Eternity RPC Board
11-25-2018, 10:05 PM
"No, we shouldn't," Nevina huffed in a breathy sigh a she cleaned the few straggling embers from her flute and replaced it within its case, though the reply probably came as annoyingly vague given the lack of clarity as to which question it answered: the second? The third? Both? Certainly not the first at the very least, hopefully? Not that there actually existed any time to clarify on the front stoop of a witch's home, like asking if it's safe to leap from a ledge while falling, or growing curious about the contents of a stew after the first bites.
"Millie," the elf frowned audibly and pulled on the door, which gave easily before snapping back closed behind her on its lazy spring and rattling the distressed planks of its bowing frame. "You never enjoyed company."
The interior of the cottage revealed the lie of its external shape, a single squarish room filled to near-bursting with knicks upon knacks. No wall lay bare, what spaces not claimed by a mounted assortment of gardening and building tools and utensils over (and sometimes under) hastily contorted scribblings played host to rows of ceiling and floor-mounted cupboards long rendered into truth-telling shelves when their once nobly-crafted fascades fell away after an unknowable age of woodworm and ash rot, exposing vials filled with absolutely unhealthy hues, and smallish boxes of assorted-yet-unusual dimensions tied and tagged with such names as "Mourning Tears," "Sanguinella," "Whispered Bondbark (shake, never stir)," and "One-halfing Twinning Tonic (the better bitter half)," among many more. Scattered amongst the clutter of containers, draped from eaves or hung from many wood knots sat bundles of forage and pouches of detritus gathered and tied in yards of twine; though nearly all these specimens lacked tag or label, a trained observer might recognize a hanging bushel of Elf's Ear, a stack of Rusted Redcap, or even a scattering of Doran's Morel amongst the shelved and hanging chaos.
A sunken bundle of hay wrapped hastily in yards of flannel and stackes with various bolts of cloth demarked a bed of sorts in one corner furthest from the door and dangerously close to the slate-stacked hearth whose glow provided the room's only significant illumination. The centerpiece of the room was a heavy oaken table, worn from many generations of use, upon which assorted alchemical apparati, their delicate forms out of place in the primal mess of the room, intermingled in the jungle created by stacks of ragged, burnt, browned and beaten books (many held open by thrice-busted bindings showing stained pages), upon which sat clusters of half-used candles whose waxes coalesced in the lettering of covers and the creases of pages. Unused and unloved by the door, the table's matching chairs contrasted with their organic surroundings in their geometric square stack, though bundles of webs tried their best to blend the edges.
A single hooded figure apparently known as "Millie" bundled in untreated wool stood before the hearth, mixing a bubbling kettle in long, slow strokes, the occasional waft of vapor from within its rough irons drifting through the room and endowing it with the fresh tingle of licorice, mint, and...a faint hint of copper shavings?
"Yes," the voice of the figure quivered and crowed, "and your garden saved me the trouble of them until now. Who is your friend? Step in, girl, I've already eaten this week. Ha!"
"This is my new-"
"No no no, not you!" The figure cut off Nevina and shook slightly in some kind of...motion beneath the bulk of its clothing, though it continued its methodical stirring. "No, you haven't made away with her tongue, have you? The girl can speak."
"Millie," the elf frowned audibly and pulled on the door, which gave easily before snapping back closed behind her on its lazy spring and rattling the distressed planks of its bowing frame. "You never enjoyed company."
The interior of the cottage revealed the lie of its external shape, a single squarish room filled to near-bursting with knicks upon knacks. No wall lay bare, what spaces not claimed by a mounted assortment of gardening and building tools and utensils over (and sometimes under) hastily contorted scribblings played host to rows of ceiling and floor-mounted cupboards long rendered into truth-telling shelves when their once nobly-crafted fascades fell away after an unknowable age of woodworm and ash rot, exposing vials filled with absolutely unhealthy hues, and smallish boxes of assorted-yet-unusual dimensions tied and tagged with such names as "Mourning Tears," "Sanguinella," "Whispered Bondbark (shake, never stir)," and "One-halfing Twinning Tonic (the better bitter half)," among many more. Scattered amongst the clutter of containers, draped from eaves or hung from many wood knots sat bundles of forage and pouches of detritus gathered and tied in yards of twine; though nearly all these specimens lacked tag or label, a trained observer might recognize a hanging bushel of Elf's Ear, a stack of Rusted Redcap, or even a scattering of Doran's Morel amongst the shelved and hanging chaos.
A sunken bundle of hay wrapped hastily in yards of flannel and stackes with various bolts of cloth demarked a bed of sorts in one corner furthest from the door and dangerously close to the slate-stacked hearth whose glow provided the room's only significant illumination. The centerpiece of the room was a heavy oaken table, worn from many generations of use, upon which assorted alchemical apparati, their delicate forms out of place in the primal mess of the room, intermingled in the jungle created by stacks of ragged, burnt, browned and beaten books (many held open by thrice-busted bindings showing stained pages), upon which sat clusters of half-used candles whose waxes coalesced in the lettering of covers and the creases of pages. Unused and unloved by the door, the table's matching chairs contrasted with their organic surroundings in their geometric square stack, though bundles of webs tried their best to blend the edges.
A single hooded figure apparently known as "Millie" bundled in untreated wool stood before the hearth, mixing a bubbling kettle in long, slow strokes, the occasional waft of vapor from within its rough irons drifting through the room and endowing it with the fresh tingle of licorice, mint, and...a faint hint of copper shavings?
"Yes," the voice of the figure quivered and crowed, "and your garden saved me the trouble of them until now. Who is your friend? Step in, girl, I've already eaten this week. Ha!"
"This is my new-"
"No no no, not you!" The figure cut off Nevina and shook slightly in some kind of...motion beneath the bulk of its clothing, though it continued its methodical stirring. "No, you haven't made away with her tongue, have you? The girl can speak."