Chapter Text
Rain pattered against the glass of the greenhouse, the dim gloom of Druskenwald seeming even more gray than usual. Not that Farryn minded it any. She was used to gloomy and dank conditions. The rain brought nourishment to all life, and when that life must finally return to the earth, it will give all that nourishment back. Perfect for growing fungi. Granted, she rather be out in the elements, enjoying the cool water on her skin, the musty scent of the forest floor about her. But… They weren’t like the forests she was used to in Avantris, the woods here were much darker. She had seen what they held… And only a fool would go wandering in them.
So, she instead contented herself with the greenhouse at the Lockwood Estate. Once that strange woman, Adela, had finished with it, any remnant of the haunted past of the house had vanished. Most of it. Why she insisted on mounting Filthy Jasper on the mantel of a fireplace was beyond her. And she had the strangest sense of décor. Or a perverse sense of humor.
The large portrait that she had commissioned to replace the Lockwood’s in the parlor was of all of them… Though either the artist took some ‘creative’ liberties or Lady Druskenwald had made some disturbing suggestions. Black tears spilled from Lethica’s mask, nearly hidden by a lacy mourning veil, a charred child’s toy in her hands as she sat tall on a gray settee. Marius sat beside her, his fangs much more pronounced and highlighted with crimson paint, exposed with a wicked snarl, a deep rose red lipstick stain on his neck was subtly hidden in painted shadows.
Briggsy stood behind Marius, more rotted than usual. His eyes glowed with a strange purple hue as he held what looked to be a partially unrolled contract of sorts, grinning with malicious self-satisfaction. Yorgrim was beside him, looking just as dead as Briggsy, hollow eyes distant and misty as he slumped forward under the weight of his tombstone, a ghost of himself.
Bits of black feathers peaking out of his clothes instead of straw, Jericho stood in the back, mostly in shadow. The harsh orange glow of his eyes the most visible part of him. But they weren’t his eyes, the four-point pupils seemingly following you no matter where you stood in the room. She herself sat crouched in front of Lethica, though she hardly recognized herself with all the blight and fungi painted onto her skin. Her body seemed strangely distorted, the artist elongating some of her limps, painting branches of dark wicker piercing her skin stretching it out. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Adela had made it clear that she would have been gravely and inconsolably upset if it went missing, they would have collectively burned it.
As it were, it sat locked away in the parlor and they soon grew use to the other eccentricities of the house. With everything that happened with Cyril, it was decided that perhaps a day or two to rest and collect themselves would be best before returning to their witch hunt. She though, had never been one to be idle.
Her eyes scanned the breadth of the greenhouse, hands idly fondling a glass jar. Bits of mostly decayed mushrooms sluggishly rolled around along the bottom, leaving gray slimy streaks against the dirty glass. All that she had left from the mushrooms that Maggie and her coven had procured and getting anything to grow from the sludge would be difficult. She only hoped there were still some spores left. She picked her way around the various planters, now no longer housing the various dead and neglected plants from their first visit. Looking to the corner overlooking the moors, even the cursed tree of teeth was gone. Good riddance she thought. If Adela hadn't dealt with it, she sure would have.
Crouching down by the planter, she ran some of the dirt through her fingers. It was damp and surprisingly thick, almost a heavy loam. Bringing some up to her nose, she drank in the sweet smell of the forest floor. It brought her back to the forests of her home, dark and damp, filled with all sorts of plants and beasties. Towering trees, a collection of tall pines and hardwoods, ferns and vines crawling up their trunks. The smell of heavy rain sweet in the air, the cold droplets clinging to her fur and skin. And the deeper you went, the more fungi that would sprout, springing from the dead foliage, clinging to rotting logs. And in that forest... Had been Gwynna. She felt a pang in her chest as she remembered her fine, soft hair in her hands, the defiant and willful glimmer to her eyes, her beautiful, lithe form as it bounded and vaulted in front of her as they had raced through the trees together.
Rubbing her dirt stained hands across her face, she breathed in again, taking in as much air as her lungs could handle, her eyes watering from the pungent scent she told herself. She had to remember this scent, she had to remember her, always keep her clear in her memory, never let her fade into the mists of time. The Blighted One would make sure of that they would get the life together she had always dreamed of. But til then, she had to do everything she could to end this hunt to Philip’s satisfaction and claim her prize.
