(Nightshade Intro in Poet's Place)
((add some stuff about why she went in there... traveling and no doubt Poet would leave a sign that the place was free for use by passersby... maybe some runes, like a hobo sign?))
Nightshade slipped in and sat heavily on the floor before the fire. She was little more than a heap of deepest bluish purple fabric. She pushed back her hood and winced as the flood of light stung her ice blue eyes. Blinking, trying to get her eyes to adjust to even the firelight, she regained her focus but a glint off to the right caught her eye. She reached for the shining object and shielded her eyes as she drew the thing to her.
Now within her hands was a highly polished copper tray. Her fingers admired its fine edge work, smoothly tracing the detailing as she tilted it then she stopped cold. A face had appeared in the smooth center of the tray. Her fingertips moved over the image in the tray, then Nightshade drew her hand to her face and watched those fingers brush a pale cheek and soft pink lips. She looked into ice blue eyes that had not beheld this face in a very long time. One hand slid up to brush through raven black hair, fine as satin and extending long past her shoulders beneath her cape.
Nightshade smirked at the image of the young woman in the copper tray. She whispered in the softest hush of a voice that still sounded too loud when she heard it, "What an odd creature you are. Skin too pale, eyes too light, hair too black." She laid the copper tray back in its place and scanned the rest of the room. The place was shelf after shelf of tomes and scrolls. The furnishings were simple but looked comfortable, a couple of writing desks, and some chairs circled near the fire.
When Nightshade's gaze returned to the dancing firelight, there was a question in her mind. It was likely spawned by seeing herself for the first time in many years. "What is your name, Nightshade? Your real name? Do you remember before... before you were known as a healer... and a killer?"
Drawing her knees up and crossing her arms over them, she continued to watch the fire. Her eyes saw the flames, but in her mind was a child, merely five summers old. Nightshade recalled the accident. Her friend had been caught by a wagon wheel. The flesh torn near to the bone and all she herself could do was run to her friend, touch her. And so she did. Nightshade could still see clearly in her mind's eye her own small child's hand as she passed her own fingers lightly over the wound, slowly making it less of a wound... and less... and then, no sign that the other child was ever injured.
Then they came, she recalled, asking for... Nightshade shook her head. She couldn't recall who they asked for, not by name, not anymore. However, she could still recall the crowds that eventually gathered and would not go away. She recalled that boy. His name was... Seth, yes, Seth. She had seen stranger after stranger, illness and pain and injury beyond number, but that boy Seth... It was still a chilling memory, even hearing the name only in her mind. Or did she whisper it just then?
Nightshade shifted her elbows to her knees and hugged her own shoulders to ward off the chill. She recalled the boy's fevered brow, his small body racked with chills and pain. Her hand went to his face and her weariness let it rest there... too long. She stayed too long. Now she laid her head against her arm and sighed heavily. All of that weariness was still with her. She had seen the boy go still. She had felt him grow cold. She knew it was her touch that sent him to the grave.
Suddenly lifting her head, Nightshade called aloud, "Sarah. My name is Sarah." Now she remembered hearing them call to her, either begging or cursing. Throngs of people had followed after the night with Seth. Half wanted healing, the other half wanted her head on a pole. She was nine years old. Seth had just turned eleven. Very shortly her father ushered her out to a dark edge of town, forcing her to hide under bundles in the back. When he deemed they were safely away, then he set her out of the cart and bid her go.
She had never left their village. She had no idea where to go. She asked her father through choking tears. He said, "Anywhere. Just leave us be." then got back in his cart and drove away. Nightshade's memory through the next years was quite muddled until they began again with the herbalist who took her in, collected much gold for her 'work' and first gave her the name Nightshade.
Sarah had often seen the wild flower that grows a deep bluish purple with a bright yellow center. She knew its power to cure many ailments but if too much is taken... Aye, if the touch is left too long, it kills as well.
Nightshade finally had enough of the fire. She rose from the floor in one fluid movement. With long pale fingers she restored her hood, obscuring her face again. She drifted quietly to the door with one last look at the glowing fire, then stepped through the doorway and into the comforting darkness of the cool night.
Unseen and unheard, the Necromancer watched the cloaked figure emerge from the Poet's place. He slipped by her, still so much in the shadows of trees as to be invisible, yet Nightshade shook off a shiver of something, someone, passing her in the dark, almost passing through her, or so it felt.
Indeed the Necromancer felt the heat of the passing. His skin tingled from the near warmth of the Living, even as he passed through the closed door of the Poet's place. He slowly stepped from the shadows into the room, his long flowing robe of black satin seeming to detach itself from the darkness. Looking around the room, he avoided the fire's glare. His eyes are so very sensitive to light. One boney white hand slowly reached up to push back the hood of the black robe, echoing Nightshade's earlier movement.
He brushed back the few strands of long white hair that escaped the robe's protective covering. He too noticed the copper tray laying upon the floor. To his vision, the remnants of heat remained on the object, showing where a living hand had recently touched its cool surface. He sighed. The sound was like that of old rustling leaves upon the ground at Autumn's end. With a slight gesture, the copper tray rose and floated to his waiting hand.
Out in the darkness, Nightshade turned to look back. She could make out little more than the firelight glowing through the windows. Her hair and cloak floated in the night breeze and were perhaps moved an ill wind that was yet somehow soothing. She wanted to go back. She wanted to step in the direction of that passing... spirit?... but could not make herself move.
Though he was within, the Necromancer turned slightly at a sound or whisper of movement outside. He sensed a hint of flowering nightshade in the air. There was something about that. Perhaps earlier he had sensed the passing of one like himself out in the dark. He smiled sardonically, having thought himself long ago past the point of being lonely.
Nightshade tucked her hair back into her hood again and pulled her cloak tightly around her as the chilled breeze seemed to grow stonger and it shifted to push her where she could not seem to will herself to go. She took a few short steps back toward Poet's but paused there again. She had to move on, so her feet finally directed her away from the place and into the dark woods.
Necromancer gently ran a hand, as white as a corpse, over the tray's surface. If his face had been seen, there was a momentary flicker of pain crossing it and then it was gone. He listened with intent as the night, atuned to him in so many ways, began to howl and the wind rose in pitch. He dismissed it then, and stepped back into the shadows from which he came. He drew his cloak around him and slowly faded into the darkness that was not there except at his bidding. He slipped from the room with a soft sound as that made when a body's final breath leaves it.
(dj, dp)
