The Witch of Felwood
Log Info
- Title: The Witch of Felwood
- Emitter: Aimarra
- Characters: Sjach, Thorn, Aimarra, Alba
- Place: W01: Wilderness Pointe
- Time: Saturday, January 02, 2021, 12:12 AM
- Summary: Several adventurers meet up at the medicine shop at Wilderness Pointe. Alba makes a rare apperance, meeting others from Alexandria.
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Wilderness Point is the last-ditch point of civilisation before the great northern woods. It stands as a last bastion of trade, and a hub of activity between hunters, traders, and townsfolk.
A fairly wide path, flanked on either side by shallow ditches and tall trees, makes its way into the village from the southern roads, whose borders are outlined by a low stone wall. Sections of the wall have fallen apart here and there. At this point, it's more of a decoration than anything else.
The largest building in the village is an inn, a sign hanging over its door reading 'Wayfarer's Inn'. Its stone chimney has a thin wisp of smoke drifting off into the sky overhead.
At the center of the town is the Hunter's Market, beyond which the town ends along the river's banks, with the ferry providing passage to the other side.
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Appearing -=-=-=-=-=-=-= Sjach 7'0" 268 Lb Sith-Makar Male Lithe emerald and charcoal sith male. Thorn 5'5" 130 Lb Half-Elf Male Wild-looking half-sil. Aimarra 5'1" 128 Lb Half-Elf Female Brown hair and eyes, breastplate, leathers, pointed ears. Alba ??? ??? Lb ??? Female A skull-masked witch covered in moss and tentacles. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Sjach is back in Wilderness Pointe! The Emerald-and-charcoal Sith-Makar has a bundle of furs over his back, rolled up and tied neatly. He also has a brand new pair of moccasins- of a sort. His long, curved toe-claws poke through the front of them, but they at least protect the pads of his toes from the snow. He makes his way towards a merchant he met here before- a kindly older lady who gave him a fair price for his furs despite his naivete. The Sith makar is currently discussing with the lady whether she will buy them from him. He manages to get a few coins for his goods, and then makes his way over towards another vendor- to this one, he begins bargaining over a supply of pemmican he wishes to sell.
Thorn isn't bothering to stay at the inn. He's just on the very edge of town, in a thicket of trees. He has a campfire going, a pile of freshly-cut wild greens, tubers, and herbs dug out of the snow, and a skinned rabbit hanging off of a tree branch - and his only real concession to the weather seems to be a pair of short boots and that he's wearing a heavy animal fur like a cloak and pinned at his collarbone with a brooch. He's casually feeding... bits to an enormous noodly ferret perched on his shoulder. "Inns are expensive, Bastard. The woods are free."
Aimarra, on the other hand, is standing _inside_ the door to the herbal shop, thank you very much. Familiarity with the wild places does not make a desert-born girl love the pure nastiness of Dana's whim this afternoon, an icy sleet that rolls off of oiled skins and roofs alike to patter and bounce on the hardened ground below. She wears a distinctly unhappy look, warm worsted layers over her usual shirt and beneath the breastplate, gloves, hat, and the hood of her traveler's cloak pulled up over all.
Often, the Witch of the Felwoods sneers at Alexandrians in general, if only in the privacy of her own mind. A land vastly richer in water than the Dune Seas could ever hope to be, is bound to produce soft, feckless, greedy folk as a consequence.
And somehow when winter hits, it's *always* a surprise, and *always* a vastly unpleasant one. Take today, for example; icy rain and sleet to make the ground a trap-ridden nightmare to walk in open country, clouds that blot out the lowering sun and turn everything a shade of gray gloom, and the *cold* in the air... Which is what got *this* desert Witch to bundle up lots and avoid the ground on her travels to sell her wares.
The problem is, her idea of 'bundling up' means that coming toward the market is a column of yellow-grey, shaggy fur, topped by the horned and snarling skul of some beast, gliding over the ground supported by... animated ropes? Tentacles? Something black and fibrous and moving like unsettling ropes of muscle.
With a bulging pack upon its back, wrapped by more black, twitching ropes.
Sjach, also, is wearing a cloak. Woolen, and festooned with feathers to make it somewhat waterproof. UNlike the desert dwellers, the Sith-Makar is well accustomed to humidity- it's the cold that bothers him. And so once his business with this particular vendor is concluded, he pads his way towards one of the wooden overhangs to get out of the sleet. He spies Aimarra, as it is the same overhang she shelters in he has selected for himself. "Are the demonss defeated?" he asks her, then, recalling their previous conversation.
