Eye of Newt, Toe of Frog...

Main Hall - 


 * ''Illusions of the mind's eye can lead those entering the hall for the first time that it expands into the reach of eternity. Time seems even to cease its existence, as the lack of windows numbs the body's circadian rhythm. Mighty pillars of stone file down the length in pairs like the ribs of some giant beast. The shadows overhead hide their meeting with the ceiling. Torches held by iron talons are secured to every other pillar as well as alternating

spaces between.


 * '''Over the entry way is a particular item of interest. Crossed like a display of arms rests not a pair of swords, but a stalk of sage and slender twig of birch. The healer's display is mounted onto a piece of wood, shaped to be a shield. After calling attention to this oddity, one's mind might register what the senses have already detected - a faint waft of lavender scents the hall's air. Its source remains unseen, oils burning silently to fuel the torches. As the lavender had ordered, a sense of calm is invoked here.


 * ''The dull, gray stone floor is livened by a burbling fountain about ten paces from the entrance. It is circular in shape, the blue marble stacked to a fairly shallow height of two feet. Inside, a black falcon crest is shaped on the fountain's bottom. The eyes are formed from sparkling blue gems, piercing with an upward stare through the rippling waters.


 * ''At the very end of the hall, a biinwood door leads to an exit. Hidden between two pillars, another door leads to the unknown. Two sentries guard the entrance.

The Halls of Healing at Light's Reach are quiet this evening, only a few healer and apothecaries moving in and out, mixing foul-smelling concoctions, talking in hushed voices. Padded slippers and the whisper of robes give the impression of motionless wind.

Mrs. Black hasn't moved much. Maybe not at all. She's been fed, cleaned, cared for... but lies undisturbed amongst the pristine creases of her sheets.

Taran makes his way into the hall, staff tapping. "One can only hope this helps."

Muri enters on hushed feet and goes to the bedside of the farmwife. The journey has been quiet, at least for her part, with her speaking little to Taran except to clarify their path together. "Aye, fer de Missus sake, an' de ofvers," she says, taking a seat close to the bed. "She don' look worse nor better."

"Better than Zia then," says Taran quietly, taking a seat on the other side of the bed. "Rest is good for her."

Muri reaches over and gently strokes the woman's hair. "Aye," she says. "Lahkly 'cause dere's so many more 'ere t'watch o'er 'er." She looks around. "Ah wunner if'n de 'ead 'ealer be abouts. Ah 'spects we'll 'ave t'aks t'takes 'er aways." She sighs. "Mayhaps tis bes' t'let 'er sleeps t'whole trip back t'de Refuge."

Taran blinks at Muri. "You would rather take her through the portal, than the bulwarks?"

Muri doesn't meet Taran's gaze. "Ah don' knowd de Bulwarks, Messer," she says. "Tis it far? Tis it safes? Tis pas' de Wall, aye?" She smoothes the already smooth sheets absently.

Taran nods. "Where Mikin Road enters the city."

Muri nods. "Oh, dats closer, aye," she says. "Den tis well to only goed dat far." She chews her lower lip. "We ought not do anythin' till she's awakes, doh...would be better fer 'er t'sleeps, but she ought know wot we're aksin' from 'er too."

"She has to be awake," says Taran. "And willing. I could read her dreams, but that would not be much help."

Muri looks visibly relieved, but continues to avoid Taran's gaze. She reaches into her pack and begins to gently brush the farmwife's hair.

As if right on cue, the old woman stirs fitfully in her sleep, moaning a soft moan that comes out more a sigh. She is rendered nearly voiceless by the coughing. Her eyelids flutter, but she is not *quite* awake yet. Just headed there.

Taran waits patiently, saying nothing.

"G'eve, Missus," Muri says gently, putting the hairbrush away. "Tis Muri Wood'ill, d'ye 'members? We brung ye out o'de Fetters t'git well." She sighs and seems to muster strength. "We gots t'aks ye fer somefin' Missus, t'elp fin' de cure fer dis sickness." She swallows. "Tis a great thin' but we wouldnae aks if we dinae thin' it would 'elp."

