Venla Thiel

Venla Thiel

Lettucewielding foreman
Somewhere near Astevale Monastery

The sun spilled like honey across the meadow, thick and golden and slow. A breeze stirred the tall grasses, sending ripples through the wildflowers as if the earth itself were breathing. Dragonflies hovered and darted, their wings catching the light in flashes of green and blue. The air was full of warm earth, sweet grass, and something faintly floral, soft as a sigh. Butterflies hovered above the wildflowers, and somewhere in the hedgerow, a linnet was singing. Venla was barefoot. The soft earth pressed warm against her soles as she moved through the grass, basket on her arm, skirts lifted slightly in one hand to avoid stepping on the hem.

Venla crouched barefoot in the soft green, a woven basket balanced on her hip and a smudge of flour still dusted across her forearm. She had come from the kitchen with the quiet purpose that only summer days allowed.

Half a plan, half a whim.
Primroses.

They peeked from the grass in pale clusters, buttery-yellow with soft white edges. Like the first light of the morning. She reached for them with careful hands, selecting the brightest blooms. Some were for the salad she’d make later: baby greens, a drizzle of cider vinegar, soft cheese, and the scattering of these bright blossoms across the plate. Others she’d press into the crust of the rye loaf she’d left rising by the hearth. She wasn’t thinking of anything in particular, only how some flowers looked like stars fallen to earth, how the wind tangled in her hair, how the moment stretched like a yawn between seasons. She forgot about everything: magic, uncertainty, and the way the world sometimes felt too large to hold.

A few violets had found their way into her basket, too. She’d add them to the edges, maybe, for color. A bee buzzed past her ear, lazy and drunk with nectar. Overhead, a cotton cloud drifted slowly across the wide blue sky.
 
Far too warm to worry about catching a chill to ride you into the night. In a way, heat was like honey, making everything thicker and slower. Even this far north, it was hard to escape its grasp. Feet bare and toes unleashed, Trevor's boots were laced tightly to his belt. Thumped his ass as he moved. And while that wasn't all that comfortable, they did provide additional storage.

He'd filled the left with clumps of chickweed. Always liked that one. Chicken of the woods they called it back home. And while it did go stringy in the heat, there were still plenty of burrows to snatch from. Angry badgers with their beady eyes watching him carefully, as he stole tiny bits of shade. Moles didn't even deign show up to defend their hills, merely scoffed from deeper undeground. Guess shade didn't matter much if you dug deep and cold enough.

Right was slowly filling up with dandelions. He preferred the leaves, but he still dug them out whole. There was a tea you could do from the roots that was lauded as an almost coffee. Which he found to be a lie – it tasted much better than coffee. But to each their own. He didn't remember the ratios exactly, but chop 'em up and simmer for a bit wasn't a recipe even he could fuck up.

Hoped he could find bearleek. Seemed too warm a time not to have it shriveled and yellowed by the sun. But he could almost hear a creek further off. Never understood why the called it that – cause everyone knew if you didn't wash it well, you'd get the foxshits. And then you'd have to eat a whole bunch of horrible medicine. Really developed Trevor's respect for washing food.

Wasn't yet sure what he'd do with all the bits – but if the wild garlic happened – they were only some meat, fish or crab away from a meal worth remembering.

Probably could've get fed just as easily at the Knoll.

But he'd missed this. Missed home.
 
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The meadow swayed gently around her, a living sea of green and gold. Daisies nodded in the breeze. Above it all the sky stretched wide and blue, the kind of blue that felt too big to name. Kneeling skirts tucked beneath her, hands careful as she reached through the grass. Her fingers brushed aside a clump of clover and found another cluster of yellow blooms.

Then she saw them.

Just a few paces off, tucked near the base of a hazel bush, a trio of baby rabbits huddled in the grass. Tiny, twitchy-nosed things with soft brown fur and blinking eyes. One of them, bolder than the rest, hopped forward, then sat up to nibble a red clover flower.

And then, behind her, the grass whispered.

Not the wind this time.
Footsteps.

