"The Healer and the Herb-Seller" Log Date: 1/5/02 Log Cast: Davrik, Faanshi Log Intro: Death. It has become an enemy of Faanshi's, in the months that have elapsed since the execution of Mehul -- whom she loved, and who turned out to be guilty of murdering innocent graisha. Ever since Mehul's loss, during the time she spent among the Apisachi and the time she has spent in Haven since, the halfbreed healer has grown to hate the loss of life with a passionate strength that her gentle soul is able to summon up for almost nothing else in her spartan existence. Her conviction has only grown as she has had a recent reunion with the gladiator Tyler, who she discovered mad from delirium and exhaustion on the beaches of Haven... and who slew his own friend, all unknowing, in his madness. And the only thing that has been able to bring her back to gentler sentiments as of late has been the shocking declaration from Salmalin that he has fallen in love with her. What to do about it -- for what _can_ a humble shudra do, when a kshatri man proclaims his love her, even if he is an entirely unconventional kshatri? -- has preyed upon Faanshi's mind greatly. But not so much that she is distracted from her emnity of death, not even when a Mongrel stranger attempts to ingratiate himself to her by likening her to the Ushasti... and offering a potentially lethal herb to her as a gift.... *===========================< In Character Time >==========================* Time of day: Night (Duskside) Date on Aether: Saturday, June 24, 3909. Year on Earth: 1509 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Waxing Crescent Season: Summer Weather: Clouds Temperature: Comfortable *==========================================================================* Fairway and North - Haven Imposing buildings line the four corners of this intersection, some built from wood and stone while others sport the organic curves and flowing designs of shaping magic. One of the grandest belongs to the illustrious city guard, more commonly known as "the Hounds." Their headquarters is a squat, stone structure with a tile roof and a wide archway that leads into a courtyard beyond. Flanking it on either side are marble likenesses of the legendary Cerberus--the hound that earned them their name. This close to the center of town, the streets are active even into the early hours of morning. Shops and stalls outnumber private homes, many of them brightly painted with wood or stone columns along the front. Carts and the occasional chariot clatter along the paved road, moving to and from the famed Rialto to the south. Contents: Davrik Obvious exits: The Gem Inn Streets Bastion City Park The Rialto Faanshi At first glance, some things about this young woman are easy to discern. The garments she wears are those oft seen on Varati females, yet, she stands at only 5'9", small for a woman of that race, and her build is delicate for a Daughter of Fire as well. Shy or perhaps trained to submissive silence she must be, for she rarely raises her eyes to anyone unless specifically bidden, and she speaks almost always in a demure, deferential tone, regardless of whom she addresses. What portions of her skin are visible are a warm shade of gold; the few strands of her short hair, coal-black. Neither of these are terribly odd for Varati, yet no Varati would have her eyes, huge and liquid, set at a slight slant in her face... and the rich brilliant green of summer leaves. She is simply clad, her garments of humble make but excellent repair, the clothes of one whose household garbs even its servants well. A leyang of subtly patterned shades of red swaths her form over a gold-hued choli and scarlet silwar; her veil is blue silk, light and gauzy, just enough to give a hint of the shape of her chin and her mouth beneath it. On her feet are a pair of simple leather zoris, whose long straps are looped up her calves and tied behind them. Davrik Tall and lean, this man exudes confidence. His gait is cocky and long - as though he has traveled far and looks forward to the travel ahead. In looks he is not spectacular - indeed his skin holds a hue that is sun-darkened and ruddy all at once; his hair a coppery-carrot color, straight and just softer than straw; eyes are the color of a calm sea over coral or the color of the stones he wears in a braided band around his neck: aquamarine. His face leans towards boyishness and gives the impression that he has at least been well-fed, the high cheekbones having no starkness, his eyes no shadows. He wears a typical journeyman's outfit, one fitting of a trader. A white shirt with full sleeves, a brown sueded vest worn on top. Straight-legged pants tucked into worn, knee high boots. Old leather bracers are