The eyes flutter open, focus, unfocus, focus again on Muri's face. They are surprisingly clear and alert for a woman of her age, bright, and showing no signs of confusion. She does not speak, but she waits.

Taran spreads his hands. "If you are willing...I can read what you would write or say, in your mind, and write it down for you. But understand, I cannot do this unless you truly wish it."

Muri nods reassuringly. "Ye won' feel nofin' untoward," she says with a weak smile. "Tis 'is...gift." Her voice lands heavily on that last word. "We gotta take ye outta de city, doh, jus' pas' de Bulwarks. Haint far an' Ah gotta a wagon. We'll bundle ye up jus' fine an' ye c'n sleeps mos' de way, aye?" She's babbling a bit, as if trying to reassure herself as much as the farmwife.

The pale brow furrows a bit, and the woman's dark eyes alight on Taran now. One word: "How?"

"Outside this city my senses are much stronger," says Taran quietly. "If you allow it I can hear even the whispers in your mind. You would not have to speak, or hold a quill. Just think very hard about what you want the masterhealer to know."

Muri looks down and strokes the woman's arm. "Ah knowd yer wantin' t'tell us somefin," she says quietly. "Ah knowd ye wants t'elps make thin's right. 'e won' 'arm ye none an' Ah'll be dere if'n ye git skeer'd." Toward the end her voice trembles slightly and she coughs as if something has hitched her throat.

The woman hesitates, and her dark eyes flicker between one and the other of them. She draws a breath that rattles and shivers in her cough-raw throat. "Yes. Do... what you must." The farmer's wife is still weak and incapacitated on the bed. Taran and Muri are seated nearby, speaking with her.

Taran nods slowly. "We'll go beyond the aura of the city," he says. "Then you need only think clearly of what you wish to say."

Muri stands and smoothes her skirts. "Ah'll goed fin' de 'ead 'ealer an' ask fer yer release," she says. "We'll come back soon's as we c'n t'let ye res'." She manages a smile once more and turns to try and find someone in charge.

That someone is, as fate would have it, entering in to her domain. Forsaken are the heralds of grandeur and fanfare in this Hall. The footfalls encased in velvet slippers are almost silent against the fountain's burbling. There is, however, one little tell-tale sound that in these walls of stone are pretty common. A cough. Lowering her hand from the cloth stifling her mouth, Rowena strides into the entryway and paces silently through towards the infirmary.

The woman manages a bit of a nod, coughs, and relaxes into silence while she waits.

Taran raises his head at the new cough. Then back down to the farmwife. "She is here. Do you want to try speaking to her?"

Muri looks around, searching, then eyes alight on nobility, great nobility. Eyes wide, she drops to a curtsey before Rowena. "G'eve, yer Grace," she says. "Missus Black tis awakes...we t'ought we might..." She swallow and shakes her head. "Tis good o'ye t'comes." Eyes downcast she waits.

Closing the wooden doors of the infirmary behind her, Rowena looks to those inside with a sedate version of surprise. Her eyebrow twitches. Chest clenching in protest to what tries to come out as she bows her head forward, she lifts her hand with a vague gesture and glides closer. Clearing her throat only once to reconcile her voice, she offers Missus Black a small, regretful smile.

"That was a most interesting garden of yours, Missus Black. Equally interesting has been the last week's trials of thyme, garlic, and...fruit. Such inhalants make for a rather interesting sense of euphoria if care's not taken to be precise, but I do feel as though that vile itch in one's breast is kept at bay." A sigh. "My time here is limited for the sake of those I cross path with. If there are any words or writings you've to offer to right the wrong of your husband's business, please find the strength to give them hence. You have the facility and its aids at your disposal to ease your pains."