And here comes Thorn - wearing only boots, a breechclout, and a fur cloak. It was a black bear, once. But it hasn't been for a long time. He walks into the herbalist's shop, and proceeds to buy a bundle of dried mixed herbs and a hunk of that pemmican, before he looks up at the others, and then the half-sil beams, giving a huge grin. The ferret gets the pemmican.
Aimarra almost misses the question directed at her, so busily is she staring at the _creature_ that just floated into Wilderness Point. She isn't the only one staring, either, a good many townsfolk are doing exactly the same and, while they aren't precisely slamming the door, they're giving whatever Alba is a _very_ wide berth.
"Before my last breath," she breathes to Sjach, "I would have told you _yes, for now_. Now I'm not so sure."
Whether conscious of the attention she gets and ignoring it, genuinely ignorant, or privately *enjoying* the terror in her wake, the hulking monstrosity glides down the central late, towards the Market. Her target seems to be an empty stall, one she had negotiated the temporary use of some time back.
The 'ropes' securing the pack flex and heave, setting the cloth-bound burden on the stall's counter with a heavy *thump* -- and the near-music of rattling bottles -- and the fibrous cords go to work, extracting all manner of trinkets, odds, ends, bits and bobs, and setting them up for display. Their arrangement is almost haphazard, but could have some logical order, *if* one squints, tips their head, and perhaps takes a blow to the skull. Coils of thin, shiny rope are hung in thick loops, carved-bone baubles stained with ink, potion bottles sloshing with fluids in a wide array of colors -- some glowing, some just noxious in appearance -- and many more trinkets of uncertain provenance laid out in minutes. Then a lamp is hung from the center of the shop, and the 'creature' moves around back, the fur parting to reveal a Veyshanti woman wearing the skull of some fell beast as a mask.
Who enters the stall, sits, clasps her hands, and waits.
Sjach- who had been somewhat distracted by selling his wares and getting out of the sleet, had not yet noticed the advancing- and rather ominous- figure. His reptillian features turn slowly to follow Aimarra's gaze towards the writhing mass of tentacles, and his amber eyes blink slowly. "What isss that thing?" he asks Aimarra, and he takes the bow slung over his back and works on flexing the wood and stringing it incase he needs it.
And then he watches as the stall is laid out with various odds and ends, and the tentacles receed- still halfway through stringing his bow, and he draws in a breath, hissing through his teeth. "A sshaman, perhapss?" he asides to Aimarra.
Thorn seemed to be altogether done with his business, but when the Veyshanti sets up her stall, it gets his interest all over again, and he louches his way over, as his ferret proceeds to put its paws into his curly hair to climb up and nest on top of his head. He beams once again, and then says, "Well met, Sister. I am Thorn-of-Briar-of-Sweetroses, son of Mother Tabitha of the Mythwood, student of the Craft - do you have rattlesnake venom for sale?" He thinks, and then says, "I can trade you dried roly-polys..." The Ferret wiggles his nose. "...Mmm. No I can't, Bastard ate them all. I can trade you one badly-behaved Familius."
"Doubtless a shaman, but that's more a thing I'd expect in Tashraan than here," Aimarra whispers back to Sjach, watching closely as the woman sets out her stall. "I ought to find myself some manner of winter fur when the weather clears up," she adds, shivering.
As the ferret nests atop its owner's head, a red-banded viper slithers out of one of the eye-sockets of the mask, coiling around a horn and flicking its tongue toward the pair. "Hehhhh... No familiars do I take in trade, save the orphaned and the broken. Of venom... none have I, think I, that would be of use. My home lies upon the border of the Felwood, and such creatures create.... unsuitable.... magics. But good rope have I, and potions, and the writings of minor magics to make a good meal for your friend."
Between her accent, and her half-mad syntax, it would be *so easy* to assume she really might be a demon, or strange hag, but the way the skull tips downward in respect, and the next words from her lips, puts the lie to either claim.
"I am Alba, of the Balefire Silkworks, and pleased I am to meet a walker of the Broken Path."
...Perhaps she might still be a hag, for there are a *lot* of rumors that fly around Alexandros regarding someone who chooses to raise giant spiders as a trade...
Sjach nods his head slowly, "Thiss land hass many ssortss of Shaman. Thiss one knowss little of their wayss, even among hiss own kind." he admits then. "And less of thosse here." he adds to Aimarra. He looks down at the other, and considers a moment, "There are deer and elk sstill in the woodss. Thiss one hass also heard tale of bearss in the hills. Ssuch a pelt would be a fine prize indeed." he says to her. "We sshould hunt together. Thiss one hass not sseen a bear. Can their meat be eaten?" he asks. One amber eye still fixed on Thorn and the newly arrived witchy merchant
"Bears?" Aimarra's eyes remain on Alba and Thorn, but she makes no move whatever to come any closer. Not yet. The topic under discussion is a perfectly good one. "You can, but deer are better eating, and bears are mean. If I wanted food, I'd go for wild boar. A bear would make a fine pelt, though."