She blinked once, then sat up and turned her head. Her hair caught the light in a spill of copper and gold, alight like a fox in a garden. A few strands clung to her lips, and she brushed them away as she looked toward the sound. Her green eyes narrowed against the sun, sharp and bright. Watchful as any meadow creature, half-tamed. The kind that might bolt, or grin, or speak in riddles.

A flash of familiarity. She had seen that man before, once. “I.. I know you!” she called a little breathless, full of warmth and surprise. Venla pushed herself to her feet, brushing wildflowers from her skirts. “It’s really you… Oh, it’s so good to see you again!” She had wondered whether he had come safely through it all. The last time she had spotted that copper hair, it had been amid a swirl of confusion and noise, so different from the quiet sunlight of today. She stepped toward the man carefully, not wanting to scare the rabbits.
 
Didn't recognize her at first. She'd changed too much.

No sign of the bloodcaked, scared thing he'd left huddling to the side of a wagon. Dropped a kid on her and fucked off to the wind. Stood so much stronger now. But he knew those scars. Muddy index and thumb running brow and cheekbone.

And she was...happy to see him?

That didn't sit right. For all she knew, he'd left them to die. Trevor knew he had to go. But some days even he couldn't tell the difference. But it was what guided him. What kept him alive thus far.

Stayed back a few steps, afraid.

„Ginger girl! You've cleaned up nice.“ Like words would make them square.

Remembered leaving them in the care of armored manmountain. Seemed a safe bet. But it was still a bet. And seeing survivors of his gambling wasn't a thing he often got to do. He was glad she was here. Come to think of it:

„What happened to the kid?“
 
„Ginger girl! You've cleaned up nice.“ She gave a small, proper nod like her mother had taught her and a soft huff of a laugh. “Well… thank you. I wondered if you made it. ” Her tone was mild as milk.

He looked like the road had tried to chew him up and spit him out. Like he haven’t had a proper wash since that day...

“I’m Venla, by the way.”

Basket still cradled in the crook of her arm, fingers curled around the rim like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with them, fingers brushing over a few primroses had tumbled loose.

“The girl? We got her home. I think she’s gonna be alright. She was tired, and scared."

He seemed to have dust in every fold of his coat, a leaf stuck in his sleeve, and, she blinked, dandelions tucked into his boots. Her brow creased, not judging, just puzzled.

“…Why are there dandelions in your shoes?”
 
His eyes lit up when she spoke of the girl. Didn't need to know the who or the how – only that it ended well. That he didn't need to count again. Allowed himself to enjoy it a tad too long. The silence seemed generous, but once again he was saved. By dandelions in his boots, no less.

He nodded at her, grateful.

„I'm Trevor.“ He was already turned away to the improvised storage, pulling dandelions first. Chickweed followed soon after.

„These...“ Finger traced stem and yellow flower. „I'm gonna eat. And these...“ Flicked bits of dirt away from the roots as he hit 'em. Come to think of it, probably should've done so before he stuffed his boots with the damn things. „Make a wonderful tea. They tell you it's like coffee – it's not – it's better.“

Fingers on his other hand flared wide as the clump of chickweed untangled itself like shoddy knitting. The full flex still hurt some days. Funny how some wounds just chose to heal wrong. „And these guys are delicious.“

Eyes widened as he looked at her basket. Primroses, of course. He really should've been picking those too. But then...were those violets?

„That's a great idea. Primroses are delicious too. But...um... what do you do with the violets?“

Honestly, he would've just given them to the goats.
 
Venla watched him with fondness as he spoke, half-bent and busy with his weeds like it was the most natural thing in the world to pull lunch from your boots. She liked that. It reminded her of home. Of morning chats over the garden fence, with the neighbours on warm mornings, before the bread had even risen. She didn’t say anything right away, just shifted her basket a little higher on her arm and stepped closer, skirts rustling gently in the grass.

Her eyes flicked to the dandelions and chickweed in his hands. “I’ve heard folk say that about the tea, but never tried it myself” she added with a nod. When he glanced up, she met his eyes and gave a little nod toward the dandelions, her voice gentle. “My mother used to make wine from the flowers,” she said. “It tasted like it have been strained by bees.” Sunshine and pollen.

