This roleplay is open to all ages in respect to the holiday, all posts must follow forum rules and be posted in respondence to this post or the most recent IC post from Kaveh. I will not be answering pm responses to this roleplay unless contacted after our character's scene finishes.
Any and all humanoid characters welcome. Kaveh is settled into a medieval fantasy far from his homeland, so any witches, warlocks, vampires, werewolves, spirits, etc, are welcome to join in and get a treat from the herbalist.
✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃠☽⋆⁺₊✧
The capital rested beneath a thin quilt of mist that Halloween night, the air touched with that unmistakable mix of woodsmoke, cooling wax, and faraway laughter. Autumn had settled fully into its bones. The cobblestones were slick with damp leaves, the gutters carried soft rustles of gold and crimson as the wind stirred them. In the heart of the city candles flickered behind shuttered windows, casting amber faces through pumpkin grins and glass panes alike. But on the far edge where the light of the streets began to fade and the hum of the capital softened to a distant murmur stood a small plot of land that belonged to one man alone.
Kaveh’s land.
It wasn’t much, just a clearing marked by a leaning fence and a scatter of trees whose bark peeled like ancient parchment. Most notable was the wagon that served as both his home and workroom. The little patch was alive in its own quiet way, the air holding that strange stillness that comes only on nights where the world feels between seasons or perhaps between worlds. The trees swayed gently above the wagon, their branches reaching and clawing at the faintly starlit sky while the faint orange glow spilling from its windows lent the clearing a tender warmth. The wagon itself was a creature of character and history. It had once been vivid—painted in bright reds and yellows that caught the sun like fire, but time and dust had dulled its brilliance into softer humbler hues. In preparation for the season Kaveh had repainted and replaced what he could: fresh strokes of color along the trim, resealed seams against the creeping damp, replaced a few cracked shingles on the roof. The rest he left as it was proof of years spent traveling, surviving, and settling where the road ended. Its roof curved like a wave mid-crest with its surface layered in mismatched shingles. From the eaves hung charms, talismans, and wind chimes that whispered in the light autumn breeze. Between them fluttered small decorations made for the holiday—paper bats, dried gourds painted in soot and ochre, and strands of autumn leaves tied with twine. They clinked and rustled softly, the sounds blending into the breath of the night.
To one side of the wagon stretched a makeshift awning, built from salvaged poles and canvas patched with hand-stitching. Beneath it stood a broad wooden counter where Kaveh greeted those who came seeking brews or counsel. Tonight though, the counter was bare save for the gleam of brass tools and the faint scent of herbs—no bowls of treats, no offerings left unattended. Trick-or-treaters who wandered this far from the city would have to knock. The soft inviting glow that leaked from the windows promised welcome, but not presumption; the lights said plainly: someone is home—if you’re brave enough, ask. Inside, the wagon was a den of warmth and organized chaos. The scent would strike visitors first. Clove and thyme mingled with a gentle note of woodsmoke, layered over the faint sweetness of dried citrus peels. Bundles of herbs hung from the low ceiling beams, some so dense that the air itself seemed green. The tiny woodstove inside crackled softly, a brass kettle murmuring above it while along the walls shelves overflowed with jars of preserved roots, folded sketchbooks, dried petals, and labeled tinctures. In the far corner a narrow bed was piled high with heavy embroidered blankets in deep rust and gold. At the back of the wagon sat his true workspace: a low desk beside the rear window illuminated by the muted glow of an oil lamp whose glass had been tinted in shades of moss and amber. There, a brazier burned slow and steady, its rim marked with dark stains from tinctures that had boiled over one too many times. Pestles, flasks, and fragments of parchment covered every inch of the desk and yet it was not clutter—it was rhythm, the living pulse of a man who built beauty from disorder. Every sound—the creak of the roof, the soft hum of a hanging charm, the steady crack of the fire—wove together into something serene and familiar.