Tucking the bottle back into pouch at her hip, she began digging through the soil, pushing armloads out of the planter box. She hadn’t gotten far when she heard a thud of something hitting the door to the hall, followed by the sound of it creaking open. Immediately, her hand strayed to her staff, eyes narrowed as she slowly raised herself from the dirt. She craned her neck around, trying to see past into the darkened hall at who was disturbing her this late. And that’s when she caught a glimpse of glossy black feathers. A large crow hopped through, glaring balefully at her with a single orange eye before flapping into the rafters of the greenhouse. Her lip curled in response, her eyes never leaving Virgil as the grip on her staff tightened. Damned crow… What was he doing here? And alone… He never strayed far from Jericho, taking any chance he could to torment the poor man. Slowly walking back over the planter, she shot one last glare at the crow, who gave horrid caw in response. She didn’t like Virgil watching her, but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of driving her off.
No sooner though then she had knelt down to resume her work when a jumble of wiry, scrawny wooden limbs of one scarecrow tumbled through the doorway, having tripped headlong into another planter. Only just barely did he manage to catch himself on the edge, his legs splaying out as an old, worn banjo twanged as it hit the wooden sides of the box. He scrambled to his feet, wheeling about wildly before setting sights on Farryn with a small gasp,
“Oh, F-Farryn! Y-Ya wouldn’t happen t’have seen Virgil flappin’ around, wud’ya? He just flew off an’ ya know him, he likes to stick his beak in things, h-he’s awful nosey…” She grunted, nodding up at the rafters, but held no hope that he could actually stop Virgil from being a nuisance. As much as the thing followed the scarecrow, rarely did he listen to anything he actually said. Unless the fiend also benefited from his suggestions. So she wasn't holding her breath as she watched him try to persuade the crow down. After what felt like a one-sided conversation, Virgil fluffed his feathers as he eyed them with mild annoyance before nesting down.
“Uh… S-Sorry Farryn… I, um… can’t get him to budge. I-I hope we ain’t disturbin’ ya none.” They were, but she shook her head, sighing,
“Ya ain’t and…” Nodding up at the rafters, she raised her voice slightly, just to make absolute sure that Virgil was listening, though she knew that she could be whispering and the crow would be eavesdropping, “...as long he minds himself n’ stays where I can see ‘im, I won’t knock’im from the rafters.” A raspy hiss was the only response she got, though Jericho recoiled, horrified,
“Virgil! There ain’t no need to get nasty!” Pulling his hat from his head, he shook his head as he gave her an apologetic look, “Oh, I-I’m awful sorry for the things he says…” If she hadn’t ‘met’ Virgil on multiple occasions, she might have rolled her eyes at that. But she knew that within that hiss was a very viable threat, their latest encounter with him still fresh in her mind. It had been… unnerving even though all he could really do was speak to them. Staring into what had once been Jericho’s eyes, the orange glow no longer warm and gentle, but harsh and bitterly cold, the smooth, elegant voice unable to hide the innate cruelness to his soul. Virgil wasn’t just a mindless bird, a creature with bottomless hunger. But a calculated mind, ruthless and manipulative. And that was what truly frightened her. Shaking herself, she cast once last glance up to the rafters before stooping again to dig through the planter.
“Never ya mind that, whatcha doin’ up so late, runnin’ through the house? It's past the witchin’ hour.”
“Oh… Well, I couldn’t sleep none… E-Every time I close my eyes. I-I see that forest… a-an’ all them teeth… a-an’…” He shuddered, pulling his raggedy coat tighter around him. “Well, anyways, I-I was thinkin’ of warmin’ myself up in the kitchen with a cup of tea when Virgil went flappin’ off somewhere in a real hurry! Guess he heard ya rootin’ around in here…” Looking at the planter and then at her, he scratched his head. “Gwarsh, what are ya doin’ in here so late yerself? Doin’ some late night gardenin’?”
