Flashback Healing Hands

[Celeste Arumen]

88th Day of Spring, 508 AV Celeste sat ensconced in a dream, small wisps of light dancing around her – tiny ensorcelled illusions of her own design, providing light against the otherwise dark garden. Ripe stalks rose up all around, reaching toward the faint pinpoints of light in the sky, silently yearning for the nourishment of the sun. Her careworn leather gloves raked the fertile earth in search for imposters and each weed came up with a triumphant spray of soil. But weeding was tiresome and Celeste had more ambitious plans in mind. Her large, dark eyes narrowed at the ground. Trimming plants was not advisable to a small girl and especially not to one with little patience. Celeste, however, was plagued by the notion that she was far beyond that of a small girl. Thanks to her ability in Morphing, rivaled only by the attention received from Ionu, she rewarded herself with an adult-sized ego. Grams was far too old to give her hidings, after all. Those bad behaviors went almost wholly unchecked and therefore, had a way of getting little Celeste into trouble. With an unsteady lurch, she rose to her feet and crept over toward the forsythia bushes. The clippers were still in the house, but if she did a bit of magic... Closing her eyes, she envisioned the claws of a bear, having seen one once with the Inverted… Her hands began to shudder as djed hummed through her veins, reordering the previous code that defined her. The glossy, dirt-caked surface of her nails warped out of place, elongating and expanding. She watched in mute fascination as the process completed, her bones clicking soundly into their new position. But something was amiss – she’d only seen bears from afar. The nails were longer and seemingly sharper but just as insubstantial. She puzzled, turning her hand over in the dim light. Now irritated, she seized the blooming vine with a punishing grip. If she couldn’t clip the blooms, she’d crush them! In her childlike fit however, she lost sight of her newly morphed nails and just as easily as she’d summoned them, promptly gashed herself with their bitter, jagged edges. For a moment, dumbfounded, she steeped back to survey the damage. Both palms leaked a rusty red and the scent of her blood wafted on the breeze. The coppery smell sent her head reeling. Her lips began to tremble and her eyes began to burn. A lump rose from the base of her throat before loosing a wail; Celeste was still just an eight year-old girl. She stood there with her hands out, crying helplessly, beseeching her hoary old Grandmother for aid. ”What’s the matter, child?” With a hobbling step, Grams emerged startlingly quick. In a matter of seconds she seized her weeping palms, surveying the damage. ”First, what manner of claws are these?” She gave Celeste a stern look. ”You’ve got no business trying something without my help. If you hurt yourself, it’s just as well.” The young, tawny -haired child merely sniffed. ”Now then. Set yourself right while I fetch a handkerchief and meet me inside.” Nodding, she focused intently on what her hands used to look like. The process took longer than expected and before long, she was exhausted. Morphing took almost all of her energy. Dragging her feet, she shuffled past their crooked doorframe and inside. With a shock, she realized the kitchen had been turned into a small laboratory. ”Grams, what are you doing?” Her voice rang with the cadences of ’I already know, but say it isn’t true.” ”Since you’ve decided to hurt yourself, I’ve decided to teach you how to fix yourself. That way if you’re ever in a bind, you can do this.” She gestured to the alembic, clearly weathered and stained, perched unsteadily on its metal stand. ”I’m still bleeding, Grams.” Her tone was wheedling. ”Then you’d better do something about it, hmm? Apply pressure while I fire this up.” Muttering, the young girl shuffled over to the cabinets. ”We’re making a poultice child, a simple remedy for cuts and scratches.” Several complaints rushed to her mind at once, yet what escaped her lips strayed in intent. ”What’s a poultice?” She asked stubbornly, pressing a rag to her still-leaking wounds. ”It’s a lot like the word ‘porridge’ and looks much the same. Some people call it a cataplasm, though they’re the hoity-toity types. It’s something you put on a wound or a burn to make it better.” That seemed simple enough. Curiosity piqued, she slowly made her way over toward the set-up. ”First, you’ll need a scale.” She pointed out the burnished bronze scale, shimmering dully in the candlelight. ”You’ll want to measure these tree roots before you cut them up and then crush them. Very simple stuff.” Celeste blinked. ”So we won’t need to bake or boil or do whatever you do with that?” She jerked a thumb at the forlorn-looking equipment. ”Not this time, child.” She flashed the girl an uneven grin. ”You’ll need three large roots to make a whole batch, preferably all the same size. You measure them on the scale to make sure they all weigh the same – looks can be deceiving, as you already have learned.” The lesson