strapped to either arm, a single gold band is set on his smallest finger. Kosha This young dog, probably a few years old, seems to be an easy hundred pounds. He has large, wolfish pointed ears and paws that must have been positively enormous when he was a puppy, but which now harmoniously match his big muscular frame. He sports fluffy, multicolored fur of white, black, gray, and silver, thick stuff that seems ideal for attracting dirt, burrs, and any other manner of detritus and debris. His tail is a proud plume almost constantly in wagging motion whenever he happens to espy someone familiar to him. Alert brown eyes speak highly of this dog's intelligence. He is never very far from the shudra girl Faanshi, and seems always on the lookout for anything that might threaten his young mistress. Evening. Or near enough. The shimmer of color rides just over the horizen the moment the man known as Davrik strides from the Gem Inn and onto the streets. He pauses to look around, eyes catching in the misty dusklight as he follows the traces of shadows hurrying home. Not a bad afternoon for him, for one of the pouches at his side jingles merrily from gambling, others opting for herbal silence. His hand runs through his mop of hair and he steps onto the street. Faanshi is a normally thoughtful girl to begin with, but it is a Faanshi even more thoughtful than usual who makes her way back to Atesh-Gah after a foray into the Varati quarter of the city. One of the few vaisya families who feel her worthy of calling upon if they are in need of her talents has, in fact, called upon her. The wife of a struggling young merchant has been determined to be pregnant indeed, much to the father's delight. And Faanshi, with this evidence of the fulfillment of the tenth of the holy surahs casting her thoughts back to a declaration made to her by a different sort of Varati entirely, walks with basket at her elbow and dog at her side, frowning in deep musing to herself behind her veil. The way is well known to her by now, and this part of the city safer than many; safer here, perhaps, for a maiden to pay less attention to her path than she may in Bordertown. But then, that's what she has the dog for. Kosha lopes along at her side as stoutly alert as any guardsman, ears up, half happy simply to be Out and About with his beloved mistress, half quite happily watching for anything interesting or dangerous that might be about to get in her way. Davrik smiles at the sight of the hard-working shudra. Or is it the dog? Hard to say for he whistles low and sharp to catch either's attention. "Herbs for the missus?" He calls, his voice trained and smooth, a traders voice in how it sounds and carries. Whistles. Kosha knows those! His head swivels around in the Mongrel man's direction, and by way of reply he lets out a curious bark. More because of that than either the whistle or the call, Faanshi starts and then slows, turning her own attention in that direction. Green eyes above an azure veil peer through the lengthening twilight, and simply to be certain she lifts her voice in quiet reply: "I beg your pardon, Imphadi, do you address me?" Davrik bows his head, more or less to hide his smirk. "Indeed I do, lass." He moves closer, but not too close, and holds his hand out to the dog. One shoulder is dropped, the posture is non-threatening for all the twinkle in his eyes. "Do you need any herbs on your errands? I carry a fine choice. Or perhaps a tea - to soothe the senses, to bring sleep, to calm a master, or to quicken a dance and add it to your step?" Kosha is quite willing to sniff the hand offered to him, but Faanshi is more cautious than her hound. If she notes the smirk, she gives no sign of it -- though at the same time, that veil of hers does make reading her expression a trifle difficult to read. It does not obscure her features entirely, but between it and the growing dusk, they are less in view than they would certainly be in broad daylight. Unconscious thought almost makes her say that she has no need of herbs -- for generally, she doesn't. It has been a long time indeed since she has specifically needed to use herbs to tend someone, for at least in Bordertown, enough know her now to know that she can do with her hands what others do with herbs more than well enough. But then... not everyone is comfortable with the touch of her magic. And so she halts, and studies this stranger, and then says gravely, "I have a source already for most common herbs, Imphadi." Davrik waits until the dog is comfortable and gives him a little scratch behind the ear before holding his arms out. "Common herbs, for certain. But I do not sell the common herbs - unless they are asked for." His eyes rest on her and calculate and