Fable - Ask A Bile of their Blood

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Ysilia Iliandar

The Blind Healer
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Wet, muted coughing filled the air, shattering the uneasy stillness of the room. The thin man fought to breathe, clutching at his aching ribs and oddly bloated stomach. Foul green mucus and vomit dripped from the corner of his mouth into the chamber pot beneath his head, followed by thick, syrupy tears oozing from the corners of his bleary eyes. Some missed the target, splattering onto his worn leather boots—not that he particularly cared. Frankly, Edward didn't really care anymore about anything but his own suffering.

The tiny shack had but two rooms. In the other, Roxanna reclined uncomfortably in a weathered old rocking chair, arms resting in her lap, the dark circles of sleepless worry etched deep beneath her closed eyes. Her hands clenched reflexively as another muffled bout of agonized hacking split the air from the other room, a muscle twitching in her cheek ... but there was nothing more she could do. They didn't have the money for a proper healer, and her own rudimentary knowledge of herblore wasn't nearly sufficient to handle this dreadful affliction that had so stricken her husband.

That only left one option.

Edward had been loath to resort to this; stubborn, prideful old fool, thinking he could tough it out. But that was a week ago, back when he was still capable of going through the motions of labor as a dockhand; now he couldn't even make it to the door of his own home. She should have done this days ago. Roxanna opened her eyes, sitting up straight, a new set in her jaw. "Silas!"

The wiry, mop-haired boy at once looked up from the table in the center of the other half of the room, though he didn't stop idly tapping the tin spoon in his left hand against an all-too-empty wooden bowl. It was something to do, after all. "Yes, mum?" His eyes displayed a pleading hope that she would send him elsewhere; that she would let him get out of this stifling shack, and away from the sound of his father's incessant suffering, if only for a little while.

"I can't leave your father, so you'll have to go." For a moment she almost reconsidered as she said it; the boy was only twelve! But it wasn't like they had a choice anymore. "I need you t'run to the Ashrose—you remember where?" She waited for the quick nod of assent before continuing. "Good; remember, be careful not t'hang around or let the guards give you trouble. Tell 'em your father's sick, and we need help; and be ready t'lead 'em back here, alright?"

Silas nodded obediently, his wide eyes betraying both anxiety and desperate hope. Practically everyone in Alliria knew of the Ashrose Apothecary and the mysterious young woman who dwelt there, and not without cause: if anyone could help them, the Blind Healer could. Standing up and half-running to the door, he grabbed an oversized patchwork jacket—a hand-me-down from his father—and darted out into the gentle, somber evening rain with all due haste.

In the child's absence, the spoon lay unused on the table, not even the rhythmic clinking of his fidgeting left to break up the monotony. There was only silence; silence and the dreadful, incessant coughs and retches coming from the other room.

Slowly, Roxanna slumped forward, burying her head in her hands. Even what little hope the prospect of the Blind Healer's aid gave her wasn't enough to ward off her growing despair, and she wanted nothing more than to give in to it and let herself weep; perhaps then she might achieve some catharsis, at the very least. But it was not to be.

She was too worn out even to cry.



Another one. The third this week.

Soothing, bittersweet incense swirled throughout the dark room. It wasn't enough to stop the coughing, but it at least helped to ease the pain. The comfort of a proper, soft bed rather than Edward's own ramshackle cot was a plus as well, and for the first time in days, he'd actually been able to escape the waking world, albeit only into an uneasy, restless sleep. Roxana had protested at moving him here, but the protests hadn't lasted; it was hard to dispute concrete results, after all. Besides, it was deceptively difficult to argue with Ysilia—something about her apparent youth and equally-apparent ill health always left one feeling guilty after giving her a hard time.

The spread quickens. Faster than it ought. And still no closer to a cure ...

The Blind Healer showed no outward sign of her inner frustrations as she stepped outside the room, her examination now complete. Behind her, Alan gently closed and latched the door, the hinges squeaking as he did so. Placing a slender hand on the hulking manservant's arm to guide herself, Ysilia made her way at a characteristic unhurried pace toward the iron-bound doors at the end of the hall.

The blood. It is a bile of their very blood.