“Aye, couldn’t sleep myself so I figured I’d make use of the time.” She showed him the few jars of decaying mushroom she had left, tapping the planter with a hoof. “I wanted to see if I could get’em to take an’ study ‘em. They ain’t no mushroom I’ve ever seen, Maggie n’ her circle were able to devise a powerful cure with it.” Tapping a finger against his hat, he slowly placed it back on his head, brow furrowed in thought,
“...That’s a mighty clever idea. Them mushrooms were the cure to whatever magic them hags brought upon all of Pholsense. If we come across any more hags, they might come in handy. An’ I’m gettin’ the feelin’ we’ll find a lot more hags… Though that might just be Virgil’s wishful thinkin’.” Purposefully ignoring that last bit, she managed a smile and began shoveling more dirt from the planter.
“Right… They could save us some trouble in the future. Though it will be a bit of a challenge, I’m not sure there’s much good stock left in ‘em, they’re mostly decayed now.”
“Gwarsh, are ya needin’ some help then? I’m a dab hand at gardenin’, I used to tend to the little garden my gals had.” She glanced up at him, unable to hide an actual smile. He plopped himself down next to her, leaning over the planter as he watched her, the orange light from his eye holes steadily glowing brighter. Even though his face was just a ragged burlap sack, the eager hopefulness evident in his tone was hard to say no to.
“Alright, but if ya gonna help, ya need do exactly as I say, got it?” He practically knocked his hat from his head as he vigorously nodded, giving her a bright, beaming smile,
“Of course, I’ll fal-low yer lead Miss Farryn! Yer the expert afterall, I don’t know nothin’ bout mushrooms. Oh, well I suppose I know a few that aren’t or are fit to be et’...” Catching her gaze, he began rolling up his sleeves, “R-Right anyways…! Whatcha needin’ me to do?”
The work went by quickly with the two of them, which honestly surprised her. She had only accepted his offer to make him feel useful, fully expecting him to get distracted or talk the entire time. Well, he did ramble on, but his hands never stopped shoveling dirt. She casted a side-eye glance at him as he spoke low about all the plants he’s tended to, their quirks and qualities, how some springs the seeds wouldn’t take or about early frosts would take even the heartiest of plants in the fall. But he always tried to make sure they had something, even if he had work late into the night and early morning, between all his other… responsibilities. All for his gals cause he loved them dearly and he would have done anything to show them that, just to hear that they loved him back.
Listening him go on… it was oddly soothing and comforting, if not sad. Out in the forests, as she tended to and spread her patron’s blight, all there was were the sounds of the woodland creatures, comforting and familiar in their own way. But she hadn’t had a chance to mindlessly talk and listen to another person about nothing in particular, quietly enjoying the company since… She bit her lip, a flash of guilt ripping through her. She… She hadn’t realized just how lonely she was. All these years, the memories of Gwynna kept her company, gave her reason to keep going because she knew in the end, she would return to her. It was all she needed, all she wanted. And yet… Jericho talked on about the festivals in the nearby towns, of all their everyday lives. From the rows of corn, he could see marriages and funerals, celebrations and years of traditions, of community. But rarely could he ever join, his gals didn’t like him to stay away too long. For each celebration though, they’d weave certain plants together, each holding some sort of meaning. Carnations for new mothers… Honeysuckle for lovers… Wheat for good fortune and harvests… Willow for mourning…
“Jericho. Quiet.” The bite to her tone was harsh and immediately he quieted, shrinking into himself. But his hands kept moving. By the time they had removed enough soil to her liking, the silence was deafening and she wasn’t sure what was worse…. Sighing, she leaned against the planter, staring into the empty hole they made.
“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean ta snap at’cha like that, I shouldn’t have…” He simply nodded, dusting off his hands, pointing down at the planter, head cocked to the side.
“...Ya can talk, it wasn’t a command, just…a request.” There was a beat of silence, the slash of his mouth drawing tight and he looked down at his hands.
“O-Oh, well ya seemed real upset and I-I figured I musta said somethin’...” The ache deepened, but she forced herself to meet his gaze,
“It was nothin’ ya said. I… just got lost in my own thoughts." Hesitating, he reached a shaky hand out and patted her hand, his wooden fingers oddly warm.
"You wanna talk about it?" His voice was quiet, but there a strength to it, reassurance, opening his arms to catch her falling. But Gwynna was hers, it felt wrong to share more of her than she already had, the love they had shared, love that was meant for her. But it was also… freeing. She had lived with the guilt and pain for so long that had forgotten what it had felt like to be without them. That moment in Cyril, during the ritual, she was forced to bare her soul to them, her past and regrets. She expected judgment for going against her circle, doing something she knew was ultimately taboo, not once, but twice.
