Spiriting of the Flower Court IV (Part 1)

Spiriting of the Flower Court
IV: Witch meets a band of drunkards

A lone wanderer made her way down the ill-kept path eastward. This was one of many smaller roads – if they could be called that – that connected the hinterlands of western Lote with the Imperial Highways that led toward the capital. Few knew it existed aside from those who lived nearby, and even fewer cared enough to maintain it – yet Witch had taken this road when she made her way here earlier during the year, and she saw no reason to take a different path on the way back. She didn't like the highway – it was too crowded, too big. “Winds unusually cold for this time, Winter,” she mused. To anyone but her eyes, she seemed to be speaking simply to herself; she, however, could clearly see the pale figure separating from her body, drifting out to hover beside her. “INDEED. I HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH IT, BUT I APPRECIATE THE FACT. I RECOMMEND LEAVING AN OFFERING FOR MY COLLEAGUES IN THE AREA, SHOULD WE FIND THEM.” Witch nodded – there was yet much of the nuances in the spirits' ways that she did not understand yet, even after having the Winter King by her side for five years. His advice was vital if she was to see the truth of the other side of the world, along with that of her own side – the side of the living.

The sun was slowly finding its way down toward the horizon behind her, where the long open fields of Ayo would catch the waning sunlight after it had left Lote in shadow. Witch peered into the distance ahead, where she could faintly see the last rays of sunlight hovering on the mountains in the east. “We should find someplace to set up camp for the night. There should be a suitable site not far ahead, if I remember the area right.” The Winter King did a gesture that she'd learned was his idea of a nod, and his presence slid back inside of her body. It had been strange in the beginning, letting the spirits use her as an anchor to the material world; now, it was as natural as breathing. She strode on into the encroaching twilight, trying to remember what she could from the last time she was here.

It didn't take her too long to find the place she had in mind. Unlike her expectation, however, it wasn't simply a slightly more summery version of the small, snow-covered clearing she'd made camp in on her way west. It was a considerably more summery version of it, complete with a gaggle of noise and light. Someone else was also taking this path tonight, it seemed – and there were quite a few of them, too. Witch's ears twitched a little. It was going to be noisy and uncomfortable, sharing a campsite with this many people. Perhaps she could veer off, find another spot, go into the woods – but no, that would be a foolish idea. Besides, she was heading to the capital anyway. She had to get used to crowds at some point, and now was as good a time as any. “Besides,” she mused aloud, “it is never a bad time to offer aid to the wounded, and guidance to the lost.” She stepped forward, out of the vanishing dusk and into the torchlight.

-/-/-/

The sheep were not in the best of moods tonight. While setting up camp one of them had gotten into a tussle with an angry boar, and failed to get out in a timely manner before getting himself an ugly gash from its tusks. Illaria had been pushing her flock lately, and she knew they weren't really in a shape to follow her pace when she did – sore and sprained feet were dime a dozen in her little band, and one or two were getting past the point where she could let them ignore it – but she knew they had to keep pushing if they were to reach Lote's capital in time. Oh, ignore it they would, for as long as they had their shepherd with them, they would go on until their legs gave out. But they would cry pain, and need her to calm them every step they took; and she would be as drunk on their suffering as they would be on the wine they'd need to keep going.  At the rate things was going, the wine would not last another week.

That was BAD, and Illaria dreaded the prospect of having to make the last leg of the journey on water alone. Still, for now there was yet wine to be had, and her flock could yet walk – more or less – and so the future problems she could do nothing about, she paid no heed to think about either. They had made camp well before the evening came, and now Illaria was 'seated' in a fleshy heap of bleating sheep, spilling as much wine on each other as they managed to get down their throats. The newest of her flock, a young elven boy, was curled up around her legs – more like a cat than a sheep – and Illaria intended to have him drunk like a sod and crying himself to sleep at her side tonight. As twilight gave way to evening the revelry of the dark would come and go, as it had every night of their journey before.

Or so she thought, at least, until her slitted eyes spotted an unfamiliar figure at the edge of their camp, approaching slowly. Illaria blinked a few times before realizing what was afoot, and unceremoniously shoved the catlike elf aside so she could get up. A few painful groans made themselves heard above the din of intoxicated laughter as she had to step on a few limbs to get down on the ground – and her hooves were not exactly all too kind to bare skin – but she paid them no heed. “Get up, you lot,” she barked at the unseemly gathering of half-naked bodies spread out on the ground. “We've got a visitor.” A few confused moans rose from the flock, but she knew she couldn't expect much more than that from them all too quickly. She peered towards the figure, who had stopped just at the edge of the little ring of haphazard torches that they'd set up – she wondered idly if they had not intruded unbidden out of courtesy, or because they had no wish to approach such a den of brazen debauchery. “Well, only one way to find out.” Illaria set off, hooves not-quite managing to clop against the hard-packed, dry dirt beneath them. She did not bother to fetch her cloak – it was to warm for that anyway, and she hadn't quite begun tonight's feast just yet. She was still mostly decent, and if her visitor could be better lured to join them by feasting on a bit of showing skin, Illaria was all too happy to provide them that pleasure. She did make sure her decidedly non-goatlike tail was properly tucked inside her skirt, however – there was no need to give the newcomer any strange ideas that might scare them away.

