Private Tales A Quiet Life

[Pasion Pasiva]

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She happened upon a patch of wildflowers and stopped to examine what was growing. There was a small mat of red clover, which she pulled by the root. It took some care, but she managed to clean off all the little clumps of dirt before putting the plant away in her basket, atop a dense bed of watercress she had picked earlier. Next, she plucked a few dandelions, but just the younger blossoms, which she needed for tea. And lastly, just because they happen to be growing nearby, she picked a handful of wild strawberries. It was nothing inspiring, but she wasn’t disappointed.

Today’s walk into the woods had not been a foraging excursion but a quick trip to check on a particular project. She was attempting to cross-pollinate two very unique flowers – with very distinct qualities. The problem was, that one of the flowers (a snapdragon variety) seemed to only grow and thrive in a particular part of the forest, a very small clearing near a distinct brook. It was a shaded area that made it difficult for the other flower to grow, a marigold that sought out sunlight and warmth. It was troublesome and difficult, but after quite a few attempts, it seemed that some semblance of homeostasis had finally been achieved for both plants.

Alessandra was pleased, for she carried with her the memory of darling buds on the brink of blooming and that of course meant that she was one step closer to seeing her experiment through to fruition. Of course, there was still so much that could go wrong, and there was the rational part of her that knew something was probably going to go wrong, but having gotten this far meant that she could get to this point again, and surely that was half the battle won.

She smiled, so well pleased with herself and her own self-reflections that she decided she deserved a reward and popped one of the ripe, red strawberries right into her mouth, green stem and all. The aroma struck her before the taste, she breathed the fragrance of the fruit and the earth right into her lungs and then felt the sweetness of it melt right onto her tongue, followed quickly by a gentle acidity that made her shudder. She was only going to take a handful, but she couldn’t resist after tasting… Alessandra leaned over and nearly picked the shrub clean of the rest of its berries.

When her greedy little heart was content, and her basket was more than full – and her flowers were crushed under the weight of the berries – she got up and picked up her haul. She dusted off her breeches, soft but fitted black fabric, with a loose tunic on top and a neat leather vest laced up her back and neatly bound. It was a simple outfit, but very well kept. Finished rather fashionably by a nearly new pair of soft-leathered knee-high brown boots. It was by no means the outfit of a wealthy woman, but there were touches of pride here and there – like the silken embroidery at her wrists, a delicate design of wildflowers that added such a delicate and feminine touch to her outfit, or the small golden buttons on her leather vest, which upon close inspection were stamped with an intricate design.

And that was little to say about Alessandra herself, who for a young woman running around the forest and digging through the dirt, appeared impeccably clean. Her long hair carried a sweet smell and was woven into a thick braid, with playful wisps falling free and framing her pale oval face. She was small in stature, but large in presence, especially with how she moved in nature. Every step was full of confidence, like the path underfoot had been traveled hundreds of times before. But perhaps the thing that gave her the most confidence was a simple fact that she was all alone. Ever since Esther died, no one came around these parts. Now that the witch was gone, there was no need for the folks of Vel Anir to come to these parts of Falwood.

So Alessandra was left to her own devices.

She walked the dark forest path alone, carrying her basket with her berries and her flowers. Through the dense canopy of trees, she felt the speckled warmth of sunlight, and closed her eyes for a moment, feeling it soak into her skin. From here, she could hear the rushing of a small creek as it cut its way down her gentle hill. This was a lonely life, but it was her life, and for now, it was the only life she knew – and it was paradise.

Alessandra opened her golden eyes, molten pools of iridescent sunset, and carried on toward her small home.

 

[Melchior]

Scorned by superstition, yet solicited for spells, witches were both wisdom and woe, depending on who tongued the tale.

Oldest of the eaves in Arethil, the expanse of the Falwood was vast, a formidable fortress of foliage, where all manner of beasts found shelter, from elk to elf and everything in-between; but the bounty of buds was not what brought everyone to the forest that day, for another penetrated its perimeter, a being banded in iron, whose footfalls felled flowers without remorse.

Charting a course through the tapestry of trees, as though they had travelled its trails countless times before, the glint of steel could be caught whenever sunlight snaked through the cankered canopy above; a sight which doubtless dispelled the curiosity of any creatures that considered crossing paths with the stranger.

