Remedy

They averted their gaze when they saw him. They all did… from the lazy peasant male, relieved he would never be forced to serve for a land that gave him every opportunity to succeed in his miserable life. The highborn female, she could not stand the sight of it, for it reminded her of how fragile her own existence was. The pups, oh the pups, they turned and scattered when they saw his face. The leaf could only hide so much, the herbs dull the pain to only such an extent. But alas, the public, those that were oh so eager to forget the cause this wound was birthed from, they were disgusted by it, revolted, afraid. But they did not harbor the same introspection for their own selves, their cowardices, their selfish comforts, their desire to move on from their failure, as if it had never happened. To them, those wounds, those scars, even if they could only see what the tattered leaf did not cover, were inconvenient reminders. They were indications that their patriotism, their loyalty, their character, was but a joke. Spineless curs, they all were, how Falltore loathed them. For them, perhaps, it was best that they stay on the other side of the street, and keep their eyes trained anywhere else but on him.

The officer was silent, blocking the dismal world around him out, as he ventured to a part of the realm known for its failures of governance. Wolves with sordid intent and little use congregated like dregs in sewers here, filling up the taverns, the brothels, the shady corners where preposterous whispers of anarchy are breathed out. Sussex was a lost cause, if there ever once was. Yes, there were more wolves living dishonest and disloyal lives here than there were the opposite, and these days, more than ever. It would seem that those in the service had given up long ago of rooting out the chaos and restoring righteous order to a place that perhaps was once proud. But alas, perhaps that was what his charge was now. How many wolves in Sussex, after all, turned their back on the Crown, when they fought against the northern marauders, those that wished to plunder and steal from their dens. Or, worse, were silent permittors when those abhorrent Voxi used their precious university, a target of the Jacobites, as a staging ground. For this city to still stand was a mercy that it did not deserve to have, as far as Falltore was concerned. But lucky for it, he had not ventured to this foul place to uproot its putrid limbs of decay… just yet.

His local suppliers, how they disappointed him as of late. Supply issues, shortages, increase in prices. These were the lies they spewed, when it came to the necessities of an Imperial officer. He had not given up so easily for them, rest assured. After all… Falltore has numerous ways to ensure a certain degree of… compliance, when it comes to the provision of his needs. But alas… even under the utmost of pressure, not one had done their part to alleviate Falltore’s needs. Time was off the essence… but thankfully, he knew a place where he might be able to go. After all, those cutthroat shopkeepers who operated in Sussex, they always had goods Rionna did not, and that included herbs. Most peddled an assortment of foul wares, those used for recreational addictions, or for cowardly poisons and venoms. But… they knew best than to practice out in the open. Yes, Mainlanders rarely told the truth so blatantly… and it was a skill that, perhaps, better suited them in life.

But enough of that. Falltore was in need of herbs, his supply dwindling to critical amounts. His wounds, numb but for the day, were in dire need of redressing. Shop after shop, stand after stand, the brutish male scented each and every one. He glared at those who were stubborn enough to look at him, glared at those who reeked of dishonesty, glared at those who laughed or smiled or otherwise acted out an emotion they did not deserve to act out. And then… the scent of it hit him. It was, perhaps, a mixture of two, maybe three distinct odors, the combination of which was exactly what he was after. And it all lay before him, in a shop of modest appearance. By no means was it sightly, but he knew his needs lay within. He wasted no time, his sulking, ember-pelted frame marching to the dim threshold before him.

The shop was brand new but easy to come by with so many having died during the war, leaving plenty of vacancies open in these more army regulated lands and with Mithras as her husband, easy to get a hold of too. Her tail swayed as she went from herb to herb, making sure she had everything in the right place and wasn’t missing anything as she bumbled about with a hum that rattled her head, but she couldn’t even begin to hear. Despite being a bit out of tune, it had a siren like trill to it, beaconing sailors from the tied to settle down here for a drink, which Sussex was good for right against the ocean. She always had a good laugh at the thought of wolves manning ships and planks to go around taking things or fishing, but she had known stranger things.

Dusting some dirt from her metaphorical apron, she would get her shop hand to get a fire brewing and some tea steeping for anyone that might waddle their way into the place. She honestly didn’t expect many to pop up here, what with only some old clients even being down here after her old plan had been in the Highlands for years. Right, Saora. She let out a huff and a chuckle, breaking the song she had been humming right off. To think the country split instead of fighting for a solid winner, it was a joke and a half. Why put others into strife for longer than she had been alive to not even make it to an actual end? All those deaths were a waste, every rallied soldier seemingly wounded. It was all as pointless as pointless could be and now she even had a free ride to divorce if she wanted it.

It was tempting but the title of a noble clung to her teeth like sweet candy, she wasn’t about to lose that title just because her husband seemed to hate her guts. Would be nice to have someone that actually liked her as a spouse, but it wasn’t like they made this agreement out of love and admiration.

