An acrid scent hung in the air of the workroom. Two dozen corpses littered the basket at her feet. The size of hands, the eight spindly legs upon each hairy body, crippled, crumpled, dozens of glassy lifeless eyes shining up at her from the candlelight. The process simple enough, a sharp blade, a glass jar, the venom milked into it with great care but with a practiced hand. Much had to be done in a relatively short period of time. The medicines production was just as time consuming as the other, more sinister, product requested. She did not mind, work distracted her, coin pleased her, even her mothers visit was a strange comfort. This was control, this was familiarity, this is what she excelled at. Her craft, a craft that furnished her home and body in only the finest coin could buy. Yet her mind was troubled. Mistakes were made and work was repeated.
The night prior she sought counsel from her friend. Sat in the familiar spot outside the popular inn of Bree, they spoke. Much had troubled her, but he had brought her peace, reassurance and a means to express her frustration. Yet as always, she had recorded her thoughts within her diary, their companions, words of hope and some of hatred, but a therapeutic way of ordering her mind. The book neatly stored upon a shelf with others, a shelf that seemed to have been cleaned just as thoroughly as the rest of the home since her mothers arrival.
Am I repulsive? I actually asked you if I was, you of all people. A man who is far from pretty, by any ones standards, your face an unusual mosaic, too high in one place, off balance in another, yet eyes that would hold a womans attention for an age. Of course I knew the answer to my question, I wanted to hear it though, from a red blooded man with all the desires of any other man, a man that can barely keep his hands from me, albeit in the guise of friendship! I wanted to be told what those had told me so many times before. That I was arousing, desirable, beautiful, in one instance a goddess. I wanted to hear it with sincerity, in the open, for all who stood nearby to hear. I meant it when I told you, I am prideful, I thrive on the attention they give me, yet, the one man who should be saying such words, who should be lavishing me with attention, does anything but! You say I should speak on him of my frustrations, but what is the use? He is what he is, a grizzled, scarred man, older than I and set in his ways. You, my friend, you who loath what he does, what he is, actually advising me. I believe I love you all the more for it.
I speak of my likely ill founded fear of rejection yet there are greater matters at hand. Our little wretch has gone, with her my apprentice. A time when I could have used his skills, he disappears. In truth, I am concerned. Not regarding her, no, far from it, but for him. It is strange for him to simply vanish. I do so hope he didn’t venture somewhere to only meet his end at the claws of some beast. Miss Bloom, could it be you up and left to follow his trail like a pup tries to seek its master? I hope so, for your possible fate was not something I had a burning desire to bring about.
Mother, really, how many times must I say I do not like mead? Nor cabbage soup, yes, it is good for the complexion I know.
