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Post by Richard Cabal on Dec 19, 2009 3:52:21 GMT
The snow lay light on the ground, mixing with dirt to become mud in some places and sucking on Richard's boots. His naked sword was in hand and his eyes roved over the bare trees and back to Grace. Always watching . . . he slept harder now. Tired from the constant surveillance. It was almost with glee that Richard seized the chance to go to the Forest of Balor. Despite its reputation, it seemed a simpler place. Simpler than Camelot.
Despite the cold, Richard was sweaty under his clothes. The walk had been hard because of the mud and snow. His breath still puffed out like smoke.
"Have you found your greens yet?" Richard called over his shoulder to Grace.
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Post by Grace de Beaumont on Dec 19, 2009 4:17:41 GMT
Grace had stopped to examine a tree, looking to the north side of the bark at the moss. Craning her neck, she looked to the branches. Trees were so much harder to tell what type they were in the winter without the aid of leaves.
"I'm looking for rowan trees. The moss on them can be scrapped off and steeped with foxglove for a heart tonic. Give a shout if you see one."
The quiet of the woods in winter was extraordinarily soothing to Grace, used as she was to the bustle and noise of the city. No carts driving by grinding gravel into the cobblestone, no cry of the street vendors, no clang of the bells calling the watch. Just utter silence and beauty.
Grace smiled ahead at Richard's back. In these deep woods, any winter wind was muffled, and though the skies were a sullen grey, the air was not that chilly. Grace had pushed the hood from her head, her soft blond hair falling free down her back. "Isn't it lovely in here? It's like we're in a world of softness. Even the sound is muffled." The young woman stopped and spun slowly in place, her breath gentle steam in the air.
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Post by Richard Cabal on Dec 19, 2009 4:30:15 GMT
Richard watched as Grace spun on the spot and his gaze went from watchful to gentle. She looked at peace and the sword in his hand became a monstrosity. Richard sheathed it, putting away the violence and wishing he could leave the sword behind. That would be fool hardy.
"You're beautiful, Grace." Richard finally said. "I don't if you've been told that, but y'are." He propped his hands onto his hips then and surveyed the trees around them. "Well none here. What do ye need the quicken for?" He used one of the common terms for a rowan. Then he strode forward, eyeing the trees as he looked for the low rowan.
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Post by Grace de Beaumont on Dec 19, 2009 5:02:01 GMT
Grace stopped still and stared at Richard, a slight tinge of pink on her skin. "I, uh... have been told occasionally. But not for a long time. Mostly in the vague court-way, like 'you have a beautiful daughter, my lord, and will you sign over several tracts of land to us?' " The girl gave Richard several sidelong glances, puzzled at the man's change in topics. "What brought that on?"
Glad of the distraction of the older man's question, Grace looked up at the trees again. "The moss. I need the moss from the bark for a heart tonic." Richard seemed nearly as distracted by their surroundings as she was and this caused Grace to grin. "The beauty of this place is deafening you a little, I think. It's a strange wood, isn't it? Quite old.... I don't remember seeing trees this big or twisty. Why do the branches twist and curl about like that?"
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Post by Richard Cabal on Dec 19, 2009 5:21:14 GMT
"You brought it on," Richard answered his own cheeks tinging pink from Grace's pointed question. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't speak that way to ye." The track he followed wound around some rocks.
"Aye, tis old. Not sure if I'm deaf . . ." He murmured and stopped to put his hands on one of the twisting trees. As he pushed against the bark and stared up at the branches above them, he noticed a nest. Abandoned for the winter of course, but a promise of what was to come.
"I don't know the forests secrets. I'm only a man-at-arms. A warrior. Tis not given to me to know." Running his hands over the bark, he noted the smoothness of it and the life humming under his palms. A part of him, buried deep from city and blood, yearned to be enveloped in forest. Held and cradled by the natural.
