It was an unseasonable cool morning on the 8th, clouds moved in low to steal the light from the sun and cast the entirety of the Dry plaza into a perpetual late afternoon. Rowan was in his office, staring at a small stack of written requests and information on ghosts from the beginning of the season. Two bells had passed before he realized that he had never gone past the first of the inked requests on his stack.
Instead, his fingers had drummed a beat on the top of his desk so hard that the ends were numb and small spiderwebs of muted pain wrote themselves up through his flesh and down his fingers. Today had been quiet. No shadow darkened his doorway with news of the dead reaching up from shallow graves. Reaching up he pushed a hand over his face, pausing and slapping both cheeks. His work mocked him, staring up from the desktop with mute expectation.
"Damn it." Rowan muttered, pushing the papers aside. It had never been hard before, this job. Minor business troubles, new ghosts with old problems. But the autumn last had been slow...too slow. He could feel his father's cane against his back,the curl of disapproval on his lips. Fool boy. Fool son.
No. He stood roughly and pushed himself away from the desk with so much unexpected force that he knocked his chair aside. The noise of the wood clattering was shockingly brutal and Rowan leaped away from it instinctively. Landing awkwardly, all bent posture and wheeling arms, he joined his chair on the ground of his office. Muscles clenched and unclenched in his neck, but he did not rise immediately. Instead he stared at the ceiling and counted the cracks where paint had dried unexpectedly and caught fissures in the muggy Kenash air.
Imagine it, he, Rowan Morealis, lying on the floor of his own establishment as if he had keeled over. Any of his family would have laughed, save Dimeer, his father, only scowling and tapping his damnable cane. Rowan straightened and sat up, shaking the groggy from his head and finally righting the chair, pushing it into his desk. The whole shop was nothing but memories and shivers today, so he took his jacket and stepped outside, closing and locking the door.
Not that he expected customers today, but at the least he could hope for a comfortable stroll before entertaining exorcisms again.
Briefly he considered visiting the Lorak doctor and talking out what was on his mind. But that was only a brief thought, quickly dismissed. A dynasty brat afraid of business, how laughable, and he certainly didn't want any word spread to diminish his sales. Instead he passed the clinic, swamp moisture glinting off his polished boots, and walked toward Fire Island. Word on the street was a new Freeborn was opening a shop in the ruins of the old Syliran outpost. As a child, he'd played in those ruins at pirate king and knight versus bandits. The structure was a testament to older times, and Kenash held it in the same regards one might expect a city to hold a monument...so then it was surprising a Freeborn had purchased the land to build. Perhaps the Magistrate had hoped the new resident would have cause to tidy it up...maybe...well, it wasn't his business anyways.
What was it she was supposed to be selling, anyways? Potions? Plants, Herbs of some kind? He remembered the man who told him about it, but not what it was that he'd been told. Shaking his head, Rowan muttered to himself one of his father's old lessons. Always remember, simply that, as if a little forgetfulness was the worst thing in all of Mizahar.
Mostly without realizing it, Rowan found himself in front of Haeli's shop. He waited outside it a moment or two, looking up at the imposing collection of stones that jutted from the earth and then striding through the front door.
"Knock, Knock!" he called out as he did, "This place open for business yet?"
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