She tears her eyes from Alba, though, to turn them on Sjach, eyes widening. "You'd hunt with me? I'd enjoy that."
"Ah. I was hoping. I harvest rattlesnake venom to make cures. A little poison is medicine, after all. But I get tired of getting bitten when I milk them myself." Thorn shrugs, and then says, "I have a little coin, but I'm also open to trade. I have hawk feathers," He begins to unsling his pack, "And mistletoe gathered at midnight with a witch's knife. I would trade for grave moss or the sap of the crooked oaks that grow in the Felwood - you know, the sticky black kind?" He looks up at the two lookie-loos, "Don't be afraid, she's just here to sell her wares. You might find something you need!"
"Such things have I," Alba replies, "but not here, no. At my home, they are stored, for to pack grave moss for travel requires more preparation than willing I am for shopping travels. The oaks... we avoid. Too often they become home for such things as my hunters do not seek and should not battle. But.... hn. Yes.... One moment."
And there's no other word for it; the Witch's hair *flexes,* and starts to root around the pack now laying by the Witch's feet, and now the origin of all that ropy black muscle-fiber is clear. Somehow her hair is *alive.*
One bulging strand lifts up, disgorging a motley of ugly-looking harvestables into the counter. Curved fangs, carved and stained with ink to produce unsettling, semi-haphazard patterns, expertly-cleaned bones, inexpertly-cleaned crystals of varying colors, and... are those mushrooms *moldy?* How??
"For your politeness and goodwill, choose. No trade is needed. If wares you desire to purchase, perhaps good rope you need, or.... hn." One long fingernail sifts through the small pile of scrolls, separating two out of the three. "Curses to breed terror, or cause a man to shrink to the size of a child... A philter to mend minor hurts, or more to ward away elemental magics...? Much and more may I create, for the coin and the asking."
Sjach clicks his tongue then, "Boarss, yess, thiss one hass eaten them. And dear, and pheassant. Thiss place hass many beassts thiss one iss not accusstomed to." the Sith-makar utters then. "Many are fine, otherss... thiss one iss not sure." he admits. "It iss good to eat what one killss." he adds a moment later then, "Ssome thingss are not good for eating, but sstill musst be killed. But it iss not good to kill for peltss or hornss alone." he adds then, explaining why he was asking about he edibility of bear meat.
He looks up to Thorn and the merchant then, translucent membranes blinking once, slowly. "Thiss one fearss not." he says then, he did after all stop stringing his bow, though he still holds it. He then casts his gaze back towards Aimarra, and offers a single nod. "It iss good to hunt together. Ssafer." he says, simply. His gaze returns to the trade between the witches, watching curiously as the various items are produced and displayed.
"Be assured that if I hunt bear and kill it, I'll eat it, ideal or not. Anything else is disrespectful," Aimarra agrees firmly. "Season it enough and it makes good travel food, and there will be plenty of that. A good smoked salt cuts the gaminess."
"She stops, though, at Thorn's remark and invitation. "And if I have no needs in such a way. I'm no finger-wiggler." Her expression, though, grows thoughtful. "You said you make potions?" This is directed at Alba.
Thorn considers that, and then says, "My father was a Druid, and I practice the Old Magic as well, and it influences me toward the White Way, or maybe I should say the Green Way. I avoid black magic unless my need is great, Sister." He begins to look through the ingredients, and then says, "Rope is always good. I'll take the mushrooms... do you have pure desert sand?" He rubs his chin and says, "I'm not sure if I can afford scrolls or magic potions right now. I'm on a long journey with no destination. Silver dust? I powder good coins but it works better for sanctifying the dead when it's pure." He looks up at Sjach and beams, before he switches to Draconic, 'Would it be easier for you if I spoke the Greatest-of-all-Tongues? This Tradespeak, it's hard language to own. All the words are in the wrong places.'
"Ssssah," Alba says... and it's a less than pleased noise, as the scrolls are nudged back into a loose stack, and the mushrooms bundled up into a net-bag woven of, it seems, more spidersilk. "'Black magic.' Better to sow terror than spill blood, yes? A head upon a stick is a poor warning; fools and adventurers both will trample it to seek the one who placed it. But mystery and whispers, for generations these may crouch in the mind. And, no. No desert sand have I."
The skull turns to Aimarra, perking slightly. "Few have I upon my person, but many, many do I have the knowing of. What seek you, hunter? Tell to me your need, and we shall see if I may answer it."