Whilst the average interloper would have grown confounded by the contours of the copse, a thing that transformed as if by magic, when midnight mourned and dawn's first embers burned anew, the way that this individual eluded its entrapment was positively peculiar; a phenomenon which became clearer, when their gait led them inexorably toward Esther's ancient abode.

Blazing amidst the pallid slopes of a porcelain-white face, two coals smouldered an unnatural saffron colour, drinking in nigh invisible emanations of energy, as the witch's enchantments endured, even after her demise, and led a wolf to her doorstep; which Alessandra had now adopted as her own.

Striding forwards, as though the wards which covered the cottage gave them little pause, the figure stepped into the open and revealed a handsome visage, features framed by hair the hue of ebony, which fell like a bleak waterfall to pool upon the shoulders of a suit of obsidian armour. Mysteriously, however, the bladesman didn't burst into the building like some common bandit, but instead employed a respectful posture and carefully rapped their knuckle upon the door; a strange signal of restraint, given how heavily armed they appeared.

“Esther, we need to talk”.

 

[Pasion Pasiva]

She arrived back at the cottage just as the sun rose to its highest point in the sky. There was a light sheen of sweat on her brow, but she did away with it by swiping at her forehead with the back of her sleeve. The heat of the day and the rising moisture of the forest ground had left her red-cheeked and feeling a little lightheaded, but that could have just as easily been because she skipped breakfast. Trekking through the forest wasn’t difficult, and it certainly wasn’t new -- but gone was the woman who scolded after her and managed to bring her back from the threshold of the door whenever she tried to leave without first having, at the very least, a slice of toast with jam or a bowl of oatmeal or soft-boiled egg with salt and pepper neatly sprinkled at its crown.

Esther was gone, and now Alessandra had to actually take care of herself and prove -- to no one in particular -- that she was actually capable of surviving and that she wouldn’t just happen to die tragically due to starvation or dehydration only because she was too plain stupid to remember to eat or drink.

And as she stood there, with her back pressed against the door that she had just opened and closed behind her, she couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with the smallness of the cottage and its utter immensity. She had grown up within the walls of this humble little home, with its beautiful jars full of spices and specimens, its golden-brown apothecary bottles, and its beautiful black, iron cauldrons. This was home, but truly, it had only ever been home so long as Esther was here to build the fire at the hearth, to make the stews they ate for their supper, and bake the bread that they dipped into it.

This was only ever home so long as the witch had been alive -- chanting her spells, casting her hexes, and perfecting her curses. But now that she was gone, the magic was gone along with her, and nothing glittered or glinted as it had before. It was difficult to be here, it was difficult to live here.

“Get it together,” she said aloud to herself, before dropping her basket and moving to the hearth to build a small fire.

She set water to boil and after chopping a handful of spruce tree needles and emptying them into a small mesh bag, she brewed herself some potent evergreen tea. She could only ever choke the stuff down with at least three spoonfuls of honey, but it was tradition to have the Christmassy tea with her afternoon meal, which today, consisted of some toasted bread, sliced cheese, the rest of the wild strawberries she found, and some walnuts she had collected, shelled, and roasted. Esther would be turning in her grave if she saw what Alessandra was having for lunch, but then again, the witch had always believed in fattening up her guests and made quite a show of cooking for any person who happened to call upon her. Alessandra had never understood it, even after Esther explained that it was an attempt to ease people’s ill perception of witchcraft.

It was a sad thing to think about, thought the young woman as she stirred her honey into the tea.

“Esther, we need to talk.”

Alessandra jolted, her big, golden eyes lifting to the closed door of her cottage. Had she been so deep in thought that she had completely failed to notice the arrival of a stranger? Esther was gone, but her protection spells remained. And it wasn’t until now, this very moment, that Alessandra noticed the wild fluttering of the multi-colored butterflies that were held captive within a massive glass jar, atop of a table, off to the side in a small reading nook that would have otherwise been overlooked -- if not for the mad flurry of iridescent wings. It was supposed to be a silent alarm, but she had completely ignored it.

Again she looked at the door.

