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4th of Ymiden, 717
Clink, clink, clink. It was the sound of the myrta buds as they hit the walls of the glass vial, dried to perfection and ready to be worked. “Vastly unnecessary.” Would have been the observation from Baynard if he were minding her gentle shake of the vial. But he was not minding her, instead occupied with his own business. Besides, Keegan rather liked the sound. Such a delicate noise, hiding such a vastly indelicate secret. The vial was uncorked and three buds were shaken into the ceramic bowl, followed by a pause. Three? A brief glance to the marked page beside her confirmed this, and the vial was promptly fastened and put back into it’s place.
The pestle hit the belly of the bowl, rolling into it’s surface with familiar flicks of her wrist. The task was nearly automatic in process, and while her hands were occupied blue eyes flicked to the small beaker atop the brazier. The liquid bubbled and blistered within the glass, but it was not the sight of it that caused the twist of concern in the woman’s expression, but the smell. Nightshade emitted a musky and bitter aroma when it was concentrated, a smell Keegan knew would cause her grief if she allowed it to fester any longer. A quick shuffle to the window remedied that, unclasping the lock and pushing the window free of it’s frame. The air outside was already sticky with humidity, Ymiden's arrival making itself well aware, even this early in the trial.
A thick breeze rolled in through the window, and the woman suddenly realized how deeply she had missed Rhakros' hot cycles. It was the oppressing heat, heavy and persistent in it’s demand for attention. Ymiden was overbearing and a force to be reckoned with, and carrying such an impact on it’s resident’s that life in the city not only slowed down for the season, but surrendered in rest for an entire trial.
But she had digressed.
A few sprigs of grapevine were shoved into the coals at the brazier’s hearth, and now with both smell and risk alleviated, the woman returned back to her workstation. Her fingers curled back around the pestle, knuckles whitening as the myrta buds were grinded against the side of the mortar. It was easy to fall into automation at the mortar and pestle, and she allowed muscle memory to take the lead. Time slowed, and Keegan had drifted, past nightshade and myrta buds. Instead getting lost in that passive focus, finding that delicious trance that her craft often gifted her.
She was a gaunt woman, petite in definition by those who were polite, malnourished by those who were honest. A fair complexion marked her as a girl who was ill-suited for the harshness of the jungle suns, so it was a convenience that Keegan did not often venture outside the safety of these four walls. Her expression turned soft then, and she was swept up and away by the allure of creation, finding peace in the craft of making.
CLACK, CLACK, CLACK.
Keegan jumped, sucking in a startled gasp. If there was one thing she loathed more than being interrupted, it was being surprised. Her eyes flicked to the head of the room, passing the weathered door a glance with a cutting sharpness, her lips pursing into a thin line. What was so demanding of her attention that someone would venture to the outskirts of the city, her quiet corner, on the trial of Ymiden’s entry nonetheless?
She was just two paces away when another knock from the door came, this time rapping in quick succession. The door was swung open, producing a greying woman with kind eyes and a simple looking man behind her, perhaps not much younger than Keegan herself but twice as large.
”We’re closed.” The words were delivered curt, Keegan's shoulders gliding back and down as they often did when she was feeling especially sore about something. It was Ymiden’s Entry, a day of rest. And now she was having to exhaust herself with conversation.
But the grey woman was either stupid or insolent, and she did not heed the girl’s warning. ”Please Miss, it’s my son, he is ill. His cousin and he were in the jungles last suns fall, and something, something, it —“ But Keegan had stopped listening, instead watching the man teeter and totter behind her. What was at first glance assumed as simplemindedness was not in fact, a correct diagnosis. His right side was in the first stages of paralysis, with his stupid looking mouth and an eyelid that was drooping so heavily it was not so out of place to assume he was just afflicted with a a feeble mind. He rocked back and forward, intoxicated surely, but not from liquor. The woman continued sputtering, Keegan brushing her aside to put the back of her hand against the man’s forehead. He ran warm, and for the briefest of moments the girl's heart fluttered. Was this last season’s beta, perfectly paralyzing, marvelously mindnumbing and out in the wild? She would need to study him surely, confirm his dosage, check for other symptoms —
But the intrigue was cut short as the man swayed to the side, revealing a swollen purple sting on the side of his neck. The Sandman’s wasp, and very far from the beta Keegan was so desperately hoping for. She straightened suddenly, mild interest painted over and replaced with the woman’s characteristic coldness. She did little too hide her displeasure, disappointment washing over her with a gentle sigh.
”— do you have something for it? Will he be alright?” It was the panicked woman. They were not Rhakrosii, that much was apparent, though Kee was not familiar with the raspy accent.
