt where her mother's skinning knife should have hung, the absence more telling than any blade.

Baise · May 26, 2025

Aurelie Dankworth said:
“I think I’d rather sit in silence with an honest ghost than trade pleasantries with a dishonest man,” she mused, eyes flicking to the steam that still curled in peculiar, lingering shapes. “Ghosts at least have the decency to be transparent.”

Aurelie Dankworth said:
“But I’ll take you up on your haunted invitation,” she said brightly to Baise, the weight tucked back beneath her usual glow. “I’ll even bring biscuits. Spirits adore shortbread, you know. Something about the butter.”

Baise smiled back. He enjoyed the poetic way the two women spoke. It was refreshing. People found him strange. Jude was strange too. Baise had spent a few hundred years in a fae grove away from the world. It changed a person. He also very much liked Aurelie's smile.

Monifa Oya said:
. "If your ghosts come, I’ll stand with you, Traveler, Lady, and Young Warrior.” Her gaze lingered on Jude as she spoke the last title

Jude giggled softly. Baise gave her a firm nod.

"Names can have a power," he said quietly. That he knew far too well.

"Why don't I come back at dusk and meet you both here? I'll go find Jude some food."

Monifa Oya · May 28, 2025

Monifa watched the boy’s giggles ripple like water over a still pond. Her expression didn’t shift much, but beneath the surface, something softened.

Baise said:
"Why don't I come back at dusk and meet you both here? I'll go find Jude some food."

"Dusk, then," she replied, her voice a gentle thrum, like a drumbeat muffled by cloth. "It is a good hour for walking between things—day and night, breath and silence. I’ll be here."

She bent to pluck a stray stem of feverfew that Jude had dropped; her movements were unhurried and ritualistic. As she rose, she fixed Baise with a look—not unkind, but weighty, like a stone polished smooth by years of river current.

"Let the boy eat," she said. "But when you return, bring his name, too. Not just the one you gave him. The one that walks behind his laughter. A midwife listens for that kind of thing."

Then, to Aurelie—though her gaze lingered on the strange shapes still curling in the cauldron's steam—she added,

"And you, Lady of Roots and Rainwater, you already know how to make a room ready. I’ll bring salt for the corners and silverleaf for the threshold. Just in case your visitor decides to speak."

She stepped back toward the doorway, hand resting briefly on the charm at her neck.

"And if it turns out we are the ghosts after all," Monifa murmured, half to herself, "then let us at least haunt kindly."

With that, she opened the door to the grey light and stepped out, rain misting her shoulders, the scent of wild thyme trailing behind her like a promise.

Monifa stepped into the hush of rain, the apothecary door sighing shut behind her. The scent of wild thyme still clung to her sleeves, mingling with damp linen and something older—valerian root, maybe, or memory. She didn’t rush. Her pace was steady, but her thoughts—her thoughts were another matter entirely.

They think I’m composed, she mused, adjusting the strap of her pouch. Saintly, maybe. The way the Lady looked at me—as if I walked in wrapped in wisdom, not calluses and sleep-debt. I didn’t even ask for her name.

She let out a small sound—something between a scoff and a laugh—and pressed her palm to the damp wood of a crooked fig tree just beyond the stoop. The bark was slick beneath her fingers, grounding. Still, her mind wandered.

"That steam..." she muttered under her breath. "The symbols. The eye. Did I carry something in with me?"

She replayed the offering—how she'd sealed the marshmallow root, checked it thrice, tied it tight with care. Still, something in that shop had stirred. Maybe it had been waiting. Maybe I had.

"Or maybe I’m the haunting," she whispered. "A ghost in a midwife’s bones."

The thought coiled in her gut, familiar and unwelcome. She'd lived with it since that night long ago—magic tore out of her in a scream of shadow, leaving behind ash, blood, and a silence that still sometimes pressed against her chest in her sleep.

She shook her head, water flinging from the tight coils of her braids.

"I’ve buried worse thoughts under worse moons," she told herself, voice firmer now. "Tonight isn’t for ghosts."

She rounded the corner, boots soft on the wet stone, but her mind still spun in loops like a child chasing fireflies. The Traveler had left with the Young Warrior, and their absence had left Monifa with solitude. The steam had twisted with purpose. The Lady’s cauldron had whispered secrets Monifa hadn’t meant to wake.