It had been months since Esther's death. It had been weeks since the last person came looking for her. A deep frown pressed between Alesandra’s lovely brows, and her full lips set into a severe line. She got up, ignoring her lunch -- and the grumbling complaints of her stomach -- and walked to the door. Carefully, she adjusted her vest, pulled on her sleeves, smoothed back her hair, pushed back any loose strands behind her ears, and then opened the door.

She was not prepared for what she saw and it showed on her face.

Her eyes widened and her severe expression faltered -- her lips parted just a whisper. She looked confused, then utterly taken aback. The creature, for surely she could not call him a man, looked at her through crimson eyes. He was dressed for war, and this was perhaps the most alarming thing of all.

Alessandra blinked and closed her mouth, then shook her head as if she finally found her faculties again -- truth was, she had never seen a man more glorious than this, but then again, she had not seen many men in her short life.

“Traveler, I am sorry… I regret to inform you that,” she paused, she held on to the door, which she had not finished opening all the way -- she somewhat hid behind it now, “I am sorry to say that, Esther has passed and is no longer with us.”

On the other side of the door, the side he could not see, her right hand gripped at the doorknob. She clung to it so hard that her knuckles were turning white from the pressure. Until at last, she forced herself to let go and relax, to drop her hand away and step back and fully open the door.

“You must be tired, can I offer you a drink of water? Tea perhaps?”

She could not be certain how the stranger would take the news, but in moments of doubt she could rely on one thing -- what Esther had taught her, and there had been no doubt on what the old witch thought regarding hospitality.

 

[Melchior]

Memory is a noose by which men hang; events either slay them once, or they are ever haunted by surviving them.

The woman's words, welcoming as they were eventually, initially hit home like a hammer to his heart, a blow that bludgeoned his breast more readily than any mace upon the field of war; as emotion etched its way across his features, and lips twisted into a tortured grimace, before all sentiment slipped away once more.

'No', he managed, more in answer to her first statement than the second, stumbling forward in her wake as she bade him enter and the door swung aside; his weight resounding upon the fresh-swept floorboards, as his gaze teased the truth from the witches' wares, still arrayed across the room's interior. Their magic is fading, he realized, naught but dwindling sparks, where once storms of sorcery dwelt; as potion and poultice lost their potency and left residual echoes of the lives Esther once eased.

Stunned into silence, at least temporarily, he didn't immediately indulge upon Alessandra's hospitality, but instead simply sank onto a nearby stool, as his head swam and his thoughts floundered; after all how could he express what the Witch had meant to him, the crone whose kindness had quelled his curse.

He had met her many moons ago, a maiden whose magic was in its prime, yet a healer harried by the hounds of the law; an enchantress whose expertise was deemed unholy, which the authorities sought to silence, through the dispatch of guards and a swift blade. Melchior had been assigned to that contingent,a magus whose abilities didn't just assail spellcraft, they annihilated it; a force so destructive, he was little more than a leashed dog, until his masters loosed him upon their foes.

That encounter in the woods had faded from records now, but the warrior remembered it well, the time when a woman had pierced him with her insight and he'd turned his talents toward protecting her instead. They never found the bodies, never ransacked the report that a badly burned blackguard returned with, but he had visited her every thirty years since that night, and together they had found a way to contain his curse, to dampen the danger he posed to the world.

Snapping back to the present, as if emerging out of some forlorn fever-dream, he found his gauntleted fingertips tracing the folds of the figure carved upon his shield, a bright-haired beauty, encircled by all manner of monsters; whose flesh yet lay flawless in the midst of such madness. Whether this portrait depicted Esther, or merely a maiden moulded by the brush-strokes of youth, it was hard to say, but Melchior drew strength from it none the less, a serenity which allowed him to properly survey his surroundings once more.

Alessandra was a stranger, a woman wreathed in black breeches, whose features bore trepidation, but also the warmth of the Witch as well; an expression which, coupled with the fact she apparently dwelt in Esther's domicile, caused him to afford her a measure of trust, as he finally answered her question. 'I need the mandrake and wolfsbane brew', he proclaimed, pointing with an outstretched hand toward a corner of the cabin, 'Esther kept a lockbox in a hidden hole there, it will explain what must be done'.

He could only hope that she would heed his request, could only pray that the Witch's legacy had not died with her, but instead found another host to heal the devil that dwelt within him.