"There," he suddenly said and stepped around the tree to crouch beside the rowan. "Here she is. An' moss here." The tips of his fingers brushed over the moss and then he pulled his hands away. There was no telling how he might spoil the moss.
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Post by Grace de Beaumont on Dec 19, 2009 5:32:50 GMT
Oddly delighted to have discomforted the large man who was more often her mentor and adviser than mere guardian, Grace's cheeks dimpled as she poked him in the arm. "Silly. A lady is always flattered when a gentleman calls her beautiful. Don't you think after a year of traveling together, we can dispense with formalities?" Another poke. "You're my dearest friend in the world, Richard. You can say anything to me."
Feeling rather pleased with her little speech, Grace followed the man around some oddly shaped rocks. Grace stopped to stare at them -- they looked like tree stumps left behind by the axe-man but were clearly stone. How fae, Grace thought. Changeling wood. Shaking herself from her thoughts, Grace moved to where Richard beckoned.
"Excellent! And no, the moss is actually quite tough. Soft to the touch but with tenacity to hold onto the bark through the seasons." Taking out her knife and a small leather pouch, Grace began to scrape the moss away from the tree. "You called this tree 'she'," Grace noted as she worked. "Why is that?"
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Post by Richard Cabal on Dec 19, 2009 5:46:14 GMT
Dearest friend? Richard thought as Grace scraped the moss from the tree. She thinks of me as a friend? He knew it was stupid that he should be so rocked by that little pronouncement. After a year with only each other, it was natural that they would be affectionate towards one another. It took him a moment to realize he was deeply touched by it. As if a lonely part of him had only just been soothed.
"Hm? I don't know," Grace had interrupted him from his thoughts. "Just seems right ta call her a she. Besides," he squinted at the rowan. "She's shapely like most women. Pretty really. I imagine she's stunning when its Autumn. When she has her red fruits." Looking around, he noted some symbols written on another tree. Richard pointed them out to Grace.
"Pity neither of us can read those. Do ye need any more stuff?" Now that he was here, Richard was reluctant to leave.
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Post by Grace de Beaumont on Dec 19, 2009 6:01:03 GMT
"Oh-ho-ho-yes," Grace sang out, finishing the moss collecting before tying up the pouch. A slip of paper was removed from her bag and handed to Richard. "I've all those to get yet, if we can find them. Go ahead, try reading it out loud. You could always use the practice."
"I'm not sure we'll find all of it, but most should be about her someplace." Grace grinned from ear to ear. "Should take us most of the day."
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Post by Richard Cabal on Dec 19, 2009 6:07:10 GMT
For a moment, Richard blanched over the words that Grace had passed him. Then obediently set about sounding them out. His pronunciation was sloppy, the shapes of most words felt clumsy and wrong in his mouth. Then he went back over the list and tried to translate.
"Crusta pomum, well, ponum is apple. I don't know crusta . . . can't be crust. Quattuor alnus virga . . . quattuor is four. Four alder sticks? Debilito to weaken, sap. Sap. Pine sap. I saw some pines nearby. Ilex is holly. Holly Berries then. How many? The last is fir," Richard grinned. "I don't know about the words around it." He rubbed his forehead, trying to read Latin usually gave him a headache.
"Was tha' alright?" He looked up at Grace, waiting for her verdict.
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Post by Grace de Beaumont on Dec 19, 2009 17:30:30 GMT
Grace watched on, so intent on Richard's reading she silently mouthed the words along with him. She was very pleased with her student and beamed. "Very good, Richard! Yes, apple bark -- we can wait on that till we head back for there are apple trees just by the town walls. Four alder sticks, pine sap, holly berries -- I've a small bag to fill. The last is... there, that word 'argentum' is silver, then 'fir', so we need to find a silver fir tree. And this next...." Grace stopped and frowned, then threw up a hand.