She was too busy in her own head to really notice anyone coming, her nostrils too distracted by a matrix of scent that a stray wolf hardly held any attention. With hop in her oversized steps, she was on her way making sure every last thing was perfectly placed. She was hardly a creature of order but to the unknowing, they might think she had OCD with how put together everything was within the stand. Maybe it was just her trying to prevent the house butler from telling Mithras that it was shabby on visits, she got enough of his complaints about her without having to get more about her place of business outside the college walls.

A soft song would start to be heard from her again, growing bored by lack of interaction and probably lack of notice of customers coming in.

As the scarred soldier entered the establishment with an uncanny silence, hundreds of scents met him, scents he both knew, and did not. Strange, how he had not seen this shop here before. But then again, his appearances in Sussex used to be so few and far between. When his disfigurement had first happened, aides were sent to find the needed herbs and remedies to treat his wounds. The list used to be so extensive, so much so that not every shop had every needed herb. Even fewer, in fact, gave the correct dosages, finding that the foolish soldiers assigned to look after Falltore were too stupid to know one leaf from another, to taste and test for quality. Routine was paramount, and consistency was key. So many times, they failed to do their tasks. While it pleased him somewhat that Falltore’s main doctor was adamant about the treatment regimen, and knew better than to do anything less than everything for the Lieutenant Major… it was an important lesson. Do your own shopping… there are far fewer mistakes that way. And would a shopkeeper really be so bold, after all, to deceive a wolf like him to his face?

The only wolf he saw, upon his entry, was a wolf of great size, her pelt a mixture of olives, browns, and greys, not unlike some of the remedies he had concocted for his treatment regimen. She was busy managing her affairs, unaware of his presence, if not for the moment. But a wolf like him, too, was hard to miss. After all, how many had such a profoundly obvious salve covering their faces, now torn and tattered, no doubt at the end of it use. At least for him… the henbane and mandrake had not worn off. But never mind that. He saw it as fit a time as ever to address the presumed proprietor. “What a nice place this is,” Falltore commented, almost genuinely, “I can’t say I have been to too many places around Sussex as well kept as yours is.”

Where she had not noticed another enter on more common senses, the perfume of old herbs would cause her to whip around and face a bulking man that looked a little out of place in a place of remedies, teas and wines. Though swiftly, she would take in the destruction that had been done to his face, noting the salves that were smeared all along the gashes. It was probably some of the worst healing she had seen in a long time, surprised by how old they looked yet lacking in closure, littered in scars. She wouldn’t focus too long on it as she noticed his mouth moving, seafoam shifting down to observe what he was saying, smiling as she realized it was all cordial sputtering. However, with the harsh aftermath of the wound, she couldn’t fully tell everything he had said but she got enough of it to get he was complimenting the little hobble.

“Ah do come in, come in! How sweet ye are! I only just obtained this place. Still gettin settled. Guess the prior occupant had died from that illness that plagued us hmm about a year ago, maybe a little more. Real shame, too bad I hadn’t been around these parts at the time ta help,” she sighed, feeling bad she couldn’t have saved the elderly man that she learned had lived here for years before Mithras bought this place for her. It felt like the Diptheria outbreak had happened only yesterday, launching the protests that lead into a war. Crazy how such events fell like dominos but at least the war was over now, and she could rest for the most part.

The thought of the war did make her squint a little at the man in her shop, pondering for a few moments before chuckling to herself. “Ya wouldn’t happen to be a soldier would ya? Or do you have ah more captivating story for those dashing marks on hopefully only ya exterior?” she inquired curiously as she ushered for him to make himself comfortable within the building. From chairs made of fallen lumber to just sitting at a standalone table or the bar. All of it he was welcomed to rest at.

With a sweet taste like that of cyanide, the shopkeeper greeted the scarred wolf as he entered, inspecting her store with a particular eye. He often thought to himself how useless he would be if not for his eyesight, somehow spared the pain of loss from what had occurred to him. They had taken everything else from him, his beauty, his image, his mercy… but spared his eyesight. Why, he wondered, would they do that? Was it carelessness, or did they want him to be reminded of the wolf he would always be? To look upon himself in a puddle and see nothing but a disfigured, broken freak. They wanted him to see himself as they had made him, and have it be the last thing that he would see… but in doing so, they had failed to finish the job. He would never have made such a mistake, if he were them, had they known what they were up against.

“Yes, a shame indeed,” Falltore retorted, his kind, sympathetic tone well rehearsed, “it was quite… trying for some.” In truth, the soldier was not the slightest bit familiar with the disease of which she spoke. Such conditions were not found in properly maintained areas, such as his military barracks. But among the dregs? Almost certainly. Sussex would harbor no shortage of such fiendish stock in that manner. He did not blame those who had perished, after all, such losses were expected, if not inevitable. But with such an outbreak always being a manner of when and not if, he had no pity for the dead. It was a useless exercise after all, a waste of concern spent in places that did not deserve it.