Outside, his lanterns cast halos of gold across the damp grass. The clearing glowed softly through the fog, a beacon of comfort at the edge of the world. Though the night carried its share of spook and shadow, Kaveh’s plot felt different. Less haunted, more alive. A place where even the spirits might pause, drawn by the warm scent of spice and smoke and linger just a moment longer than they should. From the path beyond the faint crunch of approaching footsteps could be heard now and then—hesitant, muffled by fallen leaves. Trick-or-treaters, perhaps, or wanderers too curious to resist the glow. They would see the dim outline of the wagon beneath the trees, the flicker of lanternlight through colored glass, and the faint curl of steam rising from its chimney. They would have to gather courage to approach, to knock upon the old red-painted door.
Because Kaveh’s home did not offer itself freely. It waited. Patient, quiet, and warm—a sanctuary against the chill. The sort of place that seemed to breathe as though aware of who came seeking it, and whether they came for candy, for cure… or for something else entirely.
Any and all humanoid characters welcome. Kaveh is settled into a medieval fantasy far from his homeland, so any witches, warlocks, vampires, werewolves, spirits, etc, are welcome to join in and get a treat from the herbalist.
✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃠☽⋆⁺₊✧
The capital rested beneath a thin quilt of mist that Halloween night, the air touched with that unmistakable mix of woodsmoke, cooling wax, and faraway laughter. Autumn had settled fully into its bones. The cobblestones were slick with damp leaves, the gutters carried soft rustles of gold and crimson as the wind stirred them. In the heart of the city candles flickered behind shuttered windows, casting amber faces through pumpkin grins and glass panes alike. But on the far edge where the light of the streets began to fade and the hum of the capital softened to a distant murmur stood a small plot of land that belonged to one man alone.
Kaveh’s land.
It wasn’t much, just a clearing marked by a leaning fence and a scatter of trees whose bark peeled like ancient parchment. Most notable was the wagon that served as both his home and workroom. The little patch was alive in its own quiet way, the air holding that strange stillness that comes only on nights where the world feels between seasons or perhaps between worlds. The trees swayed gently above the wagon, their branches reaching and clawing at the faintly starlit sky while the faint orange glow spilling from its windows lent the clearing a tender warmth. The wagon itself was a creature of character and history. It had once been vivid—painted in bright reds and yellows that caught the sun like fire, but time and dust had dulled its brilliance into softer humbler hues. In preparation for the season Kaveh had repainted and replaced what he could: fresh strokes of color along the trim, resealed seams against the creeping damp, replaced a few cracked shingles on the roof. The rest he left as it was proof of years spent traveling, surviving, and settling where the road ended. Its roof curved like a wave mid-crest with its surface layered in mismatched shingles. From the eaves hung charms, talismans, and wind chimes that whispered in the light autumn breeze. Between them fluttered small decorations made for the holiday—paper bats, dried gourds painted in soot and ochre, and strands of autumn leaves tied with twine. They clinked and rustled softly, the sounds blending into the breath of the night.
To one side of the wagon stretched a makeshift awning, built from salvaged poles and canvas patched with hand-stitching. Beneath it stood a broad wooden counter where Kaveh greeted those who came seeking brews or counsel. Tonight though, the counter was bare save for the gleam of brass tools and the faint scent of herbs—no bowls of treats, no offerings left unattended. Trick-or-treaters who wandered this far from the city would have to knock. The soft inviting glow that leaked from the windows promised welcome, but not presumption; the lights said plainly: someone is home—if you’re brave enough, ask. Inside, the wagon was a den of warmth and organized chaos. The scent would strike visitors first. Clove and thyme mingled with a gentle note of woodsmoke, layered over the faint sweetness of dried citrus peels. Bundles of herbs hung from the low ceiling beams, some so dense that the air itself seemed green. The tiny woodstove inside crackled softly, a brass kettle murmuring above it while along the walls shelves overflowed with jars of preserved roots, folded sketchbooks, dried petals, and labeled tinctures. In the far corner a narrow bed was piled high with heavy embroidered blankets in deep rust and gold. At the back of the wagon sat his true workspace: a low desk beside the rear window illuminated by the muted glow of an oil lamp whose glass had been tinted in shades of moss and amber. There, a brazier burned slow and steady, its rim marked with dark stains from tinctures that had boiled over one too many times. Pestles, flasks, and fragments of parchment covered every inch of the desk and yet it was not clutter—it was rhythm, the living pulse of a man who built beauty from disorder. Every sound—the creak of the roof, the soft hum of a hanging charm, the steady crack of the fire—wove together into something serene and familiar.