his voice drops. "You are not the type for cooking herbs. No... you've other needs... Ushasti?" Something flashes across Faanshi's eyes, then. Surprise, perhaps, that this Mongrel man knows of the women who serve Ushas -- or a tinge of wistfulness, swiftly concealed, if indeed it was there at all. "I do not have that honor," is all she says to that. "But if you have herbs appropriate for purification during prayer, I could perhaps consider your stock... though I cannot pay much." In the meantime, the dog wags his tail at the light scritching. It seems that at least for the time being, he is happy enough with the stranger. Davrik gives her a winning smile that doesn't meet his eyes. One hand goes to rest on the dogs head to pet, the other moves with him in the soft bow. "I do not have the honor of knowing all the herbs that go into such prayers..." Although, he probably does. "Since I have traveled extensively in the varas, I have met a few holy ladies and recognized something of them in you." Winning though the smile might be, it seems to have no immediate impact upon the solemn-eyed figure in blue and red and gold. Comparison to the Ushasti, though... Faanshi's gaze slides sideways for a few moments, distant, unreadable. Then she can be heard to murmur as she looks up again, "Thank you, you honor me. Have you sage, or sandalwood, and what are your prices?" "Sage. Sandlewood." Davrik laughs in mock-disgust. "Is that all you have for me lass? Trinkets. Indeed, I have." He tugs on a pouch, releasing the strings and pulls out a square of folded paper. He raises it to his nose, sniffs, then hands the paper to Faanshi. "Sandalwood. Fine batch. Two panas. The sage comes cheaper at a quintar." He ties the other pouch and releases another, removing another folded square. This he holds between two fingers. "I only sell the finest goods. I trade in the exotic and... quixotic." She might have an otherworldly, innocent sort of air about her -- the way the Varati veil their women does lend itself to such things -- but the eyes that study the trader and which then dip their attention to his wares speak of experience and age, rather than youth and innocence. "My needs are modest, Imphadi," says the shudra, "and so is my purse." She accepts the offered square of paper and sniffs at it herself, looking for scents she recognizes, and even peeks into the paper to judge color and appearance of what it contains. "However, I will relay news of your wares to more worthy ears. And I can offer you only two panas for the sage and the sandalwood both." Davrik grins true. "You should press them, for they may be fools to look beyond you." He murmurs, pulling another envelope from a pocket. Two slips of folded paper - one containing sage, the other a yet unnamed herb. "Two panas it is, my beauty. And to seal the deal - Savin. Do you know it?" Kosha waits, tail still lazily a-wag, head cocked curiously at this unexpected interaction between his mistress and the Mongrel; for her own part, Faanshi blinks at the compliment levied her, gaze turning flustered for a moment as she ponders whether it meant anything, or whether this herb-seller is merely employing a glib tongue such as she has heard used before in the Rialto. Satisfied with the sage, she nevertheless pauses in her inspection of the second square of paper. The scent is unfamiliar. So is the look of the stuff within. And so she shakes her red-swathed head, delicate dark brows knitting low and close over her liquid eyes. "No, Imphadi, nor its purpose. Would you do me the honor of enlightening me?" Satisfied the dog won't attack him without need, Davrik takes a step forward and takes his mistress's hand. Rolling it over palm up, he takes the square of savin and taps a very small amount into her hand. "This amount encourages the monthly blood to flow or water to be flushed from the body." Another tap, the amount nearly triples. "This amount causes too much blood to flow. Hemorages. Bloody urine. A great unpleasantness." He scoops the dry leaves back into the paper and folds it with swift, neat precision. "Somewhere in between can prevent births of unwanted nature. Instill this with clear alcohal. It's best used as oil - which I have also - and is more precise. But this is easier to handle for some, and easier for the novice." Faanshi's fingers subtly tense as her hand is taken -- a liberty to which she is not accustomed, not from strangers. But she does not protest, at least when she sees that this man is simply intending to show her the measurements for the herbs. She does, however, frown as its purpose is explained. For several seconds she is silent... and at last, turning her gaze away, she says lowly, "I thank you for the explanation, Imphadi, but