Muri has risen to her feet to find someone in charge - the result being Rowena - who is nearing the bed where Mrs. Black is healing. Taran sits nearby.

The farmwife's eyes are the only part of her to move, shifting now from Taran to Rowena. "Bend... closer," she bids the Duchess. "I do not... want to... raise my voice." The pauses in her speech are broken by light coughs.

Taran obligingly rises to step back, leaving the two healers room to whisper.

Muri steps toward the bed and gathers up parchment and quill from her pack. "Messer," she says to the mage. "My letters haint good 'nuffs...ye bes' take down wot she says." She offers the writing implements to him.

Sandrim slips into the halls of healing, peering around slowly, before he spots Taran, Muri and the Duchess, near a very, very sick looking farmwife. With some trepidation, the young man starts walking for the four.

Nodding her understanding, Rowena bends a knee to the old woman, going so far as to fold her elbows on the cot's edge so that she may bow her ear closer still. "Very few voices are ever raised here. That is one rule that this Duchess adheres to with adamant...will." Lifting two fingers, she slicks a dampened tendril of hair from the farmwife's forehead and strokes it into line with the fellow grays. "My ears are open."

Before too long, another enters the halls behind Sandrim. The armored man moves after him, tugging off his gloves as he moves along, considering the little scene.

Taran blinks, and accepts the quill and parchment from Muri. "All right," he says.

Muri nods and takes a place nearby to help or get help if needed. She remains quiet and attentive.

The knight pauses by the gathering, dipping his head deeply to Rowena. "Your Grace. Evening," he greets quietly, looking back down to the old woman.

As Rowena's ear moves towards her lips, the farmwife's voice drops to hardly above a whisper. Easier to talk at this level. "It is... a plant. Grew in the... fertilizer. Spores get in the lungs, take root, victim... bleeds. Coughing? Fever? Rash?" She probes, testing to make sure she's got the right thing. In a low voice, punctuated by coughs, she begins the explanation.

Black Walnut hull - not the nut - dried and ground, mixed with an oil extracted from olive leaves. To this, mashed honeycomb should be added, along with garlic, parsley, and fennel. After that--

The farmwife stops, doubling over in the bed and overcome by a sudden bout of chest coughs that send jolts of pain through her chest and throat, redden her face, steal away her breath.

Taran - with a look of intense concentration - duly scribes what is said, taking care to keep the script neat and legible.

Muri turns toward the knight when comes to her notice, blanches, then drops again into an awkward curtsey. Her eyes dart from Rowena to the woman to Taran and back to Duhnen as she dithers. She decides finally that remaining a quiet Freelander would be the best course.

Rowena shifts only slightly aside as the poor woman heaves forward in her efforts to cough. "Aye, Missus, all such remedies to sweep the fungus from the skin, Missus," Rowena breathes through the cloth, words muffled only marginally. "One wonders, however, if current attempts to alter the teas to cater to the lungs has been accurate." Closing her eyes and waiting in patient silence, Rowena permits the old woman time to regain her voice - and breath.

Duhnen stares down at the sight and the muttering, glowing eyes regarding the sick woman. Arms cross at his chest as he waits.

Sandrim licks his lips as he steps closer, looking down at the woman, to Duhnen, and around.

"Oregeno, cloves... and neem." The old woman finishes her ingredients list and lies back on the pillows, shaking, breathing heavily. The whole bunch is to be mixed, honey, oil, water added. "Drink... three spoons. More will kill. Less won't work. The rest... add more water, boil it, breathe the steam." She pauses, exhausted and waiting to catch her breath. Then: "My... supplies? Did you get them?"

Taran duly writes it all down. "I will go," he says. "Alone ...I will attract less attention than if the others should go with me. Tell us anything that should be especially looked for."