”No.” It was a lie, a punishment for the mid-morning interruption for a fekking Sandman’s wasp sting. The wasp was hardly fatal on a man of his size. At best, it would still him for two breaks, but it was more likely he would not even reach third stage paralysis before his symptoms began to lighten. Foolish, stupid foreigner.
”I’m sorry for your loss.” And the door was closed swiftly behind her, closing with a thud and leaving the pair to their trial.
She was halfway to her station when Baynard announced himself. ”You have a wickedness inside you.”
The nightshade beaker was removed from it’s heat, and Keegan would allow it to cool before she fussed with it further. It bubbled a deep purple, the concentrated petals nearly gelatinous after several break’s worth of thickening.
”Do not expend it’s flame before you learn why you have been blessed with it.”
The comment washed over her, Keegan minding the myrta dust now. She was shuffling it from the mortar to it’s own vial when a gust of breeze let in, catching the myrta and sending the particles airborne. She whipped her head to the left in hopes of evading it, but not before a bitter taste found residence in her mouth.
”Wear a mask, child.” Was Baynard’s comment, though his head did not lift from his book. ”And fetch me the hedge root.”
But she did not hear him, distracted by the acrid taste in her mouth and the smug cloud of myrta dust. Had she been a patient woman, she would have fitted herself with the cloth mask hanging from her chair. But Keegan was not a patient woman, and now her gums were numb and her head was light. It was not the first time Keegan had been foolish with her work, and it certainly would not be the last.
”Why me.” There was an unwilling sense of euphoria, and despite the will to push it away, Kee felt… Carefree. The question would not have evolved past casual thought otherwise. After all, she was not particularly gifted, nor was she particularly pretty. A small portion of myrta dust was sprinkled over the nightshade, the rest corked and shelved. Too much, and one was risked with permanent nerve damage, too little, and the the numbing effect would be lackluster at best. Paired with the nightshade’s paralysis, one would possess an ideal injection for minor surgery. However the man who had contracted the pair for the injection looked far from doctorly.
”Why not a wealthy child? An educated one?” The myrta was stirred. She wanted to hear that he saw something special in her. She wanted to hear that he knew she was the one the moment he laid his old eyes on her, so many arcs ago. Keegan wanted to hear many things from Barlow Baynard, but today would not be the time for them.
”You were cheap.” He said candidly, his aging eyes still refusing to leave his book. Kee had spun on her heel to view him by now, and a wrinkled hand gestured at her impatiently. ”Hedge root child, and for gods sake wear a fekking mask. Myrta turns you into a damned fool.”
Clink, clink, clink. It was the sound of the myrta buds as they hit the walls of the glass vial, dried to perfection and ready to be worked. “Vastly unnecessary.” Would have been the observation from Baynard if he were minding her gentle shake of the vial. But he was not minding her, instead occupied with his own business. Besides, Keegan rather liked the sound. Such a delicate noise, hiding such a vastly indelicate secret. The vial was uncorked and three buds were shaken into the ceramic bowl, followed by a pause. Three? A brief glance to the marked page beside her confirmed this, and the vial was promptly fastened and put back into it’s place.
The pestle hit the belly of the bowl, rolling into it’s surface with familiar flicks of her wrist. The task was nearly automatic in process, and while her hands were occupied blue eyes flicked to the small beaker atop the brazier. The liquid bubbled and blistered within the glass, but it was not the sight of it that caused the twist of concern in the woman’s expression, but the smell. Nightshade emitted a musky and bitter aroma when it was concentrated, a smell Keegan knew would cause her grief if she allowed it to fester any longer. A quick shuffle to the window remedied that, unclasping the lock and pushing the window free of it’s frame. The air outside was already sticky with humidity, Ymiden's arrival making itself well aware, even this early in the trial.
A thick breeze rolled in through the window, and the woman suddenly realized how deeply she had missed Rhakros' hot cycles. It was the oppressing heat, heavy and persistent in it’s demand for attention. Ymiden was overbearing and a force to be reckoned with, and carrying such an impact on it’s resident’s that life in the city not only slowed down for the season, but surrendered in rest for an entire trial.
But she had digressed.
A few sprigs of grapevine were shoved into the coals at the brazier’s hearth, and now with both smell and risk alleviated, the woman returned back to her workstation. Her fingers curled back around the pestle, knuckles whitening as the myrta buds were grinded against the side of the mortar. It was easy to fall into automation at the mortar and pestle, and she allowed muscle memory to take the lead. Time slowed, and Keegan had drifted, past nightshade and myrta buds. Instead getting lost in that passive focus, finding that delicious trance that her craft often gifted her.
She was a gaunt woman, petite in definition by those who were polite, malnourished by those who were honest. A fair complexion marked her as a girl who was ill-suited for the harshness of the jungle suns, so it was a convenience that Keegan did not often venture outside the safety of these four walls. Her expression turned soft then, and she was swept up and away by the allure of creation, finding peace in the craft of making.
