There were several reasons why she reached for the bottle. Some were obvious, numbing the aches in her body, silencing the constant gnaw of bad memories, blunting the sharp edge of emotions before they could cut too deep. But there was another reason, one not so easily guessed at. A mind in disarray was a storm no spirit could easily navigate. Drunken thoughts tangled and slipped through themselves like smoke in a draft, making it harder for ghosts... or anything else with a hunger for mortal minds, to find their way in.
A steady head might make you a better swordsman, but a chaotic one could make you a harder target in the unseen war she fought every night.
The mule’s hooves clopped in a slow, stubborn rhythm as Daniyah rode in from the tree line, its shaggy ears twitching at Garrod’s voice. Just as Oscar, now a battered bundle of charms and talismans hung from the pale mule’s bridle, teeth, bones, and silver coins. Braided now in its mane, a small copper bell that pinged softly with each step it took.
"Please tell me you at least get yourself something good to drown in?"
"You aren't passed out in the bushes, are you?"
She sat slouched in the saddle, flask in hand, the silver etched with hair-thin runes that caught the last smear of orange sky.
"It's poison." she said, taking a pull. The words dragged just a breath too long, as if breathing were difficult. “Henbane to loosen the soul... datura to make the dead visible. Little plum brandy in there too, so it doesn’t taste like a grave." Her smile was crooked, slow to fade, eyes glassy but weirdly alert.
"Old crones call it Widow's Breath."
She slid from the mule in one fluid motion, though the way her boots found the dirt wasn’t steady. A slow sway ran through her frame. Daniyah lingered there, hand on the saddle, head dipped. The dirt beneath her boots seemed to breathe, slow and deep, and for a heartbeat her toes curled as if feeling for a pulse. The mules shifted beside her, chewing at nothing, unbothered.
Her eyes, half-lidded, caught glimmers where there shouldn’t be any. Phantom lanterns bobbed in the treeline, the faint outline of someone leaning from the shadows to watch them. Her talismans whispered against one another, wolf teeth and iron nails and bits of glass that caught what little light there was. And somewhere, as far away as tomorrow, she heard the faint echo of a sad, lonely song.
The man shed his armor and clothes without care, slipping into the easy comfort of the evening. Her night was never hers to surrender. Her fight was never in the sunlit fields but in the cold, haunted hours when sleep became a weakness. Nights were no refuge; the veil between the living and the dead thinned to a hair-thin line.
With heavy, slightly uncoordinated movements, she pulled some copper bells from the saddle bags, their faint chimes barely cutting through the haze clogging her mind. The poison twisted her vision. For a moment, her fingers itched to braid the bells into his hair, like she had with the mules, but she kept her fingers to herself. “Wear these.” She held them out to him. "Please."
A steady head might make you a better swordsman, but a chaotic one could make you a harder target in the unseen war she fought every night.
The mule’s hooves clopped in a slow, stubborn rhythm as Daniyah rode in from the tree line, its shaggy ears twitching at Garrod’s voice. Just as Oscar, now a battered bundle of charms and talismans hung from the pale mule’s bridle, teeth, bones, and silver coins. Braided now in its mane, a small copper bell that pinged softly with each step it took.
"Please tell me you at least get yourself something good to drown in?"
"You aren't passed out in the bushes, are you?"
She sat slouched in the saddle, flask in hand, the silver etched with hair-thin runes that caught the last smear of orange sky.
"It's poison." she said, taking a pull. The words dragged just a breath too long, as if breathing were difficult. “Henbane to loosen the soul... datura to make the dead visible. Little plum brandy in there too, so it doesn’t taste like a grave." Her smile was crooked, slow to fade, eyes glassy but weirdly alert.
"Old crones call it Widow's Breath."
She slid from the mule in one fluid motion, though the way her boots found the dirt wasn’t steady. A slow sway ran through her frame. Daniyah lingered there, hand on the saddle, head dipped. The dirt beneath her boots seemed to breathe, slow and deep, and for a heartbeat her toes curled as if feeling for a pulse. The mules shifted beside her, chewing at nothing, unbothered.
Her eyes, half-lidded, caught glimmers where there shouldn’t be any. Phantom lanterns bobbed in the treeline, the faint outline of someone leaning from the shadows to watch them. Her talismans whispered against one another, wolf teeth and iron nails and bits of glass that caught what little light there was. And somewhere, as far away as tomorrow, she heard the faint echo of a sad, lonely song.
The man shed his armor and clothes without care, slipping into the easy comfort of the evening. Her night was never hers to surrender. Her fight was never in the sunlit fields but in the cold, haunted hours when sleep became a weakness. Nights were no refuge; the veil between the living and the dead thinned to a hair-thin line.
With heavy, slightly uncoordinated movements, she pulled some copper bells from the saddle bags, their faint chimes barely cutting through the haze clogging her mind. The poison twisted her vision. For a moment, her fingers itched to braid the bells into his hair, like she had with the mules, but she kept her fingers to herself. “Wear these.” She held them out to him. "Please."
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