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.

 

[Baise]

“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.

“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."

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

"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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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.

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.

“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.”

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.”

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]

“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.

"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.

"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.

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

. “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.