“The violets… I like to press them into bread or butter. Or float them in a little cider on hot days. Makes the table feel festive, even if it’s just you and your shadow.” Venla shrugged her shoulders. Willard was gone. Sent off with hurried words and promises of "won’t be long," like that ever made the time pass quicker. Now the days stretched out in front of her like a long, quiet road. She hated how familiar it had become, being left. Not out of cruelty, but out of necessity, out of duty, out of the way. The world always seemed to need someone else more than her.

“I was going to make lunch...” she tried gently. “Something simple. Bit of bread, some soft cheese, flower salad... It’s nothing fancy, but... anyway. You’re here, and I’ve got enough for two. Would you like to join me?"
 
Breath held beyond healthy. Because that was how you killed a man like him. Warmth and memory and invitation. Something sweet and soft enough to forget where the knives were. That's how he'd do it. Had done it. But Venla wasn't him, nor was he Ol' Glass.

„I would like to see bees strain.“ Sounded silly, but there were many of them. If they really wanted to, they probably could. „My mom wasn't much for wine, but used to pickle everything. Each time you opened the pantry, you'd see rows of floaters judging your midnight snack.“

Wondered if violets worked on stronger things. Probably could've tested on Meister Dingleberry's brew had the icefucker not spilled all of it.

„I...“ Didn't have to wait for his stomach to grumble to know the answer he wanted to give. Still took him a bit. „I'd love to.“

The words felt weak, and made him feel the same. So he looked away, finally noticing the rabbits.

„You want us to get one of the little fuc...“ Ear twitched in memory. A boy raised with more manners than he chose to keep. „...Guys and cook that too?“
 
Her eyes flicked up to Trevor, there was a carefulness there, yes, but something else too. An edge that didn’t belong in a quiet meadow. She could almost it in the set of his shoulders, in the way his gaze sharpened, the faint tension in his jaw. He could be dangerous, she thought.

She shook her head lightly, as if brushing away the thought, and smiled again, softer this time. Her gaze stayed on him, curious and careful, taking in the dust in his hair, the scuff on his hands, the way he carried himself like someone used to carrying more than herbs and roots.

“They’re far too small,” Venla glanced down at the tiny rabbits, their noses twitching nervously in the grass. “Not enough meat to make it worth the trouble, and besides… I couldn’t hurt them." All soft, untouched fur and fragile necks.

“But I’ve got something you can eat... ” she said. "Smoked fish. Plenty to fill our bellies, and no hopping creatures will be harmed.”

She began walking toward the monastery. Her tone soft but insistent. “Come on then, Trevor."
 
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No hopping creature would be harmed...today.

Looked at the tiny flufffuckers. Their luck smelled like it wasn't even the first time this week they got spared. Strange place, Astenvale was. His brow went up slightly. She thought he was going to twonk a rabbit just because there was nothing else to eat? And there was something to that. But no – he was going to do it because they were delicious.

But he wasn't going to argue with people offering him free food.

Stiffness was slowly leaving his shoulders. Was he truly afraid of a girl who spared rabbit lives?

He caught up quickly, reckless step scattering the rabbits. They had a better chance if they were harder to find.

„So how did you end up all the way over here?“ Suppose he was due the same question. But his answer was easy – he was a bum. Wasn't a quality people often shared. Head tilted at the basket in afterthought:

„That thing heavy?“ Hand reached out between them.
 
Venla looked at the basket, then at Trevor’s outstretched hand.

“Oh aye,” she said with playful solemnity, “Flowers are terribly heavy. You wouldn’t know it, but they’re dense little things... real back-breakers.” The corner of her mouth tilted into a smirk.

Her fingers brushing accidentally his as she passed the basket to him. “Will you tell me if it gets too much for you, won’t you?” she asked sweetly.

His question hung there, easy as anything: So how did you end up all the way over here? Venla shrugged, her hands now free to gather her skirts a little as they reached the path where the wild grass gave way to low grass and dirt.

“I came to Astenvale because I need help. Of a sort I can’t find back home.” Her voice wasn’t heavy, just honest and careful, like someone laying down a truth they’d been carrying in their apron pocket.

