Dust (1x1 Persona & Avery)

[Avery]

She was back in the forest, searching. It was there, somewhere in the thick of vernal verdure, left to rust and molder in absence of human hands. It was there, Phaedra only had to find it.

The air was palpable in the forest, so dense that barely a breeze could winnow through its herbage. When beyond the fetid cloud of carrion flowers, the green could be smelt. Sharp coumarins, mellow-sweet nectars, hard woods and loamy soil blended to an earthy perfume which attracted a volant audience.

Though having grown inhospitable to most mammals, the forest was never quiet. Insects thrived in opulence, the air thrumming with their noise. Jeweled beetles dined in saturnalia in the feathery petals of early blooms. Bees combed their legs of gritty pollen. And fat flies rubbed their hands in delight of sweet rewards. Civilization was all but forgotten here.

Phaedra adjusted the muslin ‘round her mouth and neck, it having gone damp some time ago from her breath. Aerolized pollen of the local flora clung to it. Again she starred down the steep embankment, thick with prickling shrubbery that shaded the probing, gnarled roots of their taller brethren.

Just as she had before, dream replaying memory in vague detail, Phaedra began her descent. She was circumspect, sensitivity heightened to perceive what lay underfoot. Nothing should have happened. But something did. Something came suddenly and violently loose. Phaedra’s ankle twisted to compensate, her balance thrown, and she tumbled down the embankment.

There was a stab of electric-white pain as her head struck something. The leg of her pants caught and tore. And like flotsam carried to shore, the green discharged Phaedra into the ditch at the embankment’s foot. There she hoped to rest a moment, regain her composure, but something had lain there, waiting.

On the exposed skin of her leg, it began to burn her. A plant with tumid leaves, upon feeling weight, secreted something caustic with intent to liquefy its victim and absorb that through its pores. Instinctively, Phaedra clawed away onto a path of flattened herbage.

Her shin was red and the layers were visibly peeling back, like a blister picked raw and rawer still. The pain kept sinking deeper. She tried to breath, tried not to panic, but the forest was closing in. A lethargic predator, it smelled her.

And the pain. It was alive, ubiquitous and sadistic. Itching, stinging, prickling-

Phaedra inhaled deeply, the forest went black and suddenly consciousness pulled her from the liquid realm of Morpheus.

She awoke not to green, but the crepuscular light of a room unknown to her. Her pain was not intolerable, but vexing. It itched in convalescence. With what strength she could muster, Phaedra sat up. The furniture underneath creaked damnably loud in protest.

 

[Persona]

Healing was never her intention. Her promise was indisputable among the young bloods. Camilla could track, she could remain unseen when she wished, and her accuracy with the bow was fairly talented for one at her age. The art of the hunt was where many saw her traveling upon.

But that was then. Nothing remained in vacuum, nothing was constant. All things changed, some more so than others. Death was no foreign spectre to her or her tribe. She thought herself bearable to whatever the wild or the hunt brought with it. That was until a hunt went wrong. She still saw the faces that she couldn't save. A terrible vulnerable for one focused on taking life rather than preserving it.

Sitting before her medicinal table, Camilla reached for unrefined poppy pods. Her hands went through the motions as she began the process of creating a mixture that eased pain. Too potent, and one would never awaken from their brief euphoria. Too impotent, and one would still feel the pain albeit dulled. This was where the art came in. She was still working on the balance. The golden ratio her mentor used to tell her.

"Healer?"

Camilla didn't turn until she finished grinding the pods in the mortar. Her green eyes studied her fellow tribeswomen. There was an intelligent light to her gaze. Though it conveyed unhidden seriousness, there was a sprinkle of gentleness in them. High cheekbones and just barely gaunt cheeks completed the model image of a warrior. Brown hair cascaded down the right side of her head stopping just at her shoulder. The left side was shaved clean with a small braid separating the baldness from her voluminous brown locks. Where her scalp showed, a snake wrapped around an olive branch was tattooed in dark green ink as a symbol of her role.

"Natnya," Camilla said. She stood from her table. Her dark green robe, tattered at the fringes from being passed down from previous healers, hid away her tall, toned build. "How's Kanaan?"

