Herbalists' Cache beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

It still hurt.

She didn’t know when it would stop.

Momma didn’t talk to her much anymore, and she didn’t understand why beyond something she did wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. So, she picked up all her broken pieces and shoved them into something resembling normal. Her smiles were false, her eyes missing that simple happiness and instead full of desperation.

I’m sorry I’m wrong, I’m so sorry, just ignore it, I’ll fix it, and I’ll make you happy again. She begged everytime she looked at @Reverie , but there was a void, and Blossom didn’t know how to build a bridge to cross it. So she stuffed the remnants of hurt into her chest, cut herself on the sharp pieces, and plastered a smile on her face.

She left Hearthwood more often. She tried not to be seen. 

The tall conifers wrapped her in silent solitude, nothing stirring. Snow dusted the world around the gilded girl, her lengthy legs striding across it.

Was it me? She asked the snow.

Was it always me? Why her daddy left, why her momma pulled away, was it Blossom? Had it always been?

She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t muster even that. She just tucked her head low, and watched a bird swooping through the trees. A shrike, delicate on the breeze.

I wish I was a bird. Whispered so quiet she could barely hear it.

Or a breeze. Something else. Not her. Not Blossom.

They still hadn't found the man. No sign or scent or spore. The panther burned to taste his blood, if only to see Chakliux's quest completed. And to know that his newfound family was just a little safer, of course. But, if he was honest with himself, he felt sure that the evil one was long gone. Why would he stay here, knowing that men would be hunting him?

It boded well for their women.

It did not bode well for the seal hunter's spirit.

The panther stretched his legs alone on the taiga, remembering carefree days of youth in the land of long nights. The vastness of it made him want to break into a run, but instead he worked methodically to pick up traces of that old and oily scent. He was not surprised he did not find it — he was surprised to smell a young girl, instead.

She smelled of a pack, but he had passed it already. Perhaps this trail was her returning to safety, but perhaps it was not. Dutch followed it to its terminus out of an abundance of caution, and was both relieved and exasperated to find the girl all alone at the end of it.

He stood for a moment, watching the sad slope of her shoulders.

"I wonder, sometimes," he said, speaking loud enough to announce himself, "if the birds like to watch us back. Do they find us as pretty as we find them?"

He hadn't heard what she said, but he had seen the bird. He thought it better to accuse her of bird-watching than moping. Bird-watching was something he could offer to do with her.

A voice.

Blossom jumped, her fur ruffling around her neck and her eyes going owlish. The bird tittered behind her, landing on her head after what appeared to be a moment of thought. She stared up at the creature, then back at the dark headed man.

Her throat clicked when she swallowed.

I think they do. I think they tell stories of us, like we tell of them. She extended her neck out from the ruffle of her fur, the strands laying back down slowly.

Are you a storyteller? It would make sense, with the fanciful question that Blossom only thought someone like herself would ask.

It was inevitable that he would startle her, but Dutch felt sorry for it, anyway. He meant to give her as long as she needed to decide whether or not she wanted to talk to him — but in the mean time, the bird attracted his attention. It fluttered down to reunite with the girl, and a bright-eyed look stole over his previously placid features.

Her answer also delighted him, and then threefold when she so easily guessed at his profession.

"I am," he agreed, and he took this as an invitation to stop hovering at the edge of conversational distance. He took a few steps more, and then settled on the first patch of flat ground to join her in enjoying the view. "My name is Dutch, of village Moonsong. And you — " He half-turned his head to flash her a little smile. "I may not know your name, but I think that you, too, are a teller of tales."

He nodded at the bird.

"Who is your friend?" he asked her, hoping to catch her name as well.

The man looked to the bird sitting atop the crown of her head, and she did too. At least, as well as she could. Slowly, the two toned eyes drifted back down to the man, Dutch as he said it.

I don’t know. I only just met them. The shrike chirped and tittered a bit at the attention, but Blossom paid little mind to the pitchy noise and instead focused on the man himself.

’m Blossom Mayfair. From uh…village Hearthwood? Assuming “village” was what his pack was. And a small smile touched her lips then, to be recognized by a like minded being.

I like to think I am. I like stories, and singing.

The panther was duly impressed.

"He must sense something about you he likes," he posited, wondering what that something might be. Was she an exceedingly gentle spirit? Did she had seeds in her fur?

Dutch hadn't heard of Hearthwood yet, but he added it to his mental list of places to visit. He would not trouble this young girl with his questions at this point — perhaps that would change when it came time to send her safely home.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Blossom," he said, sentiment welling in his chest to hear of these things they had in common. He was charmed by her, and immediately wanted to meet the family that had raised her. He felt they would be just as good to know.

"I know a woman who has a crow companion," he told her, smiling as he thought of Tulugak. "She translates for him, and he tells fortunes to those who ask." He pointed his nose to the bird, a faint smile belying the glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "Perhaps this bird will make his words known. Can you hear him?"