« Reply #2 on: November 04, 2015, 05:16:35 PM »
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.
« Last Edit: November 07, 2015, 04:48:00 PM by emptyanima »
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