"I did something... strange. I didn’t mean to...” She glanced down at the path, her feet brushing through the wild thyme. The words faded off, the rest she left unspoken, because she couldn’t explain it properly, not even to herself.

"And you?"
 
Walked right into that one. But two could play.

„Will do my best to shoulder...“ Dragged a foot and smiled, grabbed handle hard enough for knuckles to whiten. „...This great burden.“ Would be a fun story. Done in by flowers of all things. He'd pay to see that.

The briefest touch hinted at something wrong with her luck. But something was wrong with everyone's, not his place to question it.

The words caught him off guard. Had answers lined up about how he knew local rabbits were hard to catch, but it felt... off. Because you didn't mock someone when they were exposed. You mocked them when they were alright, so they could fight back. Made people find joy in the whole living thing.

But honesty was...well, he wasn't an honest creature. Not that he lied very much. He just didn't speak in the way honest men ought to. Bent down like he'd just noticed the thyme their feet had been thrashing.

„I'm here because I did mean to.“ Well that sounded heavy as shit, so he pivoted to a lighter note. „Sides, gives me a chance to get the drop on Matvi and Monroe.“ Laughed to himself. „You probably know them as Syr thisandthat.“

Felt at the creeping stems – not soft enough. So he pulled the leaves. „Should help with the smell of dried fish.“ And if it kept his hands busy, he'd take that too.

„So boot or basket?“
 
She laughed softly, low and airy, at his charades. "You’re the strongest man in Astenvale, then, are you?"

Luck was Trevor's trade, his tool, the thing he could measure and bend. Luck was tangible. It bent probabilities, nudged events, and made men survive where they ought not. But it wasn’t luck, wasn’t a trick of chance or an uncertain fate he felt. The moment his fingers brushed the basket against hers, he felt something. Like a coin spinning on its edge and never quite landing. Something that wouldn't obey him, a current twisting unbothered by whim, probabilities, odds, or favor. It came with a taste of copper and honey.

Venla tilted her head slightly. "Syr something and Someone... I’ve not yet had the pleasure." She watched him tug at the thyme. “Boot or basket?” she echoed, tilting her head, a gentle sparkle in her green eyes. “I’d say… basket." She let her gaze linger on the thyme he’d been fussing with. “Though, if your boots need a bit of freshening, a sprig or two of this might do the trick."
 
It took a while for it to catch up to him – the taste of copper in his mouth. Thought it was nerves at first. But no. He was much at ease as he knew how to be. Felt at his chest for pain, but the wound hadn't reopened. Hadn't felt that much copper since they did him in the lung a few years back. Took a team of weavers two days to get him breathing right again.

Copper and honey, huh?

Head shook the thought away.

„I do try.“ Sure as shit hoped not, as he pinched the bicep that forgot to grow when flexed.

Some thyme went into the basket. More, with a smile, got stuffed into each boot. He didn't need to smell them to know his feet for what they were. Perhaps he ought to wash his ass before he polluted the kitchen.

„You'll get a chance to meet 'em, I'm sure. Real nice people.“
 
Venla led him along the worn stone path that wound through the grounds of the Astenvale monastery, toward the kitchens, her bare toes brushing over stray grass and soft moss at the edges. The sunlight slanted through the high trees, casting long, warm stripes across the flagstones.

The monastery walls pale and sun-warmed. A low wooden door, set into the side of the building and framed with creeping ivy. Venla nudged the ivy-framed door open and it opened with a soft groan. A fragrant puff of warm air spilled out to greet them.

Inside, the vaulted room smelled of smoke, yeast, and herbs. Low beams, darkened with age, ran across the ceiling, while copper pots and iron skillets hung from above. A hearth roared quietly in the corner, and a wide, wooden table sat in the center of the room, worn from years of kneading bread and rolling dough.

She moved toward a round banneton resting on the table. The dough inside had risen beautifully, soft and plump, dusted with a light veil of flour like a pale morning frost. “See..” she said, pleased with how the bread looked, “this one’s ready for the oven.."

Tilting her head and smiling. “Just need to be dressed up a bit. I thought… maybe you could help me?” She nodded at the violet blossoms resting in the basket.
 
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