"Neem." Rowena echoes, furrowing her brows. "No, no supplies were brought as far as Sheltered Flame." Hesitating a moment longer in her crouch, she then rises stiffly and glances between the other two healers. "Find me this neem," She instructs quietly, "And look to Lightholder's healer perhaps for answers if you have none. I will see to the rest in the meanwhile." Taking a deep breath - one that's interrupted by faint rattlings, she sighs and pats a hand in Black's direction. "Thank you, Missus Black. You may rest at peace."

Muri kneels and looks in her pack. "Ah brung a few thin's, Missus," she says, taking out a handful of jars and vials. "Ah dinnae knowd wot t'brung. We was movin' so fas' dat nights, Ah just caught up wot were close t'yer bed. Dis neem stuffs in one o'dese?" She holds each one up in turn as she chews on her lower lip anxiously.

Sandrim looks to Taran with a slight frown, stepping toward him. "Heading back into the Shadow District?"

"I imagine I could requisition some Imperial Guardsmen," Duhnen muses, glancing to Rowena again. "No reason to put things at risk from lack of support, especially considering the circumstances."

Mrs. Black's eyes rove over the bottles, lingering on the shapes lovingly, almost with a look of hope that fades as quickly as it appears. They stop on one, a small, round bottle filled with pinhead-sized spherical seeds. "There," she breathes. "Those are the seeds. You can grow it. A week... maybe less, and it can be harvested. My garden... maybe burned."

Taran smiles. "But Sandrim can grow trees that sing," he says. And of herbalists there are plenty. Only say what it needs to grow well, this neem." Quill is poised to write it all down.

Sandrim blinks over at Taran, before nodding. "I could handle it," he agrees."

Muri's eyes follow each bottle anxiously, then they widen as a gem is found. "Light," she whispers. "Tis 'ere." She looks to the others, hand gripping the bottle. "Messer Sandrim," she says. "We're gonna need yer green'ouse, or some such close by." She gives a half-smile, then looks back at the woman. "Thankee, Missus," she murmurs. "Ah'll stays wid ye while it grow'd."

Mrs. Black's eyes slip away from the bottle, as if holding that position is in itself a wearying effort. "Not so long now," she mutters. "A day... maybe two." They fix on Muri's face, and she says--very clearly--"I do not want to die alone."

"...Could it not help you as well?" asks Taran quietly.

"The plant must grow first, Taran," Rowena murmurs, watching Mrs. Black's face with sadness in her own.

Sandrim licks his lips. "How many seeds do we have to work with?" he asks. "I'll try my best to get them growing up."

Muri moves to give the bottle to Sandrim. "Ah'll stays wid ye, Missus," she says.

Mrs. Black shakes her head. "It would kill me," she says quietly. "Or I would have taken it... a long time ago." Cough. Coughcoughcough. "Neem... allergic. I grow it because... no one else does."

Taran nods. "Sometimes...reason enough. Sandrim will get it growing."

"Thankyou, Sandrim." Rowena glances to the wildlander before bending at the waist to place her hand over Mrs. Black's brow a final time. "Before I go, is there anything more you desire, aside from the warmth of company?" She asks with a little smile directed towards Muri. "Our kitchen here is rather small but adequate enough to suit the needs of fickle patients. Food or drink, quill or parchment, you need only ask. The realm will be in debt to your memory, Mistress Black. There are too few of us who remain that are willing to try our hand at the unknown."

Sandrim steps back slowly, looking over the seeds, before he bows and starts stepping away. "I should see to this. Take care."

Mrs. Black turns her head to Sandrim. "Warmth," she rasps. "Warmth. Lots of light, lots of moisture. Don't let them freeze... and don't let the wind blow on them."

She rests there for a moment, head lolled to one side before she finds the strength to look back to Rowena. "I had a son once," she says quietly. "He is... a grown man now. And somebody... else's son. Terlon Stone, in Wedgecrest. See that he... knows I am sorry?"

Taran takes a few more pages of parchment, and sets about copying the instructions a few times over. "One for you. One for me. And one for a family it was promised to."