"Let the boy eat," she had said, meaning every word. But even now, the Young Warrior’s laugh rang in her ears. Bright. Innocent. Braver than most grown men she knew. She’d seen children born with that kind of spirit before. They either changed the world or disappeared from it too fast.

"Bring his name," she’d added. "Not just the one you gave him. The one that walks behind his laughter."

It had slipped out before she could weigh it. But it was true. The names that mattered weren’t always the ones inked into paper. They were the ones carved into the bones of a person—their soul’s first whisper.

As she walked, the rain lightened to a drizzle, and her pace slowed. Not from weariness. From reverence.

She thought of the Lady's question.

What’s the point of fearing the dark, if it’s the only place the stars can be seen?

A good question. Monifa had no answer. Just a memory of torchlight in tunnels, of a scream that wasn't hers and magic that didn’t listen.

"And if we are the ghosts," she had said, "then let us at least haunt kindly."

She still meant it.

By the time she reached the crossroads where the old fig tree bowed toward the west, she paused. The fog was lifting in curls over the path. Dusk was not yet here, but she could feel it approaching—soft as a pulse beneath the earth.

"Dusk is a good hour," she murmured. "A place between places."

She turned down a narrower path that led to the travelers’ yard at the edge of the grain market—an open courtyard with a long-roofed shelter, woven mats, and a cooking fire still warm from the morning’s lentil stew. These communal quarters weren’t fancy, but they served: space to sleep, space to think, and strangers close enough to feel like kin in the dark.

Monifa hung her pouch on a peg and sat beneath the overhang, letting her limbs settle while her mind refused to.

"I’ll go back," she said aloud, voice just above a whisper. Not for ghosts. Not even for answers. But for the feeling the shop had stirred in her: that maybe, just maybe, the silence was beginning to listen back.

And behind her, somewhere far but not gone, the valerian she had left behind gave one final curl of steam—like a breath held, waiting.

Aurelie Dankworth · May 31, 2025

Aurelie’s hand paused on the ladle mid-stir, the truth-cauldron’s shimmer catching a flicker of something else—something not steam, not magic, but memory, perhaps. Or the shape of a word yet unsaid.

Her eyes lifted when Monifa spoke. At first, she said nothing—just listened, still as stone softened by moss. The kind of stillness not of inattention, but of reverence. Her gaze met the orcish midwife’s not as challenge or inquiry, but as communion. When Monifa named the villages—her villages—Aurelie’s breath caught.

A beat passed before she answered, her voice quieter now, gentler, like hands brushing dust from an old name etched in bark.

“I know the kind of silence that settles after the wrong herb was sent... or the right one came too late.”

She tried for a smile, and it half-formed—crooked, bittersweet, but honest.

“I always imagined midwives were something like stars,” she murmured. “They arrive in darkness. They know when to stay distant. When to burn. When to fall.”

And then, a small, unexpected laugh tumbled from her lips. “Oh—gods, listen to me—sorry, I get... poetic when I’m around people who speak like the rain thinks.” She rubbed her temple, her braid swinging forward again like it was used to rescuing her from herself.

“But truly,” she added, her voice threading back into something more sure, “if you are a ghost, Monifa, then you are the kind that keeps the walls from falling. The good kind. The rare kind.”

She watched as the valerian fell into the cauldron—Monifa’s offering now—and the potion responded in kind: the curl of the steam smoothing just slightly, like breath calming under a healer’s hand.

When Baise spoke again, Aurelie turned toward him with the same sideways warmth she’d offered earlier, though now it was tempered with something steadier, almost... fond.

“Dusk suits you,” she said with a little tilt of her head. “You seem like someone who was born between pages, between moments. That’s a compliment, in case my tone forgot.”

Then, as Jude giggled and Baise promised food, her expression shifted—softer still. She folded her hands at the counter, leaning forward slightly, as if coaxing a secret from the air itself.

“Take care with that one,” she said gently, eyes drifting toward the place Jude had stood. “Children are strange things. They remember the parts of us we forget. They remember the stars.”

