03-17-2022, 03:27 PM
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The ocelot’s forked tail flicks impatiently as she sits in the Temple watching leaves mix in hot water. Waiting for tea to brew never gets easier. If you’re too impatient, it tastes like hot water. If you forget, it tastes bitter and awful. Rosemary has never been able to wander away from her teapot and return the exact moment it’s drinkable, so she sits and waits.
At last, the black tea is ready. She telekinetically pours from the ancient pot into an equally ancient cup. The aroma of caffeine and citrus comforts her. It’s become her favorite flavor in the last two years.
Rosemary had not abandoned the Typhoon. Roxanne and Diya’s decision to leave had shaken her—and shown her what a fool she was for leaving for the Rosebloods all those years ago—but the healer had not chosen to leave with them. The ocean is her home. The Roux’s may not all live here, but enough do and more than enough family-adjacent pirates for her to feel welcome.
Besides—she smirks to herself as she walks to her workbench and levitates the cup with her—who would heal the accident-prone, reckless pirates every day? She’s running low on comfrey-goldenrod salve, like always, and someone’s been in her poppy seed stash. Without her, the pirates would burn through their healing supplies within a week (likely never using the correct medication for anything) and begin dropping like flies from infection.
So, as she does every morning, Rosemary brews up a fresh concoction of comfrey-goldenrod. She refills the tin container in the Temple and her own, smaller one, in her satchel. The lids for both are painted with one golden, one pink pawprint—color coded for easy identification, a system she and Goldie devised—and, like always, melancholy tugs on her heartstrings when she sees Goldie’s pawprints on some of the tin storage containers.
Most of her family no longer live in the Typhoon. Goldie, Blue, Roxanne, and so many more… but, if any of them decide to return, they will always find Rosemary in the Temple early in the morning laying out herbs to dry.
[/td][/tr][/table]At last, the black tea is ready. She telekinetically pours from the ancient pot into an equally ancient cup. The aroma of caffeine and citrus comforts her. It’s become her favorite flavor in the last two years.
Rosemary had not abandoned the Typhoon. Roxanne and Diya’s decision to leave had shaken her—and shown her what a fool she was for leaving for the Rosebloods all those years ago—but the healer had not chosen to leave with them. The ocean is her home. The Roux’s may not all live here, but enough do and more than enough family-adjacent pirates for her to feel welcome.
Besides—she smirks to herself as she walks to her workbench and levitates the cup with her—who would heal the accident-prone, reckless pirates every day? She’s running low on comfrey-goldenrod salve, like always, and someone’s been in her poppy seed stash. Without her, the pirates would burn through their healing supplies within a week (likely never using the correct medication for anything) and begin dropping like flies from infection.
So, as she does every morning, Rosemary brews up a fresh concoction of comfrey-goldenrod. She refills the tin container in the Temple and her own, smaller one, in her satchel. The lids for both are painted with one golden, one pink pawprint—color coded for easy identification, a system she and Goldie devised—and, like always, melancholy tugs on her heartstrings when she sees Goldie’s pawprints on some of the tin storage containers.
Most of her family no longer live in the Typhoon. Goldie, Blue, Roxanne, and so many more… but, if any of them decide to return, they will always find Rosemary in the Temple early in the morning laying out herbs to dry.
PEACEFALL
peace comes at dawn, but yours comes at night
I FEEL SO HUNGRY —
— Dear diary, I don't know what's going on, but something's up / The dog won't stop barking, and I think my TV is bust / Every channel is the same, it's sending me insane / And earlier somebody bit me, what a fucking day / The sky is falling / It's fucking boring / I'm going braindead, isolated / God is a shithead / And we're his rejects / Traumatized for breakfast / I can't stomach any more survival horror / Dear diary, I feel itchy like there's bugs under my skin / The dog's gone rabid (shut the fuck up) / Doing my head in —— WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?