Alan reached forward and pushed the door to the courtyard open with another screeching of unoiled hinges. Ysilia flinched and pulled back slightly, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering. It wasn't all that cold, but the gentle, misting rain—which had carried on well into the night—brought with it a certain chill, and the frail alchemist was more than a little sensitive to such things. Steeling herself, the blind woman shuffled forward, putting her hand back on Alan's arm, before the two stepped out into the night.

There was work to be done.
 
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It all ended with a downswing. The thick blade of the monster slayer's sword making quick work as it lopped the creature's head clean off. It fell to the ground with a spray of blood and viscera that spattered against him, then the creature's legs gave out from under it.

Heavy breaths left his lungs, and he stood over his prey, his eye wide open and his teeth bared in grin. The effect of the potion still coursed through his veins. Still burned something good.

A shame, really. His demon's voice toned flatly. It's not as if you can't just... take the organs after I take what I want, oh bearer mine. Belephus gave a dry laugh.

Garrod heft his blade back up and rest it against his shoulder, looked down at the kill.

It fell funny.



Upon the stone steps of the Ashrose's stoop, Garrod could not help but notice how much one of the stones wobbled and creaked. It was not his first visit to the infamous establishment. The Blind Healer oft needed agents and reagents, and any number of components for... pretty much everything she did. Something he had come to understand over time and transactions.

Not that he understood much about her. In all his years in and out of the city. She had never seemed to change. Ever-young.

Old Sinns said it was likely she was part elf. Though, there was something about the how of how he said it. Made it hard to believe.

Garrod reached out to the metal rose that hung as the entrance door. It creaked as he pulled it up, in desperate plea for some oil.

Knock knock knock

The Ashrose. Garrod thought and shifted his pack loaded with preserved prizes. A strange place to do strange business.
 
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For a long moment, there was no response. Garrod had to strike with the knocker twice more before the door slowly swung open, revealing a dark-haired, youngish woman with watery tan-grey eyes and a pale complexion, clad in a sensible black dress with a frilled collar and pleated sleeves. A stoically no-nonsense stare, slouching posture, and dark circles beneath her eyes all contributed to an air of impatient weariness as she eyed the monster hunter up and down laconically.

Rya - Forum Version.jpg"Oh. It's you."

Rya's voice was as dry and disinterested as ever. Not that this came as any great surprise; Ysilia's assistant always seemed to be in a constant state of slightly exasperated exhaustion. Holding the door open, she stepped back to let Garrod enter. "You do know you could have just ... walked inside? This is an apothecary storefront, not a private home. I don't have time to get up and open the door for every jackass who comes knocking."

At a glance past her, the apothecary's dimly lit interior seemed otherwise empty of patronage. Not that it would have been easy to spot anyone even if they were present; the lack of lighting, coupled with the rows of shelves filled with phials and flasks and the veritable jungle of bundled herbs (both dried and fresh) that hung from walls and ceiling alike, left the interior of the Ashrose seeming like nothing so much as a mysterious, shadowy maze looking to ensnare those who entered. Even the large, brass-framed bay window that looked out on the street barely let in any light, framed and filled as it was with countless crawling vines and potted plants of every imaginable variety that almost entirely obscured it.

The vast bouquet of aromas that wafted out to meet Garrod as he entered were, if anything, even more indescribable and bewildering than the shop's appearance, seemingly consisting of every possible variety known to man. The crisp, minty odor of featherwort mingled with the cloying sweetness of witherbalm; the bitter reek of gloamweed was mellowed by the gentle spice of fennel; the rich, syrupy musk of glothrul oil merged with the sharp tang of cinnabar and the subtle, earthy fragrance of dried arrowroot; and all combined in a plethora of scents and smells both fair and foul alike, leaving the head swimming and the eyes tearing until one grew accustomed to the olfactory deluge.

Rya shut the door behind him with a gentle "click," , plunging the two into relative—though far from absolute—darkness.
"Before you ask, let me guess: you want to talk to Ms. Iliandar, not her shopkeep." As she spoke, the woman stepped back past Garrod, making her way back towards the counter at the back of the store without waiting for him to follow. Upon reaching it, she turned and leaned back against it, crossing her arms with an air of insolence born more of disinterest than disrespect. "Well, she's with a patient right now. So if you want to deal with her, you'll have to wait; otherwise, I'm the best you're getting."
 
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Garrod stared blankly at Rya, and entered once the young woman stepped aside.