But there was none. Only sympathy and acceptance. Some even saying they would have done the same in her place. She wasn’t alone with her feelings anymore.
Placing her hand on his, she gave it a gentle squeeze, trying to find her words when a slight noise overhead caught her attention, only barely audible. The soft rustle of feathers, the click of talons on wood.
Virgil.
At that moment, she became keenly aware of his eyes on her, beady and hard. A biting chill passed over her, skin crawling, almost burning under the sensation, like touching freezing ice to bare skin, so frigid that sears you like a brand. Pursing her lips, she narrowed her eyes. Sneaky little turkey… She had forgotten that he was up there, watching them. He wasn’t fit to hear of Gwynna, of her love for her and the intimacy that they shared. She wouldn’t allow her beloved to be another dirty secret to his collection.
"I’m sorry… I can’t. Let us just move on, please forget it." Hauling herself up, not waiting for a response as she pulled away from him, “Now we just need some sort of substrate.” He deflated slightly, but gave her a firm nod, dusting himself off as he stood.
“Alright then. But…uh… f-forgive me, some sort of what now?” A sense of relief washed over her and she forced her mind onto the task ahead of them.
“Substrate. Fungi don’t just grow out of the soil, they need somethin’ that’s got a bit more nutrient to it. Dependin’ on the kind, they either grow from from rottin’ logs, trees, or the debris of the forest floor, like leaves n’ bark. Straw also works just as well.” At the mention of straw, he perked up,
“If it's’ straw yer needin’, I-I’ll happily give ya some of mine!” She shook her head, but he was already struggling to get out of his coat, part of his arm seemingly getting caught in one of the holes in his sleeve.
“Ya don’t need to do that, I’m gonna need a lot of it. We’ve got to layer the bed with it and the bits of mushroom I have left to give ‘em the best chance.” Slowing for only a moment, he gave her a hesitant smile, the corners of his mouth pulling tight into a rigid grin,
“W-Well if ya need lots of it, I-I can spare it. N-Not like I need it…I’ll just be a mite scrawnier that’s all a-and if it helps ya out with all this mushroom plantin’...!” Freeing an arm from his coat, his fingers made quick work pulling out the loose stitches of his burlap skin, a small bit of straw spilling from the seam on his bicep and out onto the floor. Without his coat on, he was somehow an even sadder sight. Farryn knew that he had been cobbled together with bits and pieces the hags had strapped together, but seeing the bits of broken and warped tool handles and scraps of wood either nailed together or wrapped in rusted wire put a lump in her chest. Likely all bits that had been thrown away, perhaps even by the hags themselves… His ‘skin’ was nothing more than thin, moth-eaten cloth and burlap, roughly patched together, already loose and sagging on his wooden frame. Clearly not the first time he had given up straw. A body cobbled together with the unwanted refuse of others and she choked on the thought that it might have been deliberate. Stepping towards him, she grabbed the handful of straw offered to her and promptly stuffed it back into his arm, her wiry fingers smoothing out the rip.
“I don’t want’cha to give it away, it's yers and ya should keep it.” He started slightly, surprised, but there was something else to the look he gave her, his simple features hard to read.
“...Oh. But…”
“We’ll find something else. If you want to keep it Jericho, I don’t want you to give it away, ya hear?” Giving him a smile, she patted his arm, “Those are my instructions if ya want to continue helpin’ me.” He blinked, and then the smile came back, softer, the orange glow of his face like warm firelight.
“Gwarsh… I-I suppose I can do that.” His voice cracked slightly, betraying a level of emotion his face couldn’t. Helping him stitch up his arm, her chest ached as he leaned in and whispered,
“T-Thank ya, yer mighty kind Farryn.”
Kindness wasn’t what she would call it. Those hags were lucky they had met their fate already, for what Virigl did them would pale in comparison to what she would have done. But she bit her tongue. No need to rip open old wounds with hard truths, better to let him be happy in this moment. It was the least he deserved. It was something they all deserved. Memories of Gwynna seeped back into her mind and with it, the pain she thought she was over. Whispering a silent apology, she hoped Gwynna could forgive her for not thinking of her tonight.