northclifflogs | you fill up my senses like a night in a forest

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you fill up my senses like a night in a forest

WHO: Roesia & you
WHAT: Being a weirdo.
WHEN: After the execution, after the Shepherds leave.
WHERE: Various.
NOTES: Blood.

the town square.
She comes into the village when it is late - the safest time. While the guards are on alert, the townspeople are, for the most part, asleep. The shadows are long, and Roesia knows how to ask the earth to keep her steps quiet. It's the world around her that made her aware of the danger - first the Shepherds and their hunt, and then the death of their quarry. It is that death that brings her into the town square.

In the village, she covers herself; long, dark sleeves and skirts, the hood of her thin cloak pulled down low. She carries a few leather pouches, strapped to her belt, and a hunting knife is tucked between the cloak. Slipping between the shadows, avoiding the scrutiny of the guards by yawning when one gets too close - just a young maiden, returning home, time to sleep...

When she reaches the site of the execution, she looks for the blood-stained earth. The body is gone, and she can do nothing for it - but his death does not have to be in vain.

the forest.
Maybe you've wandered deeper than you meant to. Maybe Roesia has wandered closer to the village than usual. Either way, there is a young woman with black hair and strange eyes gathering plants and mushrooms, placing her choices in a woven basket. If you smile at her, she will smile back. She is polite; Mother taught her well.

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Normally the actual finding and growing of herbs is left to Arlene, who seems to have such a deft hand with them, but sometimes Finian needs an excuse to get away from the town for a little bit. Today, that excuse is seeking out a specific mushroom which, in small concentrated quantities, can help ease anxieties: something they've all needed ever since the Shepherds left.

He's on his knees in a clearing, gathering them carefully into a little pouch, when he hears a sound and looks up to see a woman there. She looks familiar, but he isn't sure why: rather than question it, he smiles a greeting.

She knows the mushroom that Finian is gathering well. In small doses, it can ease anxieties; in larger ones, it can create a much deeper sleep. It's useful, and her polite smile back to him widens. The forest knows him, is fond of him; it lets her relax a bit, not quite so worried that the young man is going to charge at her.

Granted, being fond of the forest and being fond of the Profane aren't the same thing.

"Are you finding enough of the mushrooms?"

Charging at her is just about the least likely thing Finian is going to do, although he does seem a bit nervous. This could be anything from the strangeness of meeting an unknown person in the woods to being a boy still undergoing adolescence and seeing a girl who's so... This. He looks away before he stares, but part of him doesn't want to.

"Um. Yes," he stammers, rising to his feet, "thank you-- they're not-- they're not yours, are they?"

He's just a young thing, a buck still adjusting to the new weight of his antlers. Cute, she thinks, and smiles a little brighter.

"Not at all," she reassures him, glancing up at the leaves above them. The forest is her own. Roesia lives in her, partakes of her gifts and offers to her. Others use her and do not know what it is they do - it is why they don't go in too deep, she thinks.

"They grow where they wish - not bound by fences or carefully plotted land. Can you truly own something like that?"

It's not that the question is strange, perhaps it's just the way it's phrased-- not to mention, given in answer to another question. He resolves to take it as a no, the mushrooms aren't hers.

"I-... suppose not," he admits, offering a sheepish smile. He finds that he's blushing faintly, and angles his head so that it will hopefully be less visible: unfortunately, he's ginger, and that's worse than impossible. He glows.
"I've never seen you before."

He's blushing. Roesia keeps smiling, reaching up with inked fingers to push some hair out of her face.

"I do not come to the village much," she tells him - admits, even sounds a bit sheepish about it. Would that she could! Would that those in the village would learn of the truest way to worship, of the way the elements are all a part of them and that what they call profane activity is simply a natural extension of that. The gods have given them gifts, and for what? To have them thrown away?

"But my name is Roesia."

"Roesia," Finian repeats, trying to remember if he's heard it before. He doesn't know that he has.
"Um. Finian," he replies, thrusting his hand forward to shake it, his cheeks red and his smile wide; what else is there to do? "Finian Lanson. I'm the village apothecary."

She takes his hand almost curiously, like a cat gently reaching out to touch something with its paw, deciding what it is. She's more firm after a moment, though; she knows of handshakes, just seldom has them offered to her.

"Oh, are you? That's lovely." She means it, smiles at him widely and with white teeth. "The mushrooms are a great deal of help for that, I'd imagine."

He mirrors her smile, unable to help himself. "Yeah," he says absently, realizes he's staring, and nods quickly. "They are. Helpful." A pause, perhaps a little awkward, "...and tasty, sometimes."
Not everything has to be medicinal.

"Very," she laughs. "And some create wonderful dyes, too!"

Not that it looks like Roesia knows much about dyes, considering the black she's wearing, but... well.

"Are there any others that you're searching for?"

Fíadh had been taught fairly early in her life that self-reliance is the best tool for ensured survival. Well, that and a big sword. But the self-reliance part is what's bringing her to the forest now. So she's quietly wandering her way through the wood in search of game, a bow in her hand and quiver on her back. Going back empty-handed certainly won't be a death-sentence, but she'd rather save her coin than spend it on food.

There's movement about fifteen feet away that makes her freeze; without second thought she grabs an arrow from her quiver and nocks it into her bow. Releasing a steadying breath she moves closer, a slow excitement building in her at the thought of fresh meat. But it doesn't take long for her to spy that it's not prey but a woman picking mushrooms. Her hopes quickly come down, but not into total disappointment. Now she's curious.

With caution she approaches the dark-haired woman, leaving her arrow firmly set in the string of her bow, but walking in a more casual gait. She's not trying to sneak up after all, just investigate.