"Sorry," he said quietly as his boots knocked loud against the floor. He always forgot how much sound carried in this place. "Next time I'll let myself in," he said absent mindedly, and his eye scanned the shelves that were so well stocked, and his lungs took in full deep breaths. Strange as The Healer was, her shop always seemed to put the spirit at ease.

Seemed to thrum with an unseen power that played the chords of ones soul with a long relieving sorrow. Made all the deeper by the sweet brass chimes that rippled out from far away.


Funny, oh bearer mine, the demon of his gauntlet came in sweet tone. That you would feel so at peace in a place like this. Mingled with death. Mingled blood and bile. The demon laughed its cruel and wicked laugh, and Garrod but marched up to the counter as the door groaned to shut behind him. Its Soft click doing away with the rays of gold-grey light of the outside world.

As Rya spoke, Garrod smirked, and shifted the pack of prizes off of his shoulder. "Bold of you to assume I wasn't here just for you, Rya," he said, and plunked the bag onto the counter, undid the metal buckles, and pooled loose the straps. "I'm always looking for good company, you know," he smiled knowingly, and began to unpack the contents.

Like a practiced merchant, he placed the items neatly upon the flat run of the counter. They were primly wrapped, and even marked with charcoal script. Cockatrice. They all read. Liver, eyes, gizzard, testicles, fire glands, heart.

"Butchered within the week," he said with a bit of salesman's pride. Though it did little to hide the tired from his voice. He put the pack down, though there were still some things stored there in.

"Figured the usual deal would work? " he put his hands on the table. One of which clacked metallic and hard, encased in the bone white armor of his gauntlet. "Discounts on potions according to value of the components, surplus value in exchange for agreed upon coin?" He spoke smooth and practiced, and though he looked tired behind his eye, he wore an easy smile, and was dressed fashionably.
 
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"Bold of you to assume I wasnt here just for you, Rya," he said, and plunked the bag onto the counter, undid the metal buckles, and pooled loose the straps. "Im always looking for good company, you know." He smiled knowingly, and began to unpack the contents.

The look Rya gave the monster hunter was somewhere between distaste and pity. "Good company prefers its own." With that curt retort delivered, she straightened from her leaning position, moving around to the back of the counter and turning her attention to the offered goods, eyes skimming over the labels.

"Figured the usual deal would work?" He put his hands on the table. One of which clacked metallic and hard, encased in the bone white armor of his gauntlet. "Discounts on potions according to value of the components, surplus value in exchange for agreed-upon coin?" He spoke smooth and practiced, and though he looked tired behind his eye, he wore an easy smile, and was dressed fashionably.

Rya nodded slightly in acknowledgment of his words, still inspecting the goods. After another moment's cursory examination, she looked back up at Garrod, setting her elbows on the counter and steepling her fingers. "I'd need to inquire to confirm, but—"

"I may ... have a more ... attractive ... proposition."

The voice that cut off Rya's words was soft and thin, like the whisper of wet silk drawn across a smooth stone; and yet something about it commanded the attention. The assistant closed her mouth at once with a slight nod of respectful greeting towards the frail figure that had approached so silently from the rear of the shop, clad in a dark, indigo-hued dress trimmed with abstract gold embroidery. The hulking shadow of her manservant Alan loomed behind her, scarcely visible in the shadows cast by the countless shelves.

Reaching the counter at her own slow, measured pace, the Blind Healer set a hand against its edge as if to support herself, turning her white-clouded eyes to the monster hunter's face almost as if she could actually see him. Ysilia Iliandar wasn't a particularly imposing figure; her white-blonde hair, thin (albeit coldly beautiful) face and form, and pale complexion all bespoke a certain perpetual frailty, and—given her slightly hunched posture—her head at present sat scarcely 5 feet above the floor.

And yet ... there was something arresting about her. Perhaps it was that curious beauty that years of illness and weakness had failed to quench; perhaps the eerie way in which she seemed almost more aware of others than they were of themselves; perhaps something else entirely. Garrod, for a moment, would find himself caught; uncomfortable in that unseeing gaze, and yet—for at least a few seconds—unable to look away as she spoke.

"There is ... a blight, of sorts ... a sickness, which is tearing through the city. One yet—" A sudden coughing fit cut off the frail woman's words. As the last rasping coughs subsided, she swallowed, her free hand reaching up to massage her own throat gently, before she continued. "Apologies ... but yes. One yet unknown ... even to me."