As the shopkeeper continued to speak, Falltore took note of two things. First, it was the manner in which she spoke her words, the accents and inflections so familiar to him, that there was no point in hiding or even denying any of it. He knew where she was from, by her words alone. But second, and perhaps more pressing, were her eyes. Those pale grey eyes looked over his face with an almost amused look, as if mocking him. He preferred this treatment than those who were too ill-struck or horrified by what they had seen, but to have his scars, missing flesh, and malformed bones called ‘dashing’ was something he would never have expected, even among the most experienced of medical professionals. It gave him some relief, albeit momentarily, that his condition was not as bad as he had once thought it to be… though by far the worse lay hidden under the bandages that remained.

But… to her question. As Falltore took her instruction and sat comfortably on one of her charred wooden seats, he met her gaze in turn, retorting with a small, polite laugh. “A soldier? No… not of the sort you have probably seen,” he said, with a smile, “I believe the term for me is… instrument of the Crown. Such a funny thing to call a wolf, isn’t it? But I suppose those meddling about in our politics have all sorts of curious mannerisms.” He continued to study the room, looking around it, before returning his gaze her way, taking note of her height, her appearance, every follicle of fur, to see how she might react. “As for my… appearance, let’s just say it is the result of a condition that I have. We all have our burdens to live with.” Scars, cuts into the bone that would never heal, burns, sores and pustules that would never go away, missing patches of fur and skin, and severe nerve damage. He would never be the same, he remembered them telling him so. One doctor gave his survival odds at 40%, even. But here he was, after everything that had happened, and everything he had yet to do.

“But enough about me and my profession,” Falltore went on, “today, I am just any other customer. Although, I do my research very carefully… since unfortunately not every herbalist is reputable these days. What might be your story? How did you come to own your own store in Sussex of all places?”

The alchemist observed his body language just as much as his mouth and she couldn’t make heads or tails of how honest of a man this was before her, feeling like he couldn’t even decide that himself. Only able to take his words at base value, the way he hesitated in his words made her think him either shyer than he let on or that he could be hiding something more interesting than just those scars that broke up his mug. Caution was often a sign of trying to sweep something under the rug or fear that saying something too upfront might hinder an interaction. In some ways, she was glad Mithras was a little too honest. At least there weren’t many guessing games that way but even he would pause mid-sentence sometimes and she never knew how to take it. Most of the time she was certain it wasn’t to shield her feelings but what else could he be hiding?

She should probably be focusing on this fellow here instead of trying to compare how he behaved to others, knowing everyone had their little hiccups in their personalities. Hardly innocent herself, knowing she talked like a drunken sailor half the time cause others have told her so. Not that she could help anything but the cussing, she supposed.

That gaze would follow him all the more as he took her gestures without any visible complaints, if anything it seemed like he had relaxed the longer he was here. He didn’t feel so awkward or unsure, assuming he was before. She wasn't the best at reading others. The denial of being a soldier would cause a brow to raise, especially as he described exactly what a soldier was a few moments later. Though if he saw himself as something so low, he must not be very high on the podium, or this was some kind of attempt at humor. This was exactly why she hated going to posh parties, it was wolves like this that gave her a headache more often than not. Politics would make her smile just a touch. By being nobility herself, she would think she should be very much a part of those politics as much as she didn’t want to be. In some ways she was. In other ways, well, she was as far from it as she could be. Really depended on the day.

“We sure are a funny sort, hmm? Must agree, most of us are prissy little weirdos that demean everyone,” she mused, wondering if that would stir the pot or put her somewhere not so great. “Thankfully for ya, I’m not as stuck up as the others. Keep the kids safe and do your job the right way and I’ll still treat ya as an equal. Matter o fact, I’m starting to think you need alcohol more than tea,” she laughed, walking away with a merry stride, going to grab one of the last of her father’s wine from before the border took over and she couldn’t get the chief’s supply anymore. She would mix the wine with some legal herbs for pain and faster healing, hoping for it to do a little more than just make him at ease.

She would miss everything he had to say about his appearance in the process, her eyes no longer on him to read his lips. As she turned around, it would seem she would catch him in the middle of asking her things, making her tongue tip poke out a touch with minor embarrassment that she wasn’t paying enough attention to her customer. Pushing the dish over to him with the fragrant wine “My story aye? Well, I’m a professor at the college. Could easily ask for my credentials there. Bellatrix by the way. Or hulking lady. The disabled teacher. Fluff butt. Loudmouth. Whatever one of them names gets their attention, got lots of em since I been there for uh, what was it? Oh! Four years. And well eh thought it was about time I open up shop somewhere. Sussex has such a nice view, overlookin the ocean and all. I love watchin the water,” she beamed, enjoying some company.