Wise Old Owl: Gheata Comanici [Complete]

[emptyanima]

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Name: Gheata Comanici
Meaning: Ice; Romanian Surname
Age: 75 Yrs. (Deceased)
Race: Human
Alignment: NG
Medicine Woman/Druidess
Origin: Barovian (Ravenloft Native)

“Wrinkles should merely indicate where the smiles have been.” ― Mark Twain

Lord of the Rings - Into the West  - Annie Lennox (Gheata's Theme)

[emptyanima]

Seventy-five years ago, in the year 695 of the Barovian Calendar, Gheata was born. Her young life was largely simple, her upbringing rural. And in this pleasant setting, Vallaki's woodland all but on her doorstep, Gheata grew fascinated with the natural world from an early age. She loved the feel of the grass upon her feet, to run her hand upon the bark of the trees, to watch the animals go about their lives from a safe distance.

At the age of seventeen, the impressionable, passionate and curious young woman was excited by the arrival of a Vistani tasque. She was drawn by their strangeness, and being overwhelmed by all their mysticism, was easily wooed and bedded by a Vistana man. It was not much later that the tasque moved on, leaving Gheata heartbroken. Feeling ill at ease with herself, she left her family's home, with her parents and many siblings, as she sought refuge in the woodland, making a life for herself among nature. All that she had learned from her inquisitive studies of the previous years ensured her survival.

After a year of wandering, she encountered a band of rangers. One of them was a young native called Artur Comanici. She joined them, her close ties with nature a help to them as they moved through the dense forests. A whirlwind romance blossomed between the two. They travelled back to Gheata's childhood home to seek consent for a wedding where, following an impassioned exchange, her family, relieved to see she yet lived, granted their blessing. She would make regular visits to the homestead until her family passed away many years later.

Gheata and Artur built for themselves a simple lodge in the woodland, living off nature's gifts and tending to the forests in their own way. Soon after their wedding, Gheata gave birth to Oana, who grew to become a confident young woman. In her early twenties, Oana left her family's home to assist in the war against the Gundarakites. She did not come home.

The wound was slow to heal, and even now Gheata's heart aches at the thought of what could have happened to her-- it is the uncertainty that cuts most deeply. In addition, Gheata's womb had closed up, and she bore no more children. Together, she and Artur were quick to let in travellers from the cold when they came by, caring for their wounded and doting upon them all with lovingkindness.

After fifty-two years of marriage, Artur passed away. Gheata bore him down to the edge of woodland to bury him, so that his spirit might find the road. Where he was buried, a tree grew up, one that she visits to this day. She dismantled the home that had been hers for over fifty years, letting nature once again take full dominion of the area.

Five years later, Gheata works as a medicine woman, never straying far from the locale that she knew for all her life. If her life was bundled up into a book, these would be the last few pages. How shall they be filled?

[emptyanima]

Stood alone over the cauldron, as she often was, come nightfall, the old woman was in thought. She reflected upon all she had seen, and all those she had met in recent days. She considered how precious so many of them were to her. Sweet Neyia, with her quiet determination. Little Lydia, with her clever tricks and charming wit. Many others, those in all shapes and guises, for whom she had come to care. Then of course, there was Teodor. A kind man, but certainly troubled. Gheata's thoughts often dwelt upon him. What was it that so weighed upon the dear fellow's heart?

She stirred the mixture in the cauldron, ensuring that she did not overheat her brew. The medicine woman had been busy, of late. Between bandits and monsters and an influx of lost souls, her curatives and restoratives had been sorely needed. She studied her old hands, skin drawn tight by the passing over years over her knuckles, so that they bulged like oak roots in shallow soil. She did not know much more excitement she would be able to handle.

Still, she thought, life is meant to be lived. Right until the end.

[emptyanima]

Swaddled in blankets and a thick cape, Gheata did not sleep. The old woman watched the mouth of the cave, shivering in the chill. Teodor had asked her, nay, commanded her to douse the firepit, cover herself in blankets and to remain until dawn. Her old mind whirred with innumerable fears and possibilities, and her brow creased with worry for one so dear to her.

