Story Circle; Healing
(The text of Adra's story from Story Circle tonight. I suck at macroing and went kinda fast, soo yeah. DEDICATED TO MISS AVALI OF THE CURRENTLY BORKED COMPUTER ._.))
This is a story from the world’s youth. Now, back in those days, the world was one continent and covered mostly in forests. A woman lived in the forests with the rest of her people, a woman with eyes like sun upon the ocean and skin like wildflowers. She kept a wildcat as her constant companion, and this creature had dagger-sharp jaws and honey-colored fur. One day, while hunting, the woman’s wildcat sustained a terrible bite from their prey, a giant bear that had been stealing food from the woman’s village. However, the wildcat had very thick and shaggy fur, and wildcats as you know are stoic by nature.
Therefore the woman killed the bear and took its hide and meat home without immediately noticing that her dear friend was injured.
The wildcat, for its part, curled up on its bed of grasses and made no sound. The next day, the woman observed that her wildcat was listless and sleepy and did not seem interested in the hunt.
She sat down beside it and ran her fingers across its back and flanks, and in this way she found the bite. Overnight, the injury had worsened. The wound was partly crusted over with dirt and blood and its center was a bright, sickening yellow, because it was filled with diseased, skin-choking pus.
Frightened, the woman brought her wildcat to the village herbalist to see what could be done. Now the herbalist was an elder among the woman’s people and had seen and heard and done many things in her time. She was the wisest of everyone in the village and had knowledge of magic and healing.
Her skill with medicinal plants was, of course, unparalleled. It was said that the herbalist would often go gathering her roots and flowers during the darkest part of each night, clad only by the moon and relying on its light to guide her vision and her grasping fingers (and this rumor was substantiated by the fact that for several days of the month, when the moon was dim or not there at all, the herbalist did not go out at all).
The herbalist’s home was as fragrant as her profession would have you believe, filled with pots of flowers-some ruby red, some spotted like tigers, some bigger and fuller than a grown woman’s parted lips-and hanging ferns, and trees no bigger than a man’s palm.
Flowering vines also wound around the cracks in the herbalist’s wooden door and between the stones in her walls, and the herbalist would often pluck a tiny flower from one of these vines and crush its petals into soothing tea for her visitors.
The herbalist offered this tea to the woman and bade her drink it while the wildcat was being examined. The sweet aroma of the tea did indeed calm the woman’s anxious mind, for the wildcat was not happy to have its bite examined and had begun to howl unhappily. The woman let the tea’s rich, flavorful warmth sink into her tongue and throat.
Soon the wildcat’s cries were no longer audible to her. Soon she was asleep.
When she woke, the herbalist had cleaned out the wound and shaved off the fur around it, and the woman saw that the wound was much bigger than she originally surmised. It stood out in stark contrast to the wildcat’s honeyed fur; it was a wide circle of bleeding, angry red. Dismayed, the woman fretted over her wildcat, as the situation now seemed even worse than before.
But the herbalist assured her that the wound must remain open in order to heal, and said that the woman simply needed to wash it diligently each day and then apply the poultice that the herbalist had prepared. Though skeptical, the woman agreed, and did as she was told.
Many days passed, and the wildcat improved. Soon there was only a small dark spot left on the wildcat’s skin and the woman did not need to clean her companion at all (but I will tell you that it took months for the wildcat’s fur to return to its proper order).
Now during the recovery period the woman spent much more time in her village, as she did not want the wildcat to strain itself with too much hunting. Because of this, the woman had occasion to meet a particular man. It would not be right to say that the woman loved the man upon first meeting him. But to be sure very little time passed before he claimed her heart. He was a stranger to that part of the world, having traveled there from far to the south, and he had exotic tales to tell about his homeland. He would sit with the other villagers at the communal fire and speak of a place where the forests were thin, and where instead there were miles of flat plains and tall, craggy mountains.
The woman would scratch her wildcat’s slender ears and listen carefully, and after the fire was snuffed out for the evening, they two would walk together under the forest’s canopy.
He was a tall man, with long pale hair and an easy smile, the kind of smile that begged for trust and was usually obliged. But, as is often the case with such people, the woman’s faith was misguided. When she revealed the depth of her feeling to the man with the gentle smile, his handsome face contorted in dismay, even rage.
He left her alone beneath the trees. The wildcat padded around the woman’s feet as she stood and watched the man go, hearing nothing but the splintering of her rejected heart.
In despair, the woman went to see the herbalist again. She hoped for more of the soothing tea if nothing else. She told the herbalist what had happened with the man and asked for packets of the flower tea, so that she might sleep for many days and forget that it had happened.
However, the herbalist refused.
The woman cried out and pleaded with the herbalist to help her, insisting that the pain was too great to bear. The herbalist told the woman that she already knew how to handle an open wound and then sent the woman away.
That night, the woman sat beside her wildcat and wept. And it was in her weeping that she realized what the herbalist had meant, for this was not a pain that could be ignored and left to crust and fester, to sicken and worsen. She could not force it to the depths of her gut, or it would harden and become a rock that weighed her down.