Sjach peers towards the softskin speaking Draconic, and tilts his head. His spines quiver slightly at hearing the familiar tongue from unfamiliar lips, but otherwise his expression is difficult, if not impossible, to read. His tail flicks back and forth slightly, "Thiss one practicess... iss thiss one'ss tradesspeak not good?" he wonders, then, apparently concerned that is why Thorn switched over.
The topic of potions does draw his intrest, though, "What of... elixirss to fight against the cold..." he asks, for no particular reason.
"That is true, Sister." Thorn says, "And in time the world might change my thinking. Even so, I'm sorry to have upset you. Your way is as valid as mine, and I know you to be greater in experience and skill than I." He rubs his right hand with the left. "The mushrooms then, for now." He takes a gold coin, and sets it down on the counter. "Not for the mushrooms, but a wish for your abundance and success consecrated with gold, Sister." He glances back up at Sjach, and holds up both hands. "Perfectly good. I'm simply trying to be friendly."
"That's a particularly fine start." Aimarra grins at Sjach. "More than anything else, this nonsense with that logging company cleaned me out of healing. What would you charge for basic healing?"
"Hrnnnn... it is nothing," the Witch says after a moment, a rough sigh escaping from the mask. A slender lock of hair slithers around the coin, picking it up, then setting it down firmly. "Your wishes, shaman, are accepted and appreciated, but it is not for coin that I make these journeys. It is *fun* to play at shopkeeper, and if I do not visit people a handful of times a month, Sarathrazz is like to bite me." Still coiled atop the skull, nearest to the burning lamp, the viper nods decisively. "But I thank you for your apology, and hear it with both ears. May your Bastard remain troublesome when all his pelt has gone to gray."
Turning to her other prospective customers, the skull-masked Witch tips her head. "A day's worth of relief from this weather provide I, within one bottle," she says, a bundle of hair wiggling what appear to be hollowed-out, wax-stoppered beans the size of a finger. "And for healing... Only the one, minor, cure have I upon me. But, more and stronger cures I may make with time, should you desire. Come to my ranch, mayhap, and a deal we may strike, for many tonics and tinctures I have the knowing of, beyond simple healing."
Sjach ponders that, "A day only?" he wonders then, and mulls it over. He's begun to gain an appreciation for the value of coin, since he arrived, so that one he thinks about for a while. "Furss will ssuffice, for now..." he mutters, sullenly. He nods his head in agreement with Aimarra's suggestion, regarding healing potions. Always a valued commodity. He looks back towards Thorn then, regarding him cooly- but then, that seems to be the default expression for this Sith-Makar. "Gratitude." he says, simply, since the man was trying to be friendly.
Thorn tilts his head at Sjach, and he beams at him, wide - he seems to smile a lot, and he has a big one. He claps his hands together and says, "You honor me." Then he looks around and says, "Going to snow tonight - I can taste it. Perhaps Bastard will get his way and I'll change my mind about the inn, neh? I prefer to sleep in the stables though, as long as the straw's clean - less likely to be bedbugs." He frowns at the thought.
Aimarra manages only the barest of nerviously polite smiles as Alba's eyes fall on her directly, but this is important. "Um ... sure. I know these woods pretty well by now, whereabouts is it?" To Sjach, she nods agreement. "A hunt is called for, and soon. Meat to feed those who cannot feed themselves, and pelts so that neither of us ends up frozen as stiff as a tree in Dana's wrath, yeah?"
Thorn is a different case, and she eyes him with a small smirk. "If it's coin you need and you're used to the ways of the wild, the Guild pays reasonably well, although most of the work is chasing down fools."
"South," says Alba, to the three. "Upon the Kultari Road, just before the Felwood, you will find a path that leads to a ranch. Follow the smoke that rises from the furnace, and when the scent of poisoned blood finds your nose, there you will find my ranch. Fear not, when you arrive; the spiders are safe below the ground, and the dead things you see are merely for their food. There I will be, and I shall watch for you."
The skull turns to Thorn, and particularly to Bastard. "Perhaps your Bastard shall find there, a friend or several. This would please me, for the animals I care for are often lonely."
To Sjach, the witch chuckles drily. "A day only. Magic has its limits, and there are some things it is better to make do with one's own cleverness regarding." Fingers tap the counter, and the skull tips to look around the three. "Hn... hn hn hn. It seems the folk of this town scare easily, and are not wont to part with coin.... hn." Turning, she picks three carved and stained fangs out of a small pile, placing one down in front of each. "No magic, nor charm... merely a pastime of mine, this. Take it, a curiosity. Perhaps in time there shall be a tale to hang from it."