It was just before dawn when she finally rose. The full moon still hung in the bleak Barovian skies. She pressed on through the woodland, seemingly dragged by fate to the location that would grant her an answer. Entering the sanctuary, she saw a large group stood about the raised dais on the right-hand side. Seeing her enter, one of the men, a young man that she and others knew as Sol, entreated Gheata not to draw closer. In muttered whispers and slightly louder utterances, she caught the words 'Teodor', 'neuri', and 'dead'.

She barged past Sol and forced through the throng of people to reach the dais. And there, lying lifeless, and wrapped in a blanket, was Teodor. Gheata's heart felt heavy, and her eyes began to fill with tears. Using her staff for support, she leant down, regarding the man she had always found kind, but troubled, appearing as though he bore all the world's weight upon his shoulders. Now she knew what had weighed so heavily upon him.

She cradled his body in her aged, shaking arms, and pressed her face to his shoulder as she wept. The old woman had never been afraid or even hateful towards Death, but even she was not immune to the pain His passing brings.

Come dawn, a small group went with her as she carried Teodor into the woodland-- he had always lived off the land, and it seemed only right that he return to the earth in death. A hole was dug to lay him in; a halfling called Samael gave Teodor his rites. Gheata lifted her earth-soiled hands to the sky and besought nature to be gentle to this man's body and spirit, and prayed that the troubled earth might be nourished by him. She hoped that he would be able to find rest, in death. She recalled the dream of which he had told her during their final meeting, of his father passing him by on horseback, to prepare a final camp. She hoped that this dream might reach fruition, and that father and son would be reunited.

Teodor had little by way of personal effects; Gheata had been permitted by the others to take his shortsword, which now rested in her belt.

The next time she found Neyia, she was sure to embrace her a little more tightly.

[emptyanima]

The water, chilled by winter, babbled below Gheata as she spoke with Neyia. It was quiet here, peaceful, and while there was still trouble about, there was a prevailing sense of calm. It seemed that Gheata had been right, two weeks prior, when she had declared the day to be auspicious for its strangeness. These past days had been the fullest the old woman had experienced in recent years. She had met new people beyond counting, healed many, and ensured with her lovingly-prepared brews that they may be safer for a while. To Neyia especially, she had been a guide and teacher. Looking upon the young woman's face, pride welled in her heart.

She spoke to her of the daughter she had lost to uncertainty, and wept when Neyia promised to try to find the truth. That boldness of spirit was of the same kind she had seen in her daughter, and she delighted in its warmth, now.

The skies began to darken, but despite the cold, Gheata could see that spring was beginning to show itself. New life was starting to burst through the torpor of winter. A winter through which she'd helped several. The two of them began to trudge back to civilisation as dusk fell. The old woman's breath misted before her timeworn face, becoming gradually more shallow and hard-fought. Soon, she found herself standing in the path, bent over as she leaned upon her staff. In an instant, Neyia's hand was at her back, helping her along gently.

"Are you alright, dear?"

"Da, my sweet, just... tired."

The two of them reached the welcome warmth and bright braziers of the Sanctuary, which was busy as usual. Upon entering, Gheata espied Ela, the half-Vistana, sat upon one of the pews. Neyia helped the smiling, slow-moving woman to a seat beside her. Gheata's breaths became steadily more insubstantial, her squinting, watery eyes beginning to dim.

"Do not fret, my dears, it will be spring soon," Gheata whispered, "but I..."

She could barely speak now. Her weary form was finally giving in, but in usual stubborn Barovian style, Gheata struggled to the end of her words. "I was meant for the winter."

Her trusty staff slipped from her gnarled hands as she slumped forward. Neyia knelt to catch her, letting Gheata's head rest against her chest. The old woman wore the faintest smile as she felt Neyia's heartbeat, young and healthy. Soon, it was all she could hear. Her failing mind wandered, vignettes of a long life reaching the forefront of her memory for the last time. She would see her Artur soon. And if her dear daughter, Oana, had already passed from this life, perhaps she would see her too.

As a final, shallow exhalation escaped her loyal lungs, Gheata wondered if she might see Teodor again too. And then, as her spirit was freed from its mortal constraints, it soared upward, bound for Refugiu.

The End

[emptyanima]

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