"Are those edible?"

All things are edible once, Roesia thinks, but does not say. A hunter ought to know that. Her odd, stained eyes look at the arrow and then to the woman, but her focus returns to the mushrooms. If need be, she can handle an arrow.

"Somewhat, though many don't like them." She inspects one, measuring it with her fingers, skirts dragging against the grass and leaves covering the forest floor. "They are better for use in dyes. The colors they make are wonderful; vivid."

Exactly the sort of thing that Roesia can slip into town to sell, when necessity drives her.

It was only a brief flicker, but Fíadh could swear the woman's eyes are ... darker then normal. Or is it the shadows of the forest? Yes, surely that must be the cause. Still she can't seem to loosen her grip on her bow.

"Good to know."

Not really, Fíadh certainly has no usefor dyes, but it's an acknowledgement. She steps carefully to better face the woman while she continues talking.

"Are you very familiar with these woods? Do you know the best game to find?"

"Very familiar," she confirms, smiling first at the woman and then at the trees around them. "There is a lot of game here - rabbits and pheasants and deer. The fish in the water is good, too."

Not a lot of people dare to hunt this deep in the woods, but it happens. The forest, she thinks, will not mind this woman as much as it might mind a man. It is no time of starvation, that she is aware of; more people enter the forest out of desperation, then. But it is dangerous no matter the time of year, just like the mountains and the sea.

"Do you seek something in particular? Enough food for you, or for a family?"

Well, it seems that Fíadh was correct about something being off in the woman's eyes, and all the words that she's being told fly right out and into the aether. Fíadh recoils visibly, but seems to keep some semblance of composure in holding a gasp. Still she isn't exactly friendly as she asks the next question.

"What's wrong with your eyes? Are you sick?"

"Hm? Oh, no."

If Roesia feels threatened, she's doing rather well at keeping it under wraps. Her eyes are hardly the oddest part of her, though they're certainly some of the most noticeable. The tattoos get varying reactions, as does the scarring on her face. The eyes and the tongue, those were where people grew concerned.

"It's ink."

Fíadh's brows furrow, she certainly wasn't expecting that to be the answer. She was no stranger to tattoos, the men she grew up with had a few of their own, but to put it somewhere as painful as eyes ...

"Was it forced on you?"

This line of thought makes her relax slightly. She can't imagine anyone doing this willingly, and Fíadh is well aware of the strangeness and cruelty capable in others.

"No."

She knows that isn't the answer most expect. It had been painful. It had come with many risks, too - but Roesia had survived.

"It was my mother's idea."

So maybe it had been forced, in a way; perhaps Roesia had been too brainwashed by her mother to see it. Or perhaps it was the village that was brainwashed, sheep surrounded by wolves. Who could truly say?

Edited 2019-09-16 18:32 (UTC)

"I see."

At this point, nearly all major sense of danger has flooded out of Fíadh leaving only unease. Whether it's at the woman herself or the situation of her past, however, Fíadh isn't sure. There's probably something more she should say, like 'I'm sorry' or 'That's horrific,' but she knows full well that the words do nothing but fill air. Instead she moves on, slowly remembering the conversation before her surprise.

"... I am hunting for myself. I'd prefer not to spend money on something I can do on my own."

It's a practical approach, and the response makes Roesia smile. Clearly her eyes aren't a horror so deeply ingrained in her that it detracts from the answer.

"Not all are so self-sufficient," she muses. The forest will be kinder to this stranger than it is to most, she thinks, and so Roesia carefully covers her mushrooms and straightens with her basket. "When the sun grows highest, the animals either sleep in the shade or make their way to the water. The underbrush near it would be a good place to seek your food."

"Hm."

She mulls over her advice and gives a curt nod. That makes sense, and considering the water is also closer to the town it would likely be a safer approach. Not that she doesn't enjoy meeting strange women in the dark, foreboding woods. She shifts her bow over her shoulder and makes to move out, then pauses.

"Who are you?"

"Roesia."

Just one word - a simple enough name. If she has any others, she makes no move to include them. All she does is smile happily at the other woman, clearly pleased to make her acquaintance.

"And you?"

"Fíadh."

Just as simple. It seems the women are evenly matched for brevity. And now that she's gotten all the information she needs she makes off for good, mulling the encounter over in her head. Roesia was ... well, odd, and Fíadh is unsure if she'd go out of her way to find the woman again ... but she can't find herself loathing another encounter. It would certainly be interesting.

Roesia has an audience of one--a quiet audience, of course, in the form of the village vicar. His path back to the vicarage from the general direction of Sands Creek doesn't have to take him past the scene of the grisly execution, but something draws him to it, and he has always been pathologically curious.

Evidently this is a trait he shares with someone else.

He doesn't announce himself yet, choosing instead to keep to the shadows and watch what the shrouded stranger chooses to do with the blood of a dead man.

The blood has seeped into the ground, taken hold like the knife took hold of the his throat. It is with a knife of her own that Roesia carves it up, as delicate and careful as a surgeon, and transfers the bloody dirt into her leather pouches.

The man was not the first Profane killed who spoke of love. He will not be the last.

It is too obvious, though, to take only the bloodied earth. Clean earth is further scattered and furrowed, her footsteps and the fabric of her skirts helping to blend it all together. If she notices the eyes in the dark watching her, she does not stop.

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you fill up my senses like a night in a forest

forest

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DEEP IN THE SPOOKY FOREST

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SORRY THIS IS SO LATE life sux

IT'S ALL GOOD

<3 ;;

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life :|

LET'S JUST BOYCOTT LIFE

town square

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