was getting very intriguing, very fast. ”I want you to do it with me. Place one on the scale.” Celeste did as she was told, using the cloth as an intermediary. ”Aren’t you done bleeding yet?” She didn’t feel the need to answer. ”You see how that’s a little heavier than the other two? About a half-pound. We want it to be a quarter pound.” She grabbed the girl’s hands in hers, abruptly. ”Here. Put on a pair of gloves.” Groaning, she allowed Grams to slip the oversized mitts onto her hands. ”No sense in having you leak all over the ingredients.” The old woman then seized the knife and cutting board, positioning it to the side. ”Cut off the base to about here.” Celeste very carefully sawed the bottom off the gnarled old root. Too much pressure and she might hurt herself – again. The grandmother clicked her teeth in disapproval, but made no direct remark. ”Good enough,” she said. ”Now, cut them all up into tiny pieces. Do it in rows, then cut those rows in half until you have it all properly diced.” The little girl whined plaintively but complied, a stream of foul-language going off in her mind. ’This is my just desserts,’ she thought miserably. Grams had a way of putting her to work whenever she got in trouble. Her hands worked mechanically, used to chopping vegetables just the same. The tree root was far denser however and before long, perspiration began to dew her skin. ”Good enough.” Gran gave it an appraising look. ”It’d go easier if you cut them a little smaller, but your hands aren’t as strong as mine. While I crush them, I’ll explain how to find the ingredients.” She dumped the first root into the mortar and began to grind, the motion circular and hypnotic. ”This is called Tulja Poultice and that is because of where it comes from. Tulja trees grow in tropical climates – places with beaches and coconuts. They’re small-ish with flowering branches that have lilac blooms. But you don’t want them for their blossoms – tulja blossoms are as useless as wet paper. You want the roots, where all the nutrients come in. You pull up the trees and slice off the roots. It’s sad for them but very good for us.” Her grin returned. Grams dumped the powdered remains into a wooden bowl. ”Here you come in. Crush these while I prepare the next step.” Grudgingly, she seized the mortar and pestle. ”Why can’t you just show me these things?” Her plea went unheard however, as Grams retrieved a gelatinous looking ooze from the icebox. ”This is called ‘jellyfish piss’ in the common tongue, though technically it has no name. I’d advise always buying the stuff. Finding it is hard work and underwater no less.” Celeste giggled. It was always funny hearing Grams curse. ”Keep grinding. Once you’re done that root, I’ll show you how to add this.” Celeste continued the rocking motion with the pestle. ”It’s easier clockwise.” Her elder remarked. With a beleaguered sigh, Celeste began moving it in the opposite direction. It really was easier, though she kept that detail to herself. ”Go faster child, else this will take until morn.” Staring her down, the young girl began to grind at breakneck pace. ”Not that fast!” After much bickering, they ended with a finely crushed power. ”Lovely,” Gran remarked, rubbing a pinch between two fingers. ”The consistency is as close as a novice can get.” Celeste glared in silence. ”Now we add the ooze – you want just a bit. Not an exact measurement but I’d say a glob will do.” She threw a wiggling chunk onto the mix. It was translucent and smelled like a chamberpot. ”No wonder they call it jellyfish piss!” Celeste exclaimed. They mixed it well, Celeste doing most of the work. After a few minutes the whole mixture turned to a teal paste. ”It doesn’t smell so bad this way,” she said softly, lightheaded from lack of sleep. Sensing her student’s fatigue, Grams sighed. ”Alright, take off the gloves and rinse those hands. We’ll get you patched up quick and off to bed.” With a fitful yawn, Cellie nodded. The paste went onto two thick, gauzy bandages generously. ”This’ll ease the pain and help you heal faster. We’ll put some on in the morning, too. You want to apply the stuff within an hour of the injury or it won’t be as useful.” She nodded. ”Square bandages for palms.” She pressed the soothing pads against her palms and Celeste sighed as the burning ebbed away. ”I’ll wrap it so it'll stay.” A roll of cotton unfurled and snaked around the breadth of her hands. ”Now then, little wizard. Get to bed.” With a huge yawn she nodded sleepily and stalked off.

[Fallacy]

XP Award! Name:Celeste Arumen XP Award: Morphing 1 Philtering 2 Lore: Crafting a Poultice with Grams Tulja Poultice Jellyfish Piss Notes: Morphing, especially at that speed and ease requires a model. It is not entirely impossible to Morph without a model, but would require concentration and an understanding of the animal, or at least the part being transformed. Please try to go in more depth when writing for magic like this, Morphing is very interesting if portrayed right. I like Grams, he is well written. Any questions or concerns about the rewards gained please send a PM