And so she continued to weep long into the night, because she knew that to release the pain, to let it flow openly from its wound-she knew that was the only way for it to heal.
This is a story from the world’s youth. Now, back in those days, the world was one continent and covered mostly in forests. A woman lived in the forests with the rest of her people, a woman with eyes like sun upon the ocean and skin like wildflowers. She kept a wildcat as her constant companion, and this creature had dagger-sharp jaws and honey-colored fur. One day, while hunting, the woman’s wildcat sustained a terrible bite from their prey, a giant bear that had been stealing food from the woman’s village. However, the wildcat had very thick and shaggy fur, and wildcats as you know are stoic by nature.
Therefore the woman killed the bear and took its hide and meat home without immediately noticing that her dear friend was injured.
The wildcat, for its part, curled up on its bed of grasses and made no sound. The next day, the woman observed that her wildcat was listless and sleepy and did not seem interested in the hunt.
She sat down beside it and ran her fingers across its back and flanks, and in this way she found the bite. Overnight, the injury had worsened. The wound was partly crusted over with dirt and blood and its center was a bright, sickening yellow, because it was filled with diseased, skin-choking pus.
Frightened, the woman brought her wildcat to the village herbalist to see what could be done. Now the herbalist was an elder among the woman’s people and had seen and heard and done many things in her time. She was the wisest of everyone in the village and had knowledge of magic and healing.
Her skill with medicinal plants was, of course, unparalleled. It was said that the herbalist would often go gathering her roots and flowers during the darkest part of each night, clad only by the moon and relying on its light to guide her vision and her grasping fingers (and this rumor was substantiated by the fact that for several days of the month, when the moon was dim or not there at all, the herbalist did not go out at all).
The herbalist’s home was as fragrant as her profession would have you believe, filled with pots of flowers-some ruby red, some spotted like tigers, some bigger and fuller than a grown woman’s parted lips-and hanging ferns, and trees no bigger than a man’s palm.
Flowering vines also wound around the cracks in the herbalist’s wooden door and between the stones in her walls, and the herbalist would often pluck a tiny flower from one of these vines and crush its petals into soothing tea for her visitors.
The herbalist offered this tea to the woman and bade her drink it while the wildcat was being examined. The sweet aroma of the tea did indeed calm the woman’s anxious mind, for the wildcat was not happy to have its bite examined and had begun to howl unhappily. The woman let the tea’s rich, flavorful warmth sink into her tongue and throat.
Soon the wildcat’s cries were no longer audible to her. Soon she was asleep.
When she woke, the herbalist had cleaned out the wound and shaved off the fur around it, and the woman saw that the wound was much bigger than she originally surmised. It stood out in stark contrast to the wildcat’s honeyed fur; it was a wide circle of bleeding, angry red. Dismayed, the woman fretted over her wildcat, as the situation now seemed even worse than before.
But the herbalist assured her that the wound must remain open in order to heal, and said that the woman simply needed to wash it diligently each day and then apply the poultice that the herbalist had prepared. Though skeptical, the woman agreed, and did as she was told.
Many days passed, and the wildcat improved. Soon there was only a small dark spot left on the wildcat’s skin and the woman did not need to clean her companion at all (but I will tell you that it took months for the wildcat’s fur to return to its proper order).
Now during the recovery period the woman spent much more time in her village, as she did not want the wildcat to strain itself with too much hunting. Because of this, the woman had occasion to meet a particular man. It would not be right to say that the woman loved the man upon first meeting him. But to be sure very little time passed before he claimed her heart. He was a stranger to that part of the world, having traveled there from far to the south, and he had exotic tales to tell about his homeland. He would sit with the other villagers at the communal fire and speak of a place where the forests were thin, and where instead there were miles of flat plains and tall, craggy mountains.
The woman would scratch her wildcat’s slender ears and listen carefully, and after the fire was snuffed out for the evening, they two would walk together under the forest’s canopy.
He was a tall man, with long pale hair and an easy smile, the kind of smile that begged for trust and was usually obliged. But, as is often the case with such people, the woman’s faith was misguided. When she revealed the depth of her feeling to the man with the gentle smile, his handsome face contorted in dismay, even rage.
He left her alone beneath the trees. The wildcat padded around the woman’s feet as she stood and watched the man go, hearing nothing but the splintering of her rejected heart.
In despair, the woman went to see the herbalist again. She hoped for more of the soothing tea if nothing else. She told the herbalist what had happened with the man and asked for packets of the flower tea, so that she might sleep for many days and forget that it had happened.
However, the herbalist refused.
The woman cried out and pleaded with the herbalist to help her, insisting that the pain was too great to bear. The herbalist told the woman that she already knew how to handle an open wound and then sent the woman away.
That night, the woman sat beside her wildcat and wept. And it was in her weeping that she realized what the herbalist had meant, for this was not a pain that could be ignored and left to crust and fester, to sicken and worsen. She could not force it to the depths of her gut, or it would harden and become a rock that weighed her down.
And so she continued to weep long into the night, because she knew that to release the pain, to let it flow openly from its wound-she knew that was the only way for it to heal.