- Messages
- 5
- Character Biography
- Link
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.
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.