Outside, his lanterns cast halos of gold across the damp grass. The clearing glowed softly through the fog, a beacon of comfort at the edge of the world. Though the night carried its share of spook and shadow, Kaveh’s plot felt different. Less haunted, more alive. A place where even the spirits might pause, drawn by the warm scent of spice and smoke and linger just a moment longer than they should. From the path beyond the faint crunch of approaching footsteps could be heard now and then—hesitant, muffled by fallen leaves. Trick-or-treaters, perhaps, or wanderers too curious to resist the glow. They would see the dim outline of the wagon beneath the trees, the flicker of lanternlight through colored glass, and the faint curl of steam rising from its chimney. They would have to gather courage to approach, to knock upon the old red-painted door.
Because Kaveh’s home did not offer itself freely. It waited. Patient, quiet, and warm—a sanctuary against the chill. The sort of place that seemed to breathe as though aware of who came seeking it, and whether they came for candy, for cure… or for something else entirely.
The fog was soft as breath along the road, curling around Jordan’s boots and the worn leather of her armor. She had followed the scent of clove and woodsmoke through the thinning mist, her pace unhurried despite the distant laughter echoing from the city behind her. The quiet clearing drew her like a promise.
The wagon stood bathed in lanternlight, its colors softened by the night and the passing years. Charms and dried herbs swayed gently under the awning, whispering to one another in the language of the wind. Jordan slowed, her hand brushing the hilt of her sword more out of habit than caution. The warmth of the glow spilling from the windows felt too human, too kind, for danger to dwell here.
She lingered a moment at the edge of the path, taking in the scent of thyme and smoke. “It smells like the mountains in late autumn,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Clean. Honest.”
The warrior stepped forward, boots finding the cobbled stones that led to the red-painted door. She paused there, tilting her head as if listening to the wagon breathe. Then she raised her hand and knocked, the sound steady but not demanding.
“Herbalist,” she called softly. “If your hearth welcomes wanderers, I’d trade a story for a cup of whatever you’re brewing.”
Then she waited, her breath mingling with the mist, the lanterns flickering in quiet rhythm with her heartbeat.
Inside the wagon the air was rich with the scent of steeping herbs, steam curling from a brass kettle that hissed softly atop a small iron stove. Kaveh had been perched on a low stool carefully blending cinnamon, citrus, and star anise into the simmering brew when the sharp rhythm of knuckles against wood startled him. The stool rocked dangerously as he rose too quickly; steadying it at the last instant with a quiet laugh that slipped out more from surprise than grace. A visitor. His first of the night. His heart leapt like a child’s, warm and light, at the thought. Kaveh brushed his palms down his tunic, straightening the loose folds of the earthy brown fabric before he stepped toward the door. In the lanternlight his silhouette seemed carved from dusk itself: tall, lean, and sinewy, his every movement fluid with the ease of a man used to narrow spaces and quiet company. The warm bronze of his skin caught faint glints of the lamplight and when he passed the small mirror by the shelf, the painted lines of kohl—black whiskers drawn over his cheeks, a darkened tip along his nose—made him grin anew. A cat for the autumn night.
His hair, thick and dark as night was tied back with a simple leather cord, a few loose curls tumbling free to frame his face. The golden-brown of his eyes flickered like honey in candlelight, alight with boyish joy as he unlatched the door “Ah, so it’s true,” he greeted warmly, voice touched with an accent that rolled like desert wind “A traveler finds her way to my door at last.” He stepped aside, extending an open hand to welcome her in “You are the first visitor of the night,” he added, a spark of pride in the words “Please come in. It’s small, I’ll warn you, but cozy once you settle.”
