Everything about the tower – its light, its warmth, its mirth -- is uncomfortable for the little black hermit shuffling up its steps. Voices reverberate through the stonework like gnats, barraging her ears with an incessant wave of laughter. The hag braces herself against the cacophony of mixed and mangled voices, lashing her tail and pinning her ears each time she passes a doorway.
This is exactly why I never leave the swamp. How do these people get anything done?
There was never a need for the witch to venture this far from her boggy abode – not even when she bore the title of Champion of Healing. In those days, whenever the witch was needed, the denizens knew where to find her: in the reclusive depths of Tinea Swamp.
Time passes. Things change. You'll have to earn that respect again.
Finding her new Sovereign was another matter entirely, especially considering she didn’t know whom she was looking for. Based off the conversations she has overheard, this monarch was another stringent, loyal, and proficient warrior determined to see the realm thrive. Not the witch is particularly interested in things like character or morality -- though she is grateful to be under someone's protection rather than abused by harsh laws and strict punishments (her lungs produce a particularly nasty cough at that, as if to reaffirm to their wretched mistress that they remember such practices). So long as she is free to conduct her experiments then she cares little for who gets to rule who. The witch isn’t likely to spend time away from her experiments to bother with politics, anyway; socialization has never been her priority.
Perhaps it is her stubborn nature that prevents the starry girl from asking for help, or maybe her lack of social skills (she is used to talking to a giant black rock, after all). Regardless, Yana is content to wander the lavish halls of the tower in search of the Commander. Grey eyes flit from tapestry to figure, collecting information about the Dusk Court and its deity as she walks. Religion is a topic the witch never bothered to pander with, though it is one she will revisit later when she doesn’t feel so out of her element.
Her feet bring her to a vast set of doors where she stands, shifting her weight from foot to foot, before curiosity gets the better of her. She grasps for the handle, slowly pushing one towering door open to reveal a vast sea of scrolls bordered by mountains of books. She has never seen such an expansive collection before, and the witch is mortified to think that she may have never seen it if she chose to remain home.
The witch settles down beside a particularly precarious stack of books, all thoughts of the Commander seemingly forgotten as she scans their titles.
A Brief History of Terrastella. Though your volume suggests you are not as brief as you claim.
Marisol breezes through the halls with her usual sense of urgency, though really, there is nothing pressing to be done. Instead she is in search of an old Ilati scroll she will ask to be transcribed again before the ink turns old-white and the parchment itself falls to pieces. Something about an obelisk, about a home made in the deepest depths of the swamp. Something that should be rewritten before it’s completely forgotten.
The castle is teeming with activity. Conversations bleed through the stone walls and seep from under closed doorways. Courtiers are hanging wreaths and ribbons over doorways, splashing conifers with ornaments. The open kitchen has filled the citadel with smells of winter—apples, anise, cinnamon—and it is followed by the clattering sound of pots and pans, knives and spoons, as the chefs and bakers laugh their way through preparing a feast for their city. Part of Marisol is aching for some quiet; the other part of her is glad that her people are still alive, this much so.
Mari’s muscles are aching and sore, a reminder of the hours she spent training yesterday, hurling spears to relieve the anger, the stress, the shoulder-crushing weight of sovereignty. But it’s a good kind of ache—a memoir, a testament to the fact that she is still here and still strong.
Silently, the Commander shoulders her way into the library. It looks and smells as it always does, like an undisturbed piece of the past. Dusty light filters in through one of the tall, shuttered windows, and the air is filled with the smell of old books and blown-out candles, a smell that Marisol draws in deep and tries to hold, the smell of calm, of childhood, of being alone.
Only—there is someone else here.
Marisol stops, slowly. Whoever this is, she does not recognize them, which is… strange. The stranger wears a skin like the night sky, black studded with pinpricks of stars, and her wild, tangled hair is the silver of a full moon. “By Her hand,” the Commander offers, mostly pleasant, by way of greeting; she dips her head in a silent nod, too, and waits to be acknowledged.