Reaching out, she placed a thin, bony hand on Garrod's left arm. The alchemist's touch was cold, almost numbing, even through the sleeve of his gambeson. "I've ... a cure, of sorts ... in mind. But ... it shall require your services. The ingredients are ... most hazardous to obtain." The cold spread. It was an almost pleasant feeling, washing away the weariness, leaving only a pleasant numbness in its wake. "And so, in payment ... not only due compensation ... but double the reward from your ... present negotiations ... delivered on your successful return."

This said, Ysilia straightened a bit, though her hand still rested against Garrod's arm; she seemed somehow a bit more energetic, now that she'd said her piece. Sightless eyes remained fixed unseeing upon his as the Blind Healer awaited a response.
 
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Garrod's smile only seemed truer upon hearing Rya's retort. But he wouldn't press the matter. She was working after all, and as much as he wouldn't mind sharing a pot of coffee with her, the barbs had a certain charm too. She set to the counter, and he shift his weight, still easy on the balls of his feet as she mulled things over.

Good product often sold itself. And clients like the Blind Healer were only ever given the best.

It was little coincidence then that from the shadows, She emerged. Like the pale rose evoked by the name of the institution she ran, she stood defiant. Strong. Not despite of the frailty of her figure, or the litheness of her limbs, but all the more because of it. To be stretched so thin and to carry on. Day in and day out with the work so much of Alliria knew she did.

When so many more turned a blind eye to the needs of those less fortunate. The Blind Healer saw to them. Met their needs with kindness, and soft touch.

Yet, when that sightless gaze of hers found him. It never failed to make him feel the weight of his own flesh. The run of his scars. The frail mortality he carried in his spine and in his heart. The demon, so twisted with his being now. He looked away, for to look on longer felt almost a shame. Felt almost like he would sully her.

He listened in silence. A blight, a sickness. Her cough brought his eye onto her, wide with worry, but she carried on. As she always seemed to do. Only allowing herself the smallest comfort of her own touch before she laid her hand onto Garrod's.

Cold. It seemed to pulse out cool across the pool of his flesh. Seemed to seep through his skin. Relaxed him, even as she kept on looking at him. Into him. Even though he knew she could see nothing.

"What will I be hunting?" he asked, as he closed his eye and bowed his head to her in surrender.

It mattered little what waited on the other side.

One thing that so many whispered. In the Shallows, in the taverns of midtown and hightown too. Was the calmness she instilled. Even if she would cut you open and carve out the sickness. You would always feel calm. Cold. Willing.
 
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"Rya."

The assistant straightened from her disinterested slouch.

"Fetch a map." The feeling of cold retreated, leaving a faint exhaustion in its wake.
"Our friend ... has a fulmihive to hunt."


The Tricorn Hills. What a trite, charming name for a relatively unwelcoming and unremarkable landmark.

Such was the thought that might well pass through Garrod's mind as he approached. The surrounding scrubland was largely barren of most any shrub above knee height, and the thus-unfettered wind always seemed to be howling, chapping the lips and watering the eyes, leaving the ears aching from its near-constant whine. In the gathering gloom of the encroaching evening, the smooth outer slopes of the three hills were scarcely more distinct than a single swollen shadow, looming on the horizon like some primeval beast lurking in wait to pounce upon those foolish enough to approach.

Well, at least it was easy to see why folks thought the place was haunted.
 
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Wretched place. But what was the Yaegir to do other than march on. His runeblade for the monsters, his kriegmesser for whatever small and ugly thing popped up to try and surprise him, pack loaded with potions and regends necessary, his belt loaded with those tinctures and salves that would give him the boons needed to take down his quarry.

Still, he could not help but think of the healer, and how even she did not know of the plague that racked the people of Alliria.

It had been on his way out that he came across them. Those who had been afflicted. Near coughing out their lungs, dark stains about their eyes. He had made sure to give them a wide berth. And any other who showed such signs.

You are hearty, Oh Bearer Mine, his demon cooed. Heartier still for having me worn. He could feel the demon smile. But how much it spoke true, and how much was little more than cat's play, Garrod could not say.

He marched on, across the loamy soil, as dust swirled and stirred behind each of his steps. The weight of his sword all the more felt.

For what could, he wondered, cure such a strange and mysterious sickness? Only something as strange as a fulmihive.

Ysilia Iliandar
 
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