Muri smiles as she sits next to the farmwife once more. "Ah c'n make ye wot evah please ye, Missus," she says. "Dey mights got a small larder 'ere, but Ah'll make stuffs..." Her voice catches as tears come to her eyes. "T'make yer journey warm."

Sandrim nods deeply. "I will be certain, Mistress," he says, before giving Rowena and Duhnen bows. "Good eve, your Grace, my Lord." And with that, the youth turns for the exit, and eventually the song portal.

Rowena bows her chin into her chest, hand lifting to seize the cloth between fingers. It gets pulled away, left to hang at her throat to reveal lips patchy and burned from Light knows what practice. "You've my word, Mistress Black. Terlon will hear of his mother as a woman of heart," she whispers and then ducks her head in a sweeping of curls to plant a kiss atop her own hand, held firmly still over the old woman's brow. "I will have more pillows sent to make more comfortable your stay. And for your journey...may the 'larder' give you great fuel." A little wink is offered there, then Rowena stands to go, tying the cloth back into place.

"...Thank you," Mrs. Black breathes. "I hope that... the cure may serve you... well." She sighs out a long breath, managing a weak smile for Muri. "Death is nothing to... cry over, Child. 'It is not for us to weep for the dead; let instead the dead weep for us'." A quote from what is hard to tell.

Muri wipes her face with the back of her sleeve. "Aye, Ah 'spects yer rights," she says. "Wen de end come natural after a long life, but cut short? Nay. Ah'd 'ave lahk'd t'larn from ye, Missus." She sniffles and bustles about. "Ah'll make some o'dat special gruel, Messer Taran mixed fer ye de ofver days, but wid a tad more 'oney fer taste, aye?" She manages a smile then slips to the kitchen.

Duhnen nods to Rowena and turns to make his way out.

Slipping a copy of what was written for the taking, Rowena excuses herself quietly from the infirmary. The most difficult aspect of healing was not to find the cures, but rather accept fate when they did not come swiftly enough. This is one of those times. With her spittle shield back into its proper position, she unleashes herself back into the public eye and hails for her horse.

Taran finishies his copying, and hands a page to Rowena. "...What little I can do is now done," he says. "I think I will return to the Refuge now."

Mrs. Black looks first to the departing Rowena, then to Taran. "There is one more thing," she whispers. "Ensure that they do not vomit up their medicine... after they take it. If they do it will likely... not work."

Muri returns is a warmish bowl of gruel and a spoon, then settles into her chair. "Ah...we'll 'ave t'props ye up, aye?" she says cheerily, setting the bowl on the nearby table. Bustling once more, she finds extra pillows and works to gently lift the farmwife into a more seated position. Bolstered on three sides, the woman looks like she's floating on a bed of clouds.

Taran regards the alchemist solemnly. "Those fallen ill have no appetites at all. Any advice is welcome."

The farmwife allows Muri to help her, and will allow herself to be helped through her dinner as well. "I believe... I have given you all I can... give," she answers Taran. "I pray that it may be... enough."

Muri offers small spoonful after small spoonful to the farmwife. "Dis gruel ye made work well, Messer," she says. "Seems t'stay down better den any we've offer'd. Mayhaps combinin' de two rem'dies..." Her voice trails off as she manages to spill a bit on the woman's chin. "Aye me, sorries." She dabs the woman's face with a napkin.

Taran nods. "Perhaps that, then," he says, rising. "But I think...I will go and deliver this now. I promised ...you know who I promised, that he would have the cure when it was found. He will have to wait for the final ingredient, but ...it was promised."

The farmwife docilely allows herself to be fed and cared for, saying nothing more.

Muri simply nods, but does not turn toward Taran, seemingly intent on the farmwife. "Keep safe, Messer," she says. "'n tell Missus Zia Ah'll come see her...in a few days." She continues feeding slowly, gently, patiently.

Taran bows slightly, and slips out.

Return to Season 8 (2008)