16th of Ymiden, Dusk
The air was still.
The poisoner sat at her work desk, back erect, knees pressed tightly together. It was her favorite time of trial, when the harshest of the suns light surrendered to the night, only the most ambitious of rays still peeking through the small window at her back. She favored dusk because the air was still. The street was quiet. And Flower was in full bloom.
The Venus fly trap stood in the left most corner, just beside the raven feather quill and inkwell. Flower was a petite example of her species, housed in an aptly petite clay pot. It was dusk now, and so the flytrap's mouth yawned wide and waiting. Hungry. Patient.
Keegan extracted the tweezers from her tool belt, pinching the deceased from it’s shallow dish. She had lifted the fly to eye level when her fingers started to tremble, shaking with such a fever that sent chills up her spine. It consumed her quickly most nights, the chills threatening her steady hand and numbing a usually sharp mind. A cursory glance toward the claw footed clock confirmed it’s arrival, and the fly was surrendered back to it’s dish. Keegan set the tweezers to the mahogany, to the left of the dish, never to the right.
”You will need to wait, Flower.” Gaunt hands busied themselves against a sea of glass jars, and a clear liquid was recovered. Keegan promptly uncorked it, a dirtied rag set tight against it’s mouth. A quick shake, one, two, and three was all that was required, and her prescription was hidden back away just as quickly as it had been proffered. It was the stained rag that was pressed against her face now, Keegan inhaling deeply, eyes half lidded in anticipation.
It was just a moment, or maybe ten before she was herself again. Hand steady. Mind centered.
Her second attempt tweezing the fly was much more successful, clasping it’s tiny body with a sort of refined elegance, or at least as posh as you could tweeze a fly. It was placed in Flower’s open mouth, and Kee leaned in.
Watching.
Waiting.
But the flytrap remained just as still as the air. Another moment passed before she spoke, allowing the plant a change of heart... But there was nothing. ”The dead ones do not suit you, Flower.” She crooned, the words rolling off the tip of her tongue slowly, as if she were toying with the syllables.
”They do not suit me, either.” She did not fault the flytrap, as it could not be very satisfying to toy with something that did not play back. The dead, after all, would not struggle or wail. The dead were not much of a reminder of life, when all they could ever be were as still as the air.
”I will find you something that will fight.” And with that, the mousy woman with the tangled blonde hair and the bony shoulders would dismiss her work desk, slipping on a pair of leather sandals and leaving the confines of her studio.
The air was still.
The poisoner sat at her work desk, back erect, knees pressed tightly together. It was her favorite time of trial, when the harshest of the suns light surrendered to the night, only the most ambitious of rays still peeking through the small window at her back. She favored dusk because the air was still. The street was quiet. And Flower was in full bloom.
The Venus fly trap stood in the left most corner, just beside the raven feather quill and inkwell. Flower was a petite example of her species, housed in an aptly petite clay pot. It was dusk now, and so the flytrap's mouth yawned wide and waiting. Hungry. Patient.
Keegan extracted the tweezers from her tool belt, pinching the deceased from it’s shallow dish. She had lifted the fly to eye level when her fingers started to tremble, shaking with such a fever that sent chills up her spine. It consumed her quickly most nights, the chills threatening her steady hand and numbing a usually sharp mind. A cursory glance toward the claw footed clock confirmed it’s arrival, and the fly was surrendered back to it’s dish. Keegan set the tweezers to the mahogany, to the left of the dish, never to the right.
”You will need to wait, Flower.” Gaunt hands busied themselves against a sea of glass jars, and a clear liquid was recovered. Keegan promptly uncorked it, a dirtied rag set tight against it’s mouth. A quick shake, one, two, and three was all that was required, and her prescription was hidden back away just as quickly as it had been proffered. It was the stained rag that was pressed against her face now, Keegan inhaling deeply, eyes half lidded in anticipation.
It was just a moment, or maybe ten before she was herself again. Hand steady. Mind centered.
Her second attempt tweezing the fly was much more successful, clasping it’s tiny body with a sort of refined elegance, or at least as posh as you could tweeze a fly. It was placed in Flower’s open mouth, and Kee leaned in.
Watching.
Waiting.
But the flytrap remained just as still as the air. Another moment passed before she spoke, allowing the plant a change of heart... But there was nothing. ”The dead ones do not suit you, Flower.” She crooned, the words rolling off the tip of her tongue slowly, as if she were toying with the syllables.
”They do not suit me, either.” She did not fault the flytrap, as it could not be very satisfying to toy with something that did not play back. The dead, after all, would not struggle or wail. The dead were not much of a reminder of life, when all they could ever be were as still as the air.
”I will find you something that will fight.” And with that, the mousy woman with the tangled blonde hair and the bony shoulders would dismiss her work desk, slipping on a pair of leather sandals and leaving the confines of her studio.
