2020-07-25 - Planting Seeds

The Dream breaks apart, sending them back to their lives.

Or does it?

Devlin finds himself in his red and black martial arts shirt, yoga pants, and athletic shoes again. He's not in the town, though the smell of the ocean and the feel of a chill, damp wind blowing inland tells him he's still close to the coast. He's in a forest, next to a river, with a hunting lodge sitting before him. It was once a grand affair, arcing over the river via a footbridge, with a sweeping front porch and fancy, stained glass windows. Now it's in dire need of fixing up: the roof has more than its fair share of moss and lichen, some of the siding and molding is rotted, the bridge looks treacherous at best. Yet it seems habitable enough. The windows are clean and whole, and the frame's stable.

Out front of the lodge are a trio of those same rough-looking individuals whom he briefly glimped in the tavern; Coira's people. They're tending to huge boar-like creatures, some bearing tack like they're meant to be ridden. They have short, sharp tusks, and a variety of coat colors, just like a horse would. The three ruffians are two young men and a girl, late teens or early twenties at best. They're brushing the boars and arguing about whether or not some unnamed fourth party cheats at tiles, until Devlin appears. Then they all fall silent.

It's the girl who finds her voice first. "Miss is inside," she says, indicating the lodge. "She's been waiting for you."

The boys' eyes look like they're about to pop out of their heads. The Maestro is talking to them. "Gemsi," one of them manages to squeak out. "These are gemsi, Maestro." The boar-creature in question grunts and nudges the boy with its head. 'Hey, why did you stop brushing me? Chop chop,' seems to be the message.

"Not long, Maestro," the girl says, since her other compatriot is frozen on the spot. "Maybe a day? Perhaps two?"

The three teens watch Devlin with wide eyes, fascinated with what he says and his bowing. One of the bows tries to emulate him, fails. "Thank you, Maestro," the girl says, sounding uncertain and sincere at the same time.

The interior of the lodge is similar to the exterior: former opulance fallen into disuse, slowly undergoing repaired. The windows seem recently cleaned, to go by the dirty rags and buckets of filthy water scattered around under them. They depict various wilderness scenes, some tranquil, others not: a dormant, snow-covered stratovolcano overlooking a field fo wildflowers; a fore fire ravaging the landscape, trees standing in a river ablaze; a towering supercell of cloud and lightning on a vast prarie.

A huge, once-beautiful staircase sweeps up to the second floor. To the right are a pair of newly-replaced doors in blond wood; to his left, an entrance into what appears to be a kitchen. The later is where Coira appears, drying off her hands on a dish towel.

"Maestro." She's no longer in the working leathers Devlin met her in; the pants, yes, but she's wearing a black tunic now, with one of the boar-beasts from out front embroidered on it in silver thread, a pair of crossed spears behind it in simpler dusky gray. "It's good to see you again."

Coira laughs at Devlin's take on chores. "They're not fun, it's true. But they have to get done if we're to have anything to eat on. My teacher had me doing hers the entire time I lived with her, so they're something of a comfort for me." She reaches behind herself to hang the towel on a small hook just inside the door. "I'm glad to see you, Maestro. And grateful for your service." She gestures at the double doors opposite them. "My collection is in there, if you'd like to collect your payment. And I've cider, mead, or ale, if you care for something to drink."

"Your...sifu," Coira tries the word out cautiously, "sounds wise. My teacher told me I can't expect to care about something if I'm not involved in its upkeep. That's what breeds devotion to a thing: taking care of it." She considers his self-description as she moves to the doors. "So, a battlefield healer. Wiser, in some ways, than those who only make war. You're more aware of the resulting cost, and what's needed to fix it."

She opens the doors, and beyond is, indeed, a great room, complete with a huge, blackened fireplace. The walls are bare, but this was obviously a trophy room. And it was packed with them, to go by the tight, geometric arrangement of ghostly shapes where soot was kept off the walls by the heads and horns of who knew how many kinds of animal. Those are all long gone. Now, it's packed with things.

Coira had said she had a collection, and this wasn't any form of hyperbole. The usual fancy furniture one would find in a room like this has been replaced with display cases, work tables, and dressers, and every surface is covered. From fancy scrying orbs to ornate staffs to figurines to large glass jars of knicknacks: if it might be valuable, it's in here.

"Don't be," Coira says of him touching things, trailing behind Devlin so he has an unimpeded view. "I'm told Maestros learn the most by handling something. Over here is an apothecary collection, that might be of the most interest to you." She leads him to a large desk with a pair of ravens carved into the front; it looks like an office desk for a duke, or someone of similar station. Everything on it is either medically or chemically related: flasks of various kinds, plants and seeds in jars and packets, a collection of medicinal recipes in a small book, something dark blue in a glass bottle that claims to be a cure all.

She's quiet in resopnse to his other query, eyes narrowing, but eventually nods. "Yes. You may ask. I've been told I was at the head of an army." She picks up a scalpel and toys with it.

Coira makes a little frown of curiosity. "Ikea is a guild?" She's guessing based on his context. Without waiting for an answer, she traces a raven's beak. "This was from a count, who mother had been slain by a jealous older brother who thought he should inherit. The dowager had picked her younger child because she thought him the more capable business man, and given her older children holdings other than the family manse." She pulls a face. Slaughtering his own mother because he didn't come first.

She looks flustered when he mentions the cider. "Ah, yes--the cider. Apologies, I'll be right back." She exits via a small side door, and is gone for a few minutes; plenty of time for Devlin to peruse the items.