Ever vigilant - or perhaps ever nervous? - the hag notices the subtle flicker of candlelight before she hears the Commander's greeting. Marisol. She rises to her feet with a jolt, causing the yellowed pages of the old tome to flutter and skip ahead a few chapters. She processes the woman's words slowly, ruminating over them with a puckered lip, but chooses to repeat them in an attempt to gain the Commander's favor, "By her hand." Whoever she is...
Tepid swamp water eyes meet those of hardened stone, and Yana is reminded of her previous encounters with Rannveig (and how they had made her skin crawl). Whereas the lady had been so charming, so charismatic, so sympathetic, the witch had been awkward -- Yana is all business; she cannot waste valuable time dancing around feelings when it could be better spent conducting research. In the brief time she has studied the Commander - noting her rigid posture and shorn hair, the vast wings at her sides, ever vigilant and prepared to propel their mistress into action - the girl thinks she has found a like-minded individual. Best get to it, then.
Unused to the customs of her court, the hag offers an awkward bow, leaning almost comically low over an outstretched leg. "Marisol. I am Yana; a... resident in Tinea Swamp." She grits her teeth at the formality of the name as she is used to referring to the marshland as hers. She remembers a previous Sovereign that had not been so fond of her claim, and so she chooses to bite her tongue, albeit begrudgingly. "I was a healer under Rannveig's reign... and I have returned to conduct my research."
Eager to earn the Commander’s indifference rather than her disapproval, the girl is careful to leave out the details of her departure and she is especially discreet regarding her past title; she would rather uproot the whole swamp than shoulder such a burden again – and the Court will surely thank me for my sacrifice. No one should have a Champion that is so keen on alienating themselves.
"If there is still a place for me here I would gladly take it."
The girl with the white hair notices her arrival instantly: Marisol is watching her with slightly-narrowed eyes, her gaze close and intent, and does not miss the startled jolt as she rises to her feet and lets whatever book she was reading fall closed with a dusty thump. When she turns around, the Commander can’t help blinking in brief surprise. Her eyes are a strange, silty green, like the moss that sits on top of the swamp.
Marisol has always been superstitious, more religiously organized than simply spiritual. Her stomach churns a little; the swamp, and the witches and shamans that live in it, have always had a way of setting her on edge.
And the girl who is looking back at her reminds her of those witches and shamans far more than the Commander is comfortable with.
Unexpectedly, the stranger falls into a stilted bow. Mari grows uncomfortably, ridiculously warm, though the blush of it is lost in her dark skin, because she cannot decide whether she is honored by it or a little embarrassed on her partner’s behalf. It doesn’t sit well on her. It doesn’t look right. Yana isn’t built for this kind of formality, and briefly Marisol is disgusted with herself: somehow, and without meaning to at all, she has become the kind of person who forces people to bow even if they are not made for it.
She swallows hard. Her throat is dry, it feels a little rough. There is no telling what favor she might be asked to perform, what pardon she might be begged to hand out. When people come to find her, they almost always want something—a permission, a stipend, a signing-off of something.
But when Yana speaks, she is pleasantly, mildly surprised at the tameness of the request. Maybe more than mildly.
“Of course,” Mari responds smoothly. She does not quite smile when she speaks, but her expression is cool and surprisingly pleasant. The Commander continues: “Although I am… curious, to what research you are referring.”
There is something tense in it, not quite suspicious, but a little bit too interested. Marisol’s eyes are still trained on Yana’s; they are calm but intense, waiting patiently for evidence that this research is really as inconspicuous as the witch is trying to make it sound.
Yana narrows her eyes briefly, wondering if the Commander is being genuine or not. In her (albeit limited) experience, people only give you what you want if they expect something in return. The starry girl comes from a family of distrustful, bartering hags herself; the only times her mother ever gave out information was when coin or some other sort of favor was involved – and, despite being the only child that Runann kept, Yana was never exempt from such conditions (though she gave out punishments for free).