Natnya bowed her head. She was one of the many who'd lost their bond mate. It wasn't something Camilla could understand, but she could empathize nevertheless. "The sickness still grips him," she said. "He misses his father."

"An adept hunter," Camilla sympathized. "He must drink the medicine. The sickness will not leave otherwise."

Pulling out a brown pouch, Natnya frowned. "Can you spare anymore?"

"When I replace my stocks," she said. "The stranger required what I had left."

"All of it? Gone?"

Camilla nodded.

Natnya swore the oath of the founders. "Why go so far to save one we don't know? The tribe could've used it! The stranger will get well and leave," she said. "Not paying what's owed. Leaving my Kanaan to the illness. If he dies--"

"Enough," Camilla said. "I will do what I can to help the child. Do you believe me?"

Natnya glared at her but nodded.

"Make him comfortable. As best as you can. When I have time, I'll visit." Camilla looked at the woman and smiled slightly. "Walk in peace."

"May peace find you," Natnya replied to the customary tribal farewell.

Alone again, Camilla returned to her herbs. She didn't lie to Natnya, but she wasn't exactly forthright. There was still medicine that she could've given the mother of two, but there was also the imperative for keeping some for emergency instances. Such as the plague from several years ago. A terrible sickness swept the tribe, and Camilla, with help from her mentor and volunteers, barely managed to curb its terribly high mortality. She felt for the woman, but things had to be prioritized, triaged. Kanaan was in no immediate danger.

Taking her finely mixed medicinal solution, Camilla carefully poured the contents of the mortar into a glass vial. None of it could be wasted via spill. The ingredients were hard to find as it was.

Vial in hand, Camilla walked out into the business of the village. Though only thirty-three cycles old, many gave her respect that she didn't believe she deserved. Indeed, she kept the tribe healthy along with two other healers. Nevertheless, she was never one to desire attention.

Stopping before the hut that housed the stranger the hunters rescued, she nodded to those that stood sentry. "Has she woken?"

"Still as stone," said one of the sentries. He switched to the tribal dialect. A harsher yet melodic derivative of Old English prior to the war. "Damned those that brought her here. How much has she taken from your stores, healer?"

"Enough," Camilla said. "Yet she is protected under our Rite of Hospitality." She gestured to the door. "May I?"

The hunter nodded and stood aside. Camilla walked in.

The interior was dark save for a single flickering lamp that hung from the center beam. The tribe had seldom need for cages for humans. On a typical day, this was a place where hunters gathered from their long ranges from the village walls. Now, the woman found outside their walls rested on bedding to the side. Other than the bed, the interior was bare.

Just in time to see the woman sit up, Camilla tsked. "The Devourer, the plant, rarely loses its prey once caught. You got lucky," Camilla spoke in Old English. "Keep moving you'll undo all the work rendered. And waste what medicine I've had to use."

Moving closer to the stranger, Camilla extended a vial. "Drink this. One go. The Devourer injects a poison that stops," she pointed at the woman's chest, "the heart. You've gone through my surplus. I'm a day late in administration."

 

[Avery]

Like a dog measuring the threat of another, Phaedra regarded Camilla with tired, half-hearted contempt. The gloom of the hut did no one justice, all soft light and hard shadows. But she could tell this woman was beyond puerile years. Experience was cut into her physiognomy like a pock mark, perspicacity like a glitter in her eye. Her physique was harder to gauge, most women's were, especially under clothes. But Phaedra had a feeling this woman lacked the softness of maternity. All cords and sinew, Phaedra'd bet.

Roughly, she took the proffered vial and tossed it back. Poison or panacea, she hadn't much choice. It hadn't touched her tongue, but the sheer potency exuded an odor that seemed to crawl back up Phaedra's throat, an inescapable aftertaste that needed a chaser. She swallowed her welling spit and overtly looked about the hut. Empty.

"Where is this?" she asked, voice low and gruff, having yet to fully shake itself from somnolence. Phaedra needed to know how much farther she was from her location of interest. Had she been taken off course? Another question arose. "Where are my things?" Though she owned nothing that couldn't be replaced, held sentiment for her life alone, Phaedra doubted this woman, or whatever she was part of, would extend generosity to see her belongings renewed.

She wanted to leave, her injury be damned.