The seed packet has only four seeds: one wrinkled and dark gold, pea-sized; one a long, half-wing seed in brilliant blue with black spots, like a maple might produce; one flat and pear-shaped, with a modest buldge at the larger end, with a shell like lustrous gray pearl; one like a bulbil, though unlike the bulbils of the Real, this one is brilliant fiery red. The neat, precise writing on the packet dances in and out of Devlin's ability to read it. As he touches the packet, a frisson of something jolts through him; his heart flutters, his breath comes short.

Nothing on the desk does this to him. The scalpel Coira had been looking over is interesting, but it seems to him that the most it might do is 'cut more accurately'. Perhaps not what he's interested in. The book of potential recipes and cures he can't read.

The seeds, though. The seeds have promise. If he can figure out what the hell they are.

Coira returns shortly, two hammered copper goblets in her hand. The cider is dark and mildly sweet, a mix of fruits that taste similar to pear, apple, and cranberry.

Coira tilts her head, looking down at the seeds. "Mmm. I'm not sure I know this one," she says, tapping the bulbil. Something in Devlin twinges when her finger rests on it. "This," she indicates the wing-seed, "is from a shrouded maple. They grow in the valleys of the Eastern shore, which were carved out by great volcanic eruptions ages ago. The soil there is quite fertile, and many terrace farms occupy its length." She frowns, thoughtful. "If I recall correctly, the bark of this tree can be used to negate many poisons when made into a tea." Next she points at the gold, wrinkled seed. "This is from a crawling vine that bears small fruits. The fruits can be made into a paste that prevents wound poisoning." She considers the pear-shaped seed last. "I...believe this is a kind of succulent or shrub. Its foliage," she pulls a face at the word--she can't remember if it has needles, or leaves, or what, "has medicinal properties for fevers, if this text is to be believed." She frowns down at the packet, trying to decipher the (apparently bad) handwriting, shrugs. She straightens. "You'll need to experiment," she says, manner suggesting she thinks Maestros testing the medicinal powers of random plants on various people is entirely normal and expected.

"It's a fine cider," she agrees. "We brew it here, on the South Shores." She settles against the desk, raises an eyebrow at Devlin. "So. The vision. What did you make of it."

Coira shifts and glances aside, made uncomfortable by the question. "I...suppose I assumed it meant I would bring my step-mother to justive for her actions and reclaim my mother's throne." She stops, seems unsure how to proceed. Finally, she says, "But then I don't know what would come next, apart from fending off the people's enemies."

Coira is plainly turning the word 'feudal' over in her mind. "Yes and no," she says, eventually. "Family is defined as the family defines it--it is not only birth. There are legal proceedings to induct members into a family. Marriage is one, of course, as is adoption. This is the final say; not blood relation." She hesitates, blinks as though realizing something. "When I refer to my step-mother as such...this is a rude thing for me to say. I'm insisting she's only my mother by such strictures. I'm not allowing her to take my birth mother's place in the family. In our society, this is taboo. There are polite ways to indicate a birth parent over an adopted one, but to use such a title for her isn't one of them."

She shifts in her seat. "My step-mother," and now it might be easier to hear 'step-mother' as a substitute for 'that bitch who tried to get me killed', "is a legal inheritor of the leadership of the Southern Shore. She was accepted into the family, it's done. And though as the only child of the ruling couple I'm the most likely choice, with me absent, her relatives or my father's are valid options--as are my late mother's sisters and their children. The strongest families would decide among those eligible to inherit who it would be."

And so, it's quite complicated, who will be the next ruler. ...very complicated.

Coira gives Devlin a sympathetic look. It might be easy to understand why it would have been likely she'd fall into being a warlord, given what awaits her after deposing her step-mother. "My mothers' sisters," she says, nodding. "I...they don't know I lived, but they were good to me, as a child. They're merchants, they're not in the capital city often, but they've worked hard to not be shoved out of politics by my step-mothers. My father's family..." She stops short, sighs and looks down. "They're a family from the Inner Sea, quite far from here. They weren't happy with him when he chose to marry my mother and leave their islands. Their political pull here is negligible, at best." A fact which seems to bother her, though perhaps there's an angle of her father's betrayal to consider as well.

"A wise thing to teach your warriors," Coira says, gesturing at Devlin with her goblet. "For one never knows when one will be required to lead." She looks out over the room. "Even if it's only a handful under your care."

She listens intently, glancing from her cider to him and back. "Compassion," she echoes. It's not what she asked them to show the wizard. Her step-mother, though...

"I once intended to simply kill her," she admits, voice absent. Maybe she's replaying all those imagined showdowns in her mind.

She casts them aside with a shake of her head. "Since speaking with the lot of you," a rueful smile for the meddling Maestros and their advice, "I've been more of a mind to let the high courts deal with her. Present my case, let third parties make a decree." Justice, rather than vengeance. Compassion, after a fashion.

Coira makes a low sound. Though she doesn't say it, it's clear she's thinking something along the lines of 'killing her would be easier, though'. Hey, at least she's keeping that to her inside voice. Progress!

She straightens off the desk, nods. "The old woman who cared for me, she had some suggestions on how I might find a proper adviser. I'd tempt the lot of you to stay, but," she smiles, "I'm under the impression it wouldn't work anyways."

She takes up the packet of seeds and presses it into Devlin's hands. As she does so, Devlin feels four hot points pierce his skin, like brands. Like in a dream, he can't react. Coira jerks her hands back in surprise, confused. "I--that's not--Maestro!"

Devlin's hand aches, and he can't drop the seeds. The Dream collapses around him, burying him in that room of things, under a mountain which is a dragon's hoard, covering him in a hundred miles of ash.

He's back where he was before he found himself outside the lodge. The blisters of a second-degree burn score the palm of one hand, each the shape of the seeds in the packet. And in that same hand, the packet of seeds with the neat, nonsenical writing.