The first thing that struck her as she came close enough to get a good look of their visitor was a sense of disappointment. She had seen the eyes of broken men all too many times to not recognize it at a glance – and just the same she knew what someone who was firmly on the other side of that spectrum looked like. Those who sought her and joined her flock were the damaged, the haunted, the burned out ashes of broken spirits; the woman who stood in front of her was in every word the antithesis of that. Her eyes were calm, stern and serious; if the spirit behind them had ever been broken, it had been firmly put back together again. This one was unlikely to be someone who would join her flock, sad as it was – but such was life, and it wasn't anything that could be fixed by Illaria's hands.

The second thing that struck her was, oddly enough, a sense of familiarity. It puzzled Illaria; the woman's clothes were mostly clean and well-kept where her own were travel-worn and disheveled, she seemed no worse for wear where Illaria was gradually starting to feel the pains of the road, and her body was decidedly human where Illaria's was an obvious mishmash of unmatched parts. It was only her hair – jaggedly split down the middle between blackish purple and platinum blonde – that drew Illaria's eye, but she couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it than that. Or, for that matter, her sudden desire to check if the split was the same downstairs; now THAT would make an interesting feast indeed. “Well, good evening, lady,” she called out as she came close, taking stock of the newcomer once more. “I am but a humble shepherd, and this sad bunch is my flock. Would you like to join in our feast tonight?”

The woman was silent for a moment, and her eyes wandered to the side as a chilly gust of wind hit them, ruffling Illaria's hair and making it even more disheveled than before. Then she spoke, with curiously melodic accent. “I am not much for feasts, shepherd, but I would not mind sharing camp with you in this clearing tonight. As is customary, I shall be sure to pay my share of the price. If you have those living who are wounded, or those who are mourning their dead, I would lend my aid to them.”

It took Illaria a few seconds to figure out what she meant; but when she did she took a step forward on impulse, forgetting to contain her excitement. “You are a healer, then? I'm afraid we have little to offer in return except wine and merriment, but you and your aid would be most welcome – many of my sheep are quite worn from the journey, I fear, and one of them has suffered a quite ugly wound.” The misstep was already done, but if she could turn it into a more charming advance, it would be two steps forward to make up for it. She closed the few remaining steps between them as she spoke and grasped the woman's arm, embracing it with as much of her chest as she could manage. “If you would tend to them, you would have our most...sincere gratitude.”

The woman regarded her with a clearly puzzled look – and there it was again, her eyes drifted off in the distance while Illaria was talking to her – but then she gave her something that could possibly have been intended as a smile, and tightly grasped both of Illaria's hands with her own; this had the possibly unintended effect of pressing their bodies together, with only a few sheets of fabric between their skin, and despite the other woman being half a head taller their faces were barely an inch apart. Illaria was not generally one to be conscious of such things, but she quite frankly wasn't very used to others making aggressive moves on her. “Then I shall accept your offer of, hospitality, for the night. My powers are at your perusal best they can serve.” They were locked in the impromptu embrace for a few seconds, and Illaria was starting to feel a bit awkward when the other woman spoke up once more. “Oh, and if you happen to have anyone, a cook, with you, I would highly appreciate his service. It has, um, been a time since I had the opportunity to make anything more substantial.”

It was clear to Illaria that the woman was not going to be the one to release the embrace, and she was starting to feel decidedly silly standing there – so she spun out of her grip and started leading her by the hand toward the center of the camp, just to have an excuse to start moving. “Oh, I think you will certainly find something that suits your fancy, one way or another. My name is Illaria, dear – may I ask yours?”

The woman shuddered to a halt, and Illaria turned around somewhat impatiently. She was certain of it now, the woman was seeing things that were invisible to Illaria's eyes; she traced movements in the air and opened her mouth as if to say something, before snapping it shut and shaking her head. It took her several seconds before she was looking Illaria in the eyes, and this time she could certainly see a hint of an old, aching wound in the woman's face; mostly healed or simply forgotten, but very definitely there. “My name I sold to the King of Words. I had no fondness of it then, and I have no memory of it anymore. Now, I am simply the Witch of Harwell.” She spoke with an obvious intonation, as if the term was something she expected Illaria to recognize. When she got no response, she gave a slight shrug, and grasped Illaria's hand once more. “I would like to see someplace for me to set my tent, Illaria. Could you show me one?” Illaria blinked a few times, before nodding and setting off towards a yet-unoccupied part of the clearing with the self-proclaimed Witch in tow. This seemed like it was going to be quite an interesting night.