Inside, the wagon glowed with inviting warmth. Books stacked beside jars of herbs, a bed tucked into one corner, and strings of dried flowers hanging from the rafters. As Jordan stepped in, Kaveh moved with practiced grace despite the confined space; his bare feet silent against the wood. He gestured to a small chair beside the stove “Sit. The cold seeps in too quickly otherwise,” he murmured, closing the door with a soft thud that sealed them in warmth and quiet. From the stove, he poured a cup of freshly brewed herbal tea, the fragrant steam curling between them “You offered a story,” he said, tone gentle, almost reverent. “I come from lands where stories are as precious as coin—perhaps more so. I would be honored to hear one.”
He handed her the cup carefully before he poured himself another and lowered onto the edge of his bed. The smile that found him then was soft and sincere “Drink. It will warm your bones. Then tell me,” he said, golden-brown eyes steady and curious, “what tale has wandered this far to find me?”
His hair, thick and dark as night was tied back with a simple leather cord, a few loose curls tumbling free to frame his face. The golden-brown of his eyes flickered like honey in candlelight, alight with boyish joy as he unlatched the door “Ah, so it’s true,” he greeted warmly, voice touched with an accent that rolled like desert wind “A traveler finds her way to my door at last.” He stepped aside, extending an open hand to welcome her in “You are the first visitor of the night,” he added, a spark of pride in the words “Please come in. It’s small, I’ll warn you, but cozy once you settle.”
Inside, the wagon glowed with inviting warmth. Books stacked beside jars of herbs, a bed tucked into one corner, and strings of dried flowers hanging from the rafters. As Jordan stepped in, Kaveh moved with practiced grace despite the confined space; his bare feet silent against the wood. He gestured to a small chair beside the stove “Sit. The cold seeps in too quickly otherwise,” he murmured, closing the door with a soft thud that sealed them in warmth and quiet. From the stove, he poured a cup of freshly brewed herbal tea, the fragrant steam curling between them “You offered a story,” he said, tone gentle, almost reverent. “I come from lands where stories are as precious as coin—perhaps more so. I would be honored to hear one.”
He handed her the cup carefully before he poured himself another and lowered onto the edge of his bed. The smile that found him then was soft and sincere “Drink. It will warm your bones. Then tell me,” he said, golden-brown eyes steady and curious, “what tale has wandered this far to find me?”
Jordan stepped into the wagon, her movements careful as if entering a sacred place. The warmth met her first, then the scent, rich with spice and memory. The walls seemed to hum faintly, alive with years of stories soaked into the grain of the wood. She took in the bundles of herbs, the soft clutter of books, the shimmer of glass jars catching lamplight.
“You have built a world inside a heartbeat,” she said quietly, settling onto the chair he had offered. Her armor creaked softly as she sat, the sound oddly human against the whisper of the kettle. “Small, yes. But it feels older than the city itself.”
She accepted the cup, fingers curling around the warmth. The steam brushed her cheek like breath, carrying the scent of citrus and star anise. After a small sip, she smiled. “Perfect. It tastes like calm.”
Her gaze lifted to meet his, thoughtful but unguarded now. “As for my story,” she began, eyes drifting toward the window where fog pressed like a listening ear. “It is not a tale of dragons or kings. Only a soldier who laid down her sword and found she had forgotten how to be still.”
She paused, the firelight catching the faint scar that crossed her jaw. “The road has been kind enough to let me remember. Tonight, it seems, it led me to tea.”
Jordan took another sip, her voice softening. “Now, herbalist, tell me, what brings a man with hands that steady to a life this quiet?”
“You have built a world inside a heartbeat,” she said quietly, settling onto the chair he had offered. Her armor creaked softly as she sat, the sound oddly human against the whisper of the kettle. “Small, yes. But it feels older than the city itself.”