It has become second nature for the girl to be suspicious of gifts, and the Commander’s query doesn’t help alleviate that. She fumbles with her hair, diverting all her attention into untangling it even though she knows her efforts are futile. Marisol’s stare is like an arrow piercing through her; Yana is worried that if the Commander looks at her for too long, she will spill out her secrets and drown the books scattered across the floor. But does she truly have anything to hide from her Sovereign?
No, she thinks, continuing to tug at her hair. You are just doing what you were taught. The image of prey hung from trees, their beaks and mouths dripping liquid like gruesome fountains, flashes across her mind. If you do not perform these experiments, then who will?
Her words are carefully devoid of emotion when at last she speaks, “I do not just heal, Marisol-“ She swallows back a cough, forcing it back down to the hollow pits of her chest. There should no longer be a heart beating there, not after what she has done.
“I am an apothecary. My mother taught me, but she only knew so much.” Yana’s lips press together to hide her sneer. Runann had been a brilliant witch of her time, but her arrogance could only take her so far. Some might even say it had been her downfall.
“I’m not convinced that she uncovered every secret of the trade. The only way I know how to find out is through research… and experimentation.”
The witch’s eyes peer at the Commander through a tangle of sticks and hair. The glance lasts just a moment, but it’s long enough for her to notice the intensity of the mare’s steady gaze. She's not sure what she had hoped to find there; understanding, perhaps, but there is certainly no comfort to be had in the tough woman's stare. She finds Marisol's extreme focus disturbing, and tries to distract herself by dusting off a particularly old book with her nose.
Yana struggles with an awkward bout of coughing before she continues with a croaky tone, “Not on equines of course… I collect herbs and trap creatures. Sometimes I find a truly exquisite specimen, one I’ve never even heard of before, and it would be such a shame to let an opportunity to learn go to waste, so I just take what I can from them and record my findings…”
Yana’s greenish-gray eyes narrow in suspicion, her body seeming to tense: Mari’s lips twitch in the faintest smile, both because she understands Yana’s misgivings and because she knows she would do the same in that position. Marisol herself would be caught off-guard. Her requests are rarely ever answered to so kindly—everything she has accomplished was a disaster in terms of paperwork.
She watches with cool, gray eyes, with a gaze so casual it nearly seems disinterested, as the swamp witch fumbles with a mountain of snarled white hair. It’s beautiful. Longer than Novus’ normal updos. It’s thicker, denser and somehow star-colored. But Marisol can’t imagine how much of a chore it is to undo those knotted curls. She’s never even thought about growing her hair out, though she realizes, with both envy and pity that she might like to; but this late in life the idea of it seems ridiculous, a thing she should have done when she still had the freedom of a child. The Commander with her mane not shorn?
It makes no sense.
Marisol lets out a little sigh as she listens to Yana speak. Not of exasperation, disinterest, or in fact anything negative—it’s a sigh of long-held tension that dissipates in the air as fast as steam rising up from water. She listens with intent, ears pricked. But she can’t (or won’t) pretend to understand everything. Yana’s mention of her mother sparks no expression but bland curiosity, nor does Mari understand fully what the witch means when she says—
Research,
Experimentation,
Specimen.
The tension in the room seems to grow. Marisol’s eyes are wider now than they were a minute ago. She watches, bewildered and stunned for a moment into stillness, without saying anything. Suddenly her of course seems foolish. It seems like the kind of thing only an idiot queen would say, the kind of dumb, unmeditated answer that can only be the product of laziness—the product of an aversion to digging further and deeper, or even vetting this bizarre-smelling stranger for proof of residence, or…mental wellbeing.
“So.” Marisol swallows. “You want my permission to… trap? Poach?” For the first time her voice feels—sounds?—a little tight. But she schools her features into practiced neutrality; there are only so many things you can’t take back, and she has always been a woman of her word, for better or worse.
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