The #Broken_Dagger Forum

It should have been easy to see, should it not, the creeping of a thing about Darkenhold's walls, even in the pitch of night. Especially one so vibrant, so thick, that his Light shone from under his skin. Yet, he had been careful. His giggles had been held under his breath, breath that steamed in the cold of night, with muck and mud smeared all over him to keep the Light safe within it's cracks. Indeed, they might see him, a creeping, inky blackness, for they are well-trained guards, and far, far more clever than Catch could ever hope to be.

What he lay outside the Darkenhold gates, when it becomes light enough to see, are dolls. Tens of dolls, stretching even and almost into a hundred, filthy dolls of varying substance, of rich velvet to rough burlap, and delicate, porcelain heads to ones of crude, wooden carving. Missing eyes, missing fingers, missing limbs; in various forms of decay, hair wild and tangled, horsehair and human hair and yarn. Each one has been split, from throat to nonexistent crotch, stuffing removed, and filled with the dirt; good, clean dirt.

In each doll there was dirt, and from each doll a scattering of fresh greenery is growing. Herbs. Vegetables. Flowers, and many other things that should not be able to grow in Winter, yet here they were, fresh and green and only a little chilled by the autumn frost. A greenhouse can grow anything, anywhere. And this, this is a belated apology, spoken by one who could write no letters.

There is one, special doll, one that is almost complete, almost healthy, save for delicate white flowers put in the empty eyes, and a strange, silver coating, a metallic sheen, as if the doll has been dipped in quicksilver. This one - this one is just for her.

It should have been easy to see, had he not been so terribly careful about it. So careful, in fact, that it might actually have gone unnoticed if not for the plague of mice and bloodied wells not a week earlier: a cascade of well-targeted little pranks culminating in a sense of heightened vigilance. But how clever he's been, and how quiet, and perhaps not even aware of the moments during which crossbows tracked his back-and-forth motion; perhaps not even caring. And Darkenhold, not much given to pre-emptive violence, has allowed him this work: if he is not benign he seems at least manageable, and willing in any case to leave of his own accord. It's some long time after his retreat that guards approach to see what might have come of all that activity, with ready knives and lifted torches -

There's a runner sent for the library, when they realise.

What a thing it is that Catch has created here - and what speculation it has spawned! It is a threat, although perhaps it is not; it is an invitation, but to exactly what, and how might one answer a welcome phrased in such unusual terms? It is an enigma wrapped in a madman's fancies. It is a precursor to abominations. It is -

- very much a swordswoman's long silence, when she arrives to see this gift, trailed by the runner and bearing a blazing torch of her own. Gift, she explains with a certain quiet emphasis, and these are strange words when spoken by a woman half-couched amongst broken dolls and fragrant greenery, but she will hear no argument and soon enough they withdraw to their posts again. All save for a woman whose hands cannot stop touching, and a runner who'd lingered long enough to be pressed into a different sort of service: a single thing is required of that young girl, and when she returns with the small 'barrow the swordswoman demonstrates the care with which these strange things must be loaded upon it. One and then the next, side-by-side as gently as could be, cracked porcelain nestled warmly up against rag-cheeks dyed bright 'til they blush, and what an unlikely garden it seems, when they are done.

It's then, only then, that Ariane knows for certain that her first instinct was correct.

Good earth, she explains - and quietly now, as they roll the little cart towards that corner of the stronghold which reflects their torchlight back at them, glittering and warm and fine. With which you nourish a thing into betterment; with which you fill a thing with what is wholesome and good, and that this gift is like a balm to a heart grown raw in the wake of Governors and students is nothing which she can speak at all. But does the girl see? That there's nothing at all to fear, for this is simply how one particular creature might present a gift: wrapped up in dainty things, thoughtful and precious, even - and particularly - the one which is so distinct, the one which had lent such a shine to her eyes and which she'll hold back for keeping, even when the rest have been set into their new home. With its tall glass, its abundance of moist warmth; with its particular, wanting absence which they will answer tonight.

Good earth for a better greenhouse.