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

[Aurelie Dankworth]

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]

"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]

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.