I have no need for an herb of that purpose." Something in her voice suggests a troubling beneath that quiet demeanor of hers. Davrik says "It is best for swelling. The tiniest bit helps bloodflow. You'd be surprised how it may come in handy. Keep it. My gift to you, my green-eyed beauty. Dried as such, it can last a long time and it doesn't take much to do its work." He notes her concern with a cool smile. His familiarity with such things is noted, he sees, but often that which heals has a darker side as well. "The entire packet may kill a man, but it wouldn't be used for such a thing, would it, lass?" That one small word, 'kill', is enough to send a jolt of revulsion through the shudra maiden. She does not drop the packet -- but the way her eyes widen, as if it has suddenly transformed into a serpent in her hand, loudly signals her horror to appraising eyes. "It will not be used at all by me, Imphadi," she says then, and for all that her voice remains softly toned, there comes into it a hint of unshakeable resolve. "If it can kill, I do not want it. I can carry out its lesser functions myself without it, and I will not risk harming another if I misjudge a dosage. Sell me the sage and sandalwood if you will, Imphadi, but find another for this other." "I wonder how many herbs you use that have regularly destroyed a life..." He ponders softly, taking the packet back and tucking it away in his pocket. Davrik's eyes soften, and he touches the woven necklace at his neck as he gazes at the veil on her face. "Or what medicinals you are missing for your lack of interest in touching that which may also do harm in someone of a lesser mind." At this his eyes narrow. His fingers bring out another packet. "Chamomile then. I suppose you know it? "I am aware that many herbs can kill if used improperly," says the maiden. She does not flinch beneath the scrutiny to her veiled countenance, nor does her gaze go down as that of many maidens garbed as she would do. Not while death is being discussed. For a moment she considers elaborating -- and then holds her tongue. This man does not command her, such that she must explain herself to him. Moreover, she is tired, and she would rather abandon the subject of death as quickly as possible. Thus is she wary of eye now, this slender doe in Varati garb. "And aye, Imphadi, I am familiar with chamomile." That much, at least, she is willing to explain. Davrik smirks. "So I would figure." He merely watches her. Fatigue. Wariness. "You should hurry back to your bed, lass, but only after one last thing." The wariness does not leave her summer-green eyes, not at the sight of the smirk that twists the Mongrel man's mouth. Faanshi has no way of knowing how another's eyes upon her have seen shadowed innocence -- but that is exactly the expression she wears now, that of a soul who has seen too much, and who sees nothing here now to lighten the burden of her memories. She does not chastise, but she does gaze evenly upon the trader for a few long moments, as if by the simple level stare she might somehow ascertain the nature of his motives and his heart. She has yet to reach into her basket in search of the few coins she has upon her person, though she has a hand poised now to do so. "What more would you say to me?" Even now her tone is respectful, patient, gentle. But it goes with that too-old stare of hers. Davrik says "I need my two panas." Without a word, Faanshi then reaches into the basket. The coins are produced, and held forth. Davrik takes the coins, brushing Faanshi's hand. He bows again. "Any time I may serve you, lass, I'm sure you'll find me at hand." He pauses. For whatever reason, he shares this lastly, "I know poisons and potions, but to know a poison is also a good way to know a cure to one." Shrugging his shoulder back, he looks out towards the lantern lighter at the Gem Inn. "Not all have peace at their fingertips." He winks at her. "Let me know if the Sisterhood gives you their nod, eh?" Faanshi carries a great deal of power in her slender hands, and she has granted the peace of relief and health to dozens of people within Haven... though she has encountered at least one potent roiling mix of potions she was not able to heal, and so she does not commit the sin of pride in claiming that she can cleanse poisons by touch alone. Nor does she seem any more affected by that wink than she had the winning smile. But she does say, apparently quite seriously, "It is extremely unlikely, Imphadi." Nor does she bother to elaborate upon why. "But thank you for your encouragement, nevertheless." Davrik nods and finds another mark. He moves away into the shadows and calls out a name, muffled by his back and swallowed by darkness. [End log.]