CLACK, CLACK, CLACK.
Keegan jumped, sucking in a startled gasp. If there was one thing she loathed more than being interrupted, it was being surprised. Her eyes flicked to the head of the room, passing the weathered door a glance with a cutting sharpness, her lips pursing into a thin line. What was so demanding of her attention that someone would venture to the outskirts of the city, her quiet corner, on the trial of Ymiden’s entry nonetheless?
She was just two paces away when another knock from the door came, this time rapping in quick succession. The door was swung open, producing a greying woman with kind eyes and a simple looking man behind her, perhaps not much younger than Keegan herself but twice as large.
”We’re closed.” The words were delivered curt, Keegan's shoulders gliding back and down as they often did when she was feeling especially sore about something. It was Ymiden’s Entry, a day of rest. And now she was having to exhaust herself with conversation.
But the grey woman was either stupid or insolent, and she did not heed the girl’s warning. ”Please Miss, it’s my son, he is ill. His cousin and he were in the jungles last suns fall, and something, something, it —“ But Keegan had stopped listening, instead watching the man teeter and totter behind her. What was at first glance assumed as simplemindedness was not in fact, a correct diagnosis. His right side was in the first stages of paralysis, with his stupid looking mouth and an eyelid that was drooping so heavily it was not so out of place to assume he was just afflicted with a a feeble mind. He rocked back and forward, intoxicated surely, but not from liquor. The woman continued sputtering, Keegan brushing her aside to put the back of her hand against the man’s forehead. He ran warm, and for the briefest of moments the girl's heart fluttered. Was this last season’s beta, perfectly paralyzing, marvelously mindnumbing and out in the wild? She would need to study him surely, confirm his dosage, check for other symptoms —
But the intrigue was cut short as the man swayed to the side, revealing a swollen purple sting on the side of his neck. The Sandman’s wasp, and very far from the beta Keegan was so desperately hoping for. She straightened suddenly, mild interest painted over and replaced with the woman’s characteristic coldness. She did little too hide her displeasure, disappointment washing over her with a gentle sigh.
”— do you have something for it? Will he be alright?” It was the panicked woman. They were not Rhakrosii, that much was apparent, though Kee was not familiar with the raspy accent.
”No.” It was a lie, a punishment for the mid-morning interruption for a fekking Sandman’s wasp sting. The wasp was hardly fatal on a man of his size. At best, it would still him for two breaks, but it was more likely he would not even reach third stage paralysis before his symptoms began to lighten. Foolish, stupid foreigner.
”I’m sorry for your loss.” And the door was closed swiftly behind her, closing with a thud and leaving the pair to their trial.
She was halfway to her station when Baynard announced himself. ”You have a wickedness inside you.”
The nightshade beaker was removed from it’s heat, and Keegan would allow it to cool before she fussed with it further. It bubbled a deep purple, the concentrated petals nearly gelatinous after several break’s worth of thickening.
”Do not expend it’s flame before you learn why you have been blessed with it.”
The comment washed over her, Keegan minding the myrta dust now. She was shuffling it from the mortar to it’s own vial when a gust of breeze let in, catching the myrta and sending the particles airborne. She whipped her head to the left in hopes of evading it, but not before a bitter taste found residence in her mouth.
”Wear a mask, child.” Was Baynard’s comment, though his head did not lift from his book. ”And fetch me the hedge root.”
But she did not hear him, distracted by the acrid taste in her mouth and the smug cloud of myrta dust. Had she been a patient woman, she would have fitted herself with the cloth mask hanging from her chair. But Keegan was not a patient woman, and now her gums were numb and her head was light. It was not the first time Keegan had been foolish with her work, and it certainly would not be the last.
”Why me.” There was an unwilling sense of euphoria, and despite the will to push it away, Kee felt… Carefree. The question would not have evolved past casual thought otherwise. After all, she was not particularly gifted, nor was she particularly pretty. A small portion of myrta dust was sprinkled over the nightshade, the rest corked and shelved. Too much, and one was risked with permanent nerve damage, too little, and the the numbing effect would be lackluster at best. Paired with the nightshade’s paralysis, one would possess an ideal injection for minor surgery. However the man who had contracted the pair for the injection looked far from doctorly.
”Why not a wealthy child? An educated one?” The myrta was stirred. She wanted to hear that he saw something special in her. She wanted to hear that he knew she was the one the moment he laid his old eyes on her, so many arcs ago. Keegan wanted to hear many things from Barlow Baynard, but today would not be the time for them.
”You were cheap.” He said candidly, his aging eyes still refusing to leave his book. Kee had spun on her heel to view him by now, and a wrinkled hand gestured at her impatiently. ”Hedge root child, and for gods sake wear a fekking mask. Myrta turns you into a damned fool.”