She accepted the cup, fingers curling around the warmth. The steam brushed her cheek like breath, carrying the scent of citrus and star anise. After a small sip, she smiled. “Perfect. It tastes like calm.”
Her gaze lifted to meet his, thoughtful but unguarded now. “As for my story,” she began, eyes drifting toward the window where fog pressed like a listening ear. “It is not a tale of dragons or kings. Only a soldier who laid down her sword and found she had forgotten how to be still.”
She paused, the firelight catching the faint scar that crossed her jaw. “The road has been kind enough to let me remember. Tonight, it seems, it led me to tea.”
Jordan took another sip, her voice softening. “Now, herbalist, tell me, what brings a man with hands that steady to a life this quiet?”
Kaveh smiled faintly at her words, his gaze lowering to the steam curling from his cup “Sometimes,” he said after a long pause, voice warm yet threaded with something weary, “it’s best to stay still. The mind, the body, the soul. They wear down faster than we realize. The world demands so much movement of us that we forget to rest. And when we finally stop…” He trailed off, glancing to the fire where the light licked at the small kettle’s base, “...we hear ourselves again. That can be the hardest part.” His lips curved faintly as he looked back to her, the lamplight gilding the bronze of his skin and the gold-flecked brown of his eyes. “You’ve done well to listen. Few do.”
When her question came, his hands stilled. For a moment the quiet filled the space between them, heavy but not uncomfortable “I have lived enough,” he admitted at last, his tone low and honest, “to know that not every story is meant for retelling especially not on a night meant for laughter and sweets.” His expression softened, touched by something almost wistful. “But I will tell you this much: I come from lands far from here. Places where the air tastes of dust and salt, and the nights hum with heat instead of cold. We had no such thing as this—this ‘Halloween.’ No costumes, no carved gourds glowing in the dark. So for me all of this has been a wonderful treat.” His smile returned, small but genuine. “A strange one, but kind.”
He rose then, his movements slow and graceful. The faint jingle of trinkets and glass following him as he crossed to a small crate tucked near the wagon’s door. Inside were odds and ends: sachets of herbs, polished stones, little charms wrapped in ribbon, and small paper parcels tied neatly with twine. He crouched beside it, running a thoughtful hand over its contents before glancing back at her, the faintest spark of mischief lighting his gaze. “Tell me,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting as firelight danced across his features, “would you like a trick, or a treat from me, soldier?”
When her question came, his hands stilled. For a moment the quiet filled the space between them, heavy but not uncomfortable “I have lived enough,” he admitted at last, his tone low and honest, “to know that not every story is meant for retelling especially not on a night meant for laughter and sweets.” His expression softened, touched by something almost wistful. “But I will tell you this much: I come from lands far from here. Places where the air tastes of dust and salt, and the nights hum with heat instead of cold. We had no such thing as this—this ‘Halloween.’ No costumes, no carved gourds glowing in the dark. So for me all of this has been a wonderful treat.” His smile returned, small but genuine. “A strange one, but kind.”
He rose then, his movements slow and graceful. The faint jingle of trinkets and glass following him as he crossed to a small crate tucked near the wagon’s door. Inside were odds and ends: sachets of herbs, polished stones, little charms wrapped in ribbon, and small paper parcels tied neatly with twine. He crouched beside it, running a thoughtful hand over its contents before glancing back at her, the faintest spark of mischief lighting his gaze. “Tell me,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting as firelight danced across his features, “would you like a trick, or a treat from me, soldier?”
For a moment, Jordan said nothing. The fire cracked, and the sound seemed to settle in her chest like a heartbeat. She watched him as he moved, the lamplight turning his hands to gold, his shadow long across the floorboards. “You make stillness sound like a kind of bravery,” she said finally, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Perhaps it is.”
She set her cup down, tracing the rim absently with her fingertip. “I know that kind of silence, the kind that follows the end of something. It can feel like peace, or punishment, depending on how you sit with it.” Her tone carried no bitterness, only the quiet honesty of one who had lived long enough to understand both.