"Well no wonder! I've written 'postulo' but should have put 'petiole'. Completely different words!" Clicking her tongue in exasperation, Grace took the list and tucked it away. "I'm so out of practice! Sister Ermelinda would have rapped my knuckles for sure. A 'petiole' is the woody stem part of a leaf, so therefore we need silver fir needles. 'Postulo' means.... like to ask or demand something." Grace snorted. "You would be doing quite fine if you had a proper teacher. I never realized how hard it was from the other side before."
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Post by Richard Cabal on Dec 20, 2009 0:04:51 GMT
"Oh aye, teaching is hard. Along with parentin'." It made him feel better to hear Grace announce that. "You're doing fine Grace." Climbing to his feet Richard pointed in the direction he had seen the pines.
"If you've finished with the rowan, lets head that way for some pine needles."
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Post by Grace de Beaumont on Dec 21, 2009 4:06:43 GMT
"Pine sap, Richard!" Grace sang out as she hurried after, tying the moss bag.
They spent a productive time collecting Grace's simples. Everything but the apple bark and alder sticks. Locating an alder tree was proving to be difficult. Grace wandered around a grouping a thickly bunched oaks, their feet covered in wild tangled brush. Her skirt snagged on a briar and Grace knelt to untangle the cloth before it ripped.
When she stood, the corner of her eye caught movement, the barest wisp of color off to the south. Something pale, ghostly, and the flesh on her arms and neck prickled with gooseflesh. "Richard?" Grace called softly. "I just saw something."
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Post by Richard Cabal on Dec 21, 2009 4:28:28 GMT
Pleasure from being in the forest vanished as his sword whispered from its scabbard. Richard stalked to the area Grace was and scanned the area. The hand not holding the sword half reached for Grace, a protective gesture. A chill stirred the hairs on the back of his neck.
There was a crack of sticks and Richard whirled to face it. A pale old woman emerged from the black trees. Her nose was long and crooked, her hair like white twigs and eyes were bits of coal. When she smiled, Richard could smell rotting flesh and see blood stains.
"Hag," Richard hissed and then stumbled backwards, pushing Grace as she did so. She had cut across him with long nails, supernaturally fast, she had cut his cheek. "C'mon sweetheart. We have iron."
The hag was not impressed with his growling threat and she came at him again. This time Richard used the reach of his sword to aim for her spindly arms.
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Post by Grace de Beaumont on Dec 21, 2009 4:44:41 GMT
Grace startled when Richard drew his sword, opening her mouth to wonder at the abrupt action but then he was moving, his eyes fierce. Whirling and backing next to her tall guard, Grace now saw what was threatening them.
Horrid, horrid creature! Hand raising to her nose at the petrid smell coming from the.... old woman? "What's.... is it...?" But Richard's full attention was on the woman. It -- for it could only be called an 'it' -- approached swifter than she could imagine, striking out viciously at Richard's face. Grace gave a short cry of alarm.
Without looking down, Grace snapped out her dagger, holding it tightly but unsure what to do. This was obviously a magical creature -- could it even be hurt by a blade? Richard growled at the thing, then swung his sword. Grace stepped further back to give him maneuvering room.
Something grabbed her neck and Grace acted on instinct, striking out blindly behind her with the dagger.
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Post by Richard Cabal on Dec 21, 2009 4:56:46 GMT
The hag had dodged, laughing at him and there was silver saliva on her lips. Dripping and sliding down to her chin. Movement behind him, Richard moved to try and get a better view of the field. Two of the bitches and one looking to make a meal of Grace. A feral grin split his face, he was enraged that the otherworldly could dare come and attack Grace in this place.
He charged the same hag who had swiped him, swinging and thrusting with the sword. Blocking each attack from the hag. Snarling when she grabbed his sword and even though the iron blade burned her skin she held on. By all that was holy, it was strong. She pushed his blade away to expose him.
Richard let go, the sudden lack of resistance making her stumble and he pounced, fists slamming into her face. When they were both stable he kicked and grabbed, throwing her against a tree. Richard ignored her then, reaching for his sword and looking for Grace.
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