She blinked, then seemed to realize how dramatic she’d sounded, and immediately tried to recover. “Also, he’s probably hungry enough to eat half your arm, so—maybe also bring soup?”

At Monifa’s parting words, Aurelie stood straighter. Her hand hovered over the truth-cauldron for a moment, then drifted to her belt pouch where she withdrew a pinch of yarrow and crushed it between her fingers.

“I’ll scatter fennel seeds at the windows,” she said simply. “And a circle of honey where the ghosts might step. Just in case the ones who come aren’t ours.”

She didn’t ask for clarification. She didn’t need it. The way Monifa had spoken—Lady of Roots and Rainwater—had not felt like flattery. It had felt like knowing. As if Monifa had seen straight through the velvet folds of her performance and placed her hands directly on the truth.

Aurelie didn’t flinch. But she did bow her head—just once, reverently—as Monifa left.

Aurelie watched the door close behind Monifa, the bell above it giving a single, thoughtful chime. Not a farewell, she thought, but a promise. Her fingers stilled on the ladle. For a moment, she simply breathed, letting the quiet return like a tide, soft and inevitable.

She didn’t speak at once. Let the silence say what it wanted first.

Then, almost absently, she reached for a sprig of rosemary and tucked it into the warm crook of her elbow like a secret. There were herbs for courage, and herbs for clarity, and herbs meant only to remember—she supposed, if one brewed them just right, there could be a tincture for hope.

“I’ll be here,” she said aloud, mostly to the steam, though perhaps it carried to whatever still lingered in the corners of the apothecary. “At dusk.”

A small smile touched her lips—quiet, unsharpened. “Never liked traveling in broad daylight anyway. It lacks… mystery.”

She gave the cauldron one last stir, then let the ladle rest.

Outside, the rain whispered against the shutters like an old friend asking to be let in.

“I’ll bring the shortbread.”

And just under her breath, with a flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth:

“And perhaps a salt circle. Just in case the guests don’t knock.”

Monifa Oya · May 31, 2025

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––AT DAWN–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

The apothecary door opened not with a chime, but with a hush—as if the evening itself were holding its breath.

Rain still clung to Monifa’s shoulders, though it had softened into a misty veil, not unlike the steam that curled within the shop. She stepped across the threshold with quiet purpose, bearing no lantern, only the scent of wet bark, smoke, and something faintly metallic—like old memory or fresh blood.

She nodded once to the room, her voice low and deliberate: "Peace to your hearth again. The dusk kept its promise."

Her eyes swept across the space, noting the gentle hum of herbs in jars, the simmering cauldron, and the subtle shift in shadows—longer now, more watchful.

To the Young Warrior, she knelt and offered a small bundle wrapped in palm fiber. "For you. A snack wrapped like medicine, so you’ll know how to spot the trick when others try it."

Inside: ginger-sprinkled, dried mango slices, a batch of ham, three rounds of sourdough, and a wedge of cream cheese—sweet enough to delight, sharp enough to remember.

To the Traveler, she inclined her head. "You returned, flame-marked but smiling. I expected nothing less."

Her eyes lingered on Baise’s hands—not judging, but weighing. "Did the house greet you, or merely creak in protest?"

Then to the Lady—Aurelie—Monifa’s expression gentled. She reached into her sash and withdrew a folded cloth pouch bound in green twine. "Salt from the plains, silverleaf from the northern groves. Enough for three corners. The fourth we’ll leave open—so the spirits know they may pass, but not linger."

A respectful pause. "And I brought the honey. In case the ghosts forget their manners."

She set the items carefully on the counter, her movements precise, ceremonial. Then Monifa grew still. Her shoulders straightened, but her eyes clouded, as if the shadows in the room reached back toward her.

My heart still has not overcome the fatigue of the night. It’s not as if my eyes were paralyzed.
It must have been my mares of the night...
Why do the memories of my youth still cover my mind? Why does my soul have to hold onto the blood of fate?
There again, my soul should be disciplined—kept from the surface, kept from these fellows...

A long breath passed through her nose. Then, clearer, steadier: "O Traveler, light up the path to the haunted house you mentioned yesterday."

Open Chronicles When your cat's prescription is a little more wild

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