At his question, her brow arched, and for the first time a glint of humor lit her eyes. “A trick or a treat?” she repeated, as though tasting the words. “In my world, those usually come together.”
She leaned back slightly, the faintest ghost of a grin curving her mouth. “Surprise me, herbalist. I have survived worse than your mischief.”
The fire popped softly as she spoke, and for a fleeting instant, the warmth between them felt like something older than either story they might tell. Jordan waited, her eyes steady on him, curious to see what kind of magic he would choose.
She set her cup down, tracing the rim absently with her fingertip. “I know that kind of silence, the kind that follows the end of something. It can feel like peace, or punishment, depending on how you sit with it.” Her tone carried no bitterness, only the quiet honesty of one who had lived long enough to understand both.
At his question, her brow arched, and for the first time a glint of humor lit her eyes. “A trick or a treat?” she repeated, as though tasting the words. “In my world, those usually come together.”
She leaned back slightly, the faintest ghost of a grin curving her mouth. “Surprise me, herbalist. I have survived worse than your mischief.”
The fire popped softly as she spoke, and for a fleeting instant, the warmth between them felt like something older than either story they might tell. Jordan waited, her eyes steady on him, curious to see what kind of magic he would choose.
Mischief sparked in Kaveh’s eyes like candlelight catching on glass. Her challenge—surprise me—seemed to rouse something playful beneath his calm exterior. “Brave words,” he murmured, lips curving into a sly smile as he reached into the crate. His hands moved with a quiet deliberation, part ritual, part showmanship. When he turned back to her he held not one offering, but two “If you are to face my mischief, then you’ll need balance,” he said, the words lilting and almost teasing. He offered her the first: a small, round bottle filled with a clear liquid. Inside, delicate pine needles floated like suspended emerald threads. “A treat,” he explained, straightening to his full height “It looks sharp, I know, but it tastes of something brighter. Sweet—like honeyed citrus—and just enough tang to keep you awake. It’s a recipe I learned by accident. The best ones always are.” His grin deepened, a flash of white teeth beneath the flicker of amber firelight.
Then came the second. From within the crate he retrieved a small cloth satchel tied with a piece of rough twine, its fabric faintly stained with earthy oils. He held it out toward her with mock solemnity “And this,” he said, tone dipping into something almost conspiratorial “is the trick.” When she reached for it his brows lifted in amusement. “Go on,” he encouraged softly, “take a sniff.” The moment she did the air between them filled with the pungent sting of crushed herbs—sharp, bitter, and sour enough to make one’s nose wrinkle and eyes water. The scent was something between burnt sage and fermented citrus, potent and wholly unpleasant. Kaveh’s laughter, warm and unrestrained, broke through the haze of the smell. “Forgive me,” he said, chuckling, “I should have warned you first.”
When his laughter faded his voice softened, the edges of mirth giving way to sincerity “Truth be told, trickery isn’t truly in my nature,” he admitted, gesturing toward the little satchel still in her hand. “But that one—despite its assault on the senses—serves a purpose. The blend wards off scent-sensitive creatures. Spirits that cling to malice, or things that crawl in shadow and hunger for breath. Keep it close, and you’ll walk unbothered.” He leaned back against the counter, arms folding loosely as his golden-brown eyes met hers; the glint of playfulness still lingering there. “So, a drink for warmth, and a charm for safety. I suppose that’s the best sort of Halloween magic I can offer.”
Then came the second. From within the crate he retrieved a small cloth satchel tied with a piece of rough twine, its fabric faintly stained with earthy oils. He held it out toward her with mock solemnity “And this,” he said, tone dipping into something almost conspiratorial “is the trick.” When she reached for it his brows lifted in amusement. “Go on,” he encouraged softly, “take a sniff.” The moment she did the air between them filled with the pungent sting of crushed herbs—sharp, bitter, and sour enough to make one’s nose wrinkle and eyes water. The scent was something between burnt sage and fermented citrus, potent and wholly unpleasant. Kaveh’s laughter, warm and unrestrained, broke through the haze of the smell. “Forgive me,” he said, chuckling, “I should have warned you first.”
