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Timestamp: 42nd of Spring, 515AV
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
Rosela gripped the white-painted gate with three hands, two others wrapped protectively around her belly and another white-knuckled on the handle of a basket with a single piece of folded parchment inside. She’d underestimated how far she could walk on her own, pure stubbornness the only thing that had gotten her this far. Her ankles hurt, and all she wanted in that moment was a sandwich and a nap. Hudon had strongly protested her going out on her own, but she’d overruled him with the sharpness of a jackal’s bite. If nothing else this day, she would do this without the help of yet another man.
Due to her unfortunate condition, she’d discovered she was no longer permitted to leave the city, even on business for her shop. There was little doubt in her mind her race had something to do with it; they were terrified one of their precious Nakivaks would abscond back to the desert. No matter her anger and the hard-won mark on her wrist, the wretched gold undan overruled it all. Forced to find philtering supplies within the city, she’d struck a deal with a local herbalist who grew them in her backyard at Windswept Condos. It’d been a fine deal, until the young Konti had up and decided to visit Mura for a season, leaving Rosela to have what she liked of her herbs, but then to find another supplier.
How selfish.
Clicking open the gate, Rosela waddled through, casting her eyes over tables of pots and boxes, many of them picked clean, presumably by the Konti's other customers and acquaintances. The rows of herbs still in the ground were running wild, some overtaking even their small name signs. With a deep, much put-upon sigh, Rosela closed the gate behind her, unfolded the note in her basket, and began moving along the rows.
”Al-oh. Aloe,” she wrinkled her nose at the paper, pronouncing the Common carefully. The list was copied from Orabelle’s notes, her previously employed cosmetologist, as Rosela was attempting to reproduce some of her creations. Next to each item was scribbled a few words to remind herself what each did. ”Skin treatment, burns, blemishes…” Now waddling sideways between the tables, she picked over the boxes there, searching. ”Al-oh. Al…oh… For Akajia’s sake, where are you?”
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Timestamp: 42nd of Spring, 515AV
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
Rosela gripped the white-painted gate with three hands, two others wrapped protectively around her belly and another white-knuckled on the handle of a basket with a single piece of folded parchment inside. She’d underestimated how far she could walk on her own, pure stubbornness the only thing that had gotten her this far. Her ankles hurt, and all she wanted in that moment was a sandwich and a nap. Hudon had strongly protested her going out on her own, but she’d overruled him with the sharpness of a jackal’s bite. If nothing else this day, she would do this without the help of yet another man.
Due to her unfortunate condition, she’d discovered she was no longer permitted to leave the city, even on business for her shop. There was little doubt in her mind her race had something to do with it; they were terrified one of their precious Nakivaks would abscond back to the desert. No matter her anger and the hard-won mark on her wrist, the wretched gold undan overruled it all. Forced to find philtering supplies within the city, she’d struck a deal with a local herbalist who grew them in her backyard at Windswept Condos. It’d been a fine deal, until the young Konti had up and decided to visit Mura for a season, leaving Rosela to have what she liked of her herbs, but then to find another supplier.
How selfish.
Clicking open the gate, Rosela waddled through, casting her eyes over tables of pots and boxes, many of them picked clean, presumably by the Konti's other customers and acquaintances. The rows of herbs still in the ground were running wild, some overtaking even their small name signs. With a deep, much put-upon sigh, Rosela closed the gate behind her, unfolded the note in her basket, and began moving along the rows.
”Al-oh. Aloe,” she wrinkled her nose at the paper, pronouncing the Common carefully. The list was copied from Orabelle’s notes, her previously employed cosmetologist, as Rosela was attempting to reproduce some of her creations. Next to each item was scribbled a few words to remind herself what each did. ”Skin treatment, burns, blemishes…” Now waddling sideways between the tables, she picked over the boxes there, searching. ”Al-oh. Al…oh… For Akajia’s sake, where are you?”
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