When his laughter faded his voice softened, the edges of mirth giving way to sincerity “Truth be told, trickery isn’t truly in my nature,” he admitted, gesturing toward the little satchel still in her hand. “But that one—despite its assault on the senses—serves a purpose. The blend wards off scent-sensitive creatures. Spirits that cling to malice, or things that crawl in shadow and hunger for breath. Keep it close, and you’ll walk unbothered.” He leaned back against the counter, arms folding loosely as his golden-brown eyes met hers; the glint of playfulness still lingering there. “So, a drink for warmth, and a charm for safety. I suppose that’s the best sort of Halloween magic I can offer.”
Jordan lifted the little bottle first, holding it up to the lamplight. The needles within caught the glow, glimmering like tiny shards of glass suspended in amber. “Sweet and sharp,” she murmured, half to herself. “Like most good things.”
She uncorked it and took a careful sip, her eyes closing briefly as the flavor bloomed on her tongue. A quiet hum of approval followed. “You were right. It tastes like sunlight caught in the edge of winter.” When she opened her eyes again, there was laughter behind them. “A dangerous skill, herbalist. You could charm your way through half the kingdoms with something like this.”
Her attention shifted to the satchel next, curiosity softening her expression. She took a sniff without hesitation and instantly regretted it. The sharp, acrid sting made her cough once, startled laughter escaping before she could stop it. “Saints above…what is that?” she asked between chuckles, fanning the air in front of her face. “You could clear a tavern in seconds with this alone.”
When he explained, the amusement in her eyes gentled into something genuine. “A trick that protects,” she said quietly. “You have a good heart, Kaveh, even if you hide it behind theatrics.” She tucked the satchel carefully into the leather pouch at her belt, as if accepting a small blessing.
For a heartbeat, she simply stood there, watching the firelight shift across the wagon walls. “Thank you,” she said at last, her tone soft but sure. “For the tea. For the company. And for reminding me that not all magic needs to be grand to matter.”
Jordan adjusted her cloak, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll leave you to your fire before I wear out my welcome. But should you ever find yourself wandering near the northern hills, look for the lights above the pines. That’s where I’ll be.”
With a nod of respect and quiet warmth, she stepped toward the door. “Until then, Kaveh. May your hearth never go cold.”
Then she slipped into the mist beyond the wagon’s light, her shadow fading into the hush of the forest.
She uncorked it and took a careful sip, her eyes closing briefly as the flavor bloomed on her tongue. A quiet hum of approval followed. “You were right. It tastes like sunlight caught in the edge of winter.” When she opened her eyes again, there was laughter behind them. “A dangerous skill, herbalist. You could charm your way through half the kingdoms with something like this.”
Her attention shifted to the satchel next, curiosity softening her expression. She took a sniff without hesitation and instantly regretted it. The sharp, acrid sting made her cough once, startled laughter escaping before she could stop it. “Saints above…what is that?” she asked between chuckles, fanning the air in front of her face. “You could clear a tavern in seconds with this alone.”
When he explained, the amusement in her eyes gentled into something genuine. “A trick that protects,” she said quietly. “You have a good heart, Kaveh, even if you hide it behind theatrics.” She tucked the satchel carefully into the leather pouch at her belt, as if accepting a small blessing.
For a heartbeat, she simply stood there, watching the firelight shift across the wagon walls. “Thank you,” she said at last, her tone soft but sure. “For the tea. For the company. And for reminding me that not all magic needs to be grand to matter.”
Jordan adjusted her cloak, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll leave you to your fire before I wear out my welcome. But should you ever find yourself wandering near the northern hills, look for the lights above the pines. That’s where I’ll be.”
With a nod of respect and quiet warmth, she stepped toward the door. “Until then, Kaveh. May your hearth never go cold.”
Then she slipped into the mist beyond the wagon’s light, her shadow fading into the hush of the forest.
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