In Nurse Poppy's Care Ch. 01

A lot of people ask me about dates and times. Though one can read the Alrek/Larya stories in any order, and I even encourage it, the events of this story take place in Year 115, mid-fall. The next story chronologically is Sea Slimes, which takes place in Year 114, summer (don't ask why it's counting down, nobody knows and it's just too much trouble to argue with seers).

~ ~ ~ ~

"I still can't believe you slept out here."

"Why nah?" Gripping one end of the cord in his teeth, Alrek pulled the knot taut around the bedroll. "Ish chea'er, 'egger 'shca'e rook—"

"I literally can understand the horse better than you."

He took a deep breath. "Ish cheaber, baggar eshake eroo—"

"Yes, please, talk louder and slower, that helps a lot."

"He says it's cheaper," piped up the stablemaid, slipping past them both to reach the horse with her brush, "and has a better escape route."

Alrek pointed emphatically at the stablemaid and nodded. Larya scowled. "You got that from his grunting?"

The stablemaid giggled. She was a stark contrast to the other three occupants of the room—where Alrek was rough, short and a bit stocky, and Larya was tall, willowy and graceful, and the horse was a tall, muscular heavyweight, she was of average height, a bit round, and seemed to move more in careful spins and light bounces than ordinary footsteps. Between Alrek's black, Larya's auburn and the horse's gray, she was also the only redhead present. "He talks like my grandmother. She's always chewing on something, especially this time of year."

Alrek rolled his eyes and spat out the cord, tying the rope into a loose bow and strapping the bedroll to his backpack. The rogue looked up at Larya, who blinked down at him calmly. "Don't you have shit to pack, too?"

"Oh, I guess." The druidess glanced back towards the exit. "I thought I'd see if you needed any help. I know you and horses don't mix."

"We mixed fine. This one's a draft horse." Alrek stood up and patted the beast on the side. "Draft horses aren't normal horses."

"Not how horses work," piped up the stablemaid from the horse's other side, "but sure." She was barely able to peek at Alrek over the horse's back. "If you're not done here, I can see to the other horses first. I didn't mean to barge in. Not used to people, you know, sleeping in our stables."

"Maybe you should brush Alrek." Larya giggled, reaching to feel Alrek's straw-mussed hair. "What a mess. Do you even wash it?"

"Off, druid!" He jerked back, smacking her hand away. She knew he hated being touched.

"Is that your name?" the stablemaid asked. "I heard you say it was Snatch when you two checked in."

Larya and Alrek blinked. Alrek's eyes narrowed.

"Oops." Larya bit her lip. "I'd, um, better go pack up my room."

She fled Alrek's baleful glare.

"Your partner is very strange," the stablemaid said, her tone carefully neutral as she busied herself with brushing. The old draft horse nickered.

"She get up to fun in there last night?"

The stablemaid reddened. "W-Well... now that you mention it. Is... you two aren't, um..."

Alrek dug around in the hay, finally finding a long, slightly tarnished hunting knife. He tucked it into his left boot and started looking for his right. "If you're asking me what I think you're asking, definitely not. You kidding? We'd murder each other." He grimaced. "We're not even partners. We just... keep going on missions together. Or she keeps following me around when I go on missions."

"Okay, good." Her shoulders relaxed a little. "Because she and a couple barmaids did spend the night together. There were vines and flowers... growing in there this morning. Before she got rid of them, of course."

"Druids." He snorted. "Sorry if all that made any trouble for you."

"Oh, don't be!" She waved the apology away urgently. "After all the help you gave us with those bandits, we can take a little druid weirdness! It's hard to find adventurers who keep their word out here in the Western Plains." She paused. "My name's Alassa, by the way."

"Yeah, good to meet you. Do you see any boots over there?"

She glanced over her shoulder. "One, in the corner. Should I go deal with a different horse first? I feel like I'm definitely, um, intruding."

"Yeah." Alrek hesitated, realizing from the way her eyes lowered that this probably sounded rude. "I mean, I don't mind talking or anything," he lied, clearing his throat, "I just don't have the nimbleness to squeeze myself around in here when there's someone else."

"Okay, then." She smiled and patted the horse's snout. It snorted. "I'll be right back, Claire. Be nice to the guest."

Alassa bounced out of the stall.

As soon as she was gone, Alrek sighed with quiet relief. He edged around 'Claire' and retrieved his remaining boot. Ugh, how did it get horse hair in it?

Alrek was busily shaking the boot clear of debris, wondering where the knife was that went in this one, when he heard the doors swing open. Two male voices echoed in the cramped stable.

"... can't believe that bastard. Probably still in Carriope screwing around with the local girls."

"Maybe he didn't hear the rendezvous point right?"

"Nah, he heard me. The idiot just got sidetracked. Literally everyone told him this was a fuckin' scouting campaign, and all he heard was—oh, hello!"

From the stablemaid's squeak, Alrek gathered they had just opened the stall door where she'd gone. He spotted the right-boot-knife beneath the draft horse and grinned, retrieving it with care. This was his favorite between the two, and his second-favorite knife overall.

"H-Hello, sirs!" stammered the stablemaid. "Um, I'm awfully sorry—didn't mean to, um, intrude—"

She sounded spooked. Alrek stiffened.

"Hey, hey, it's okay!" assured one of the men. His tone reminded Alrek of how Larya had soothed Claire last night. "It's okay. We're just here to get our horses."

"Very kind of you to see to them so," added the other, and Alrek heard the stall door closing behind him. "See? We appreciate it."

Alrek couldn't quite place that accent. It wasn't local, and it wasn't northern. It was very... posh.

"It's... nothing." Alassa gave a nervous laugh. "Just doing my job, right? Wouldn't want your horses to be all matted on the road."

"No, we wouldn't," agreed the first man smoothly. "That's so kind of you to consider. You're very kind. Very kind."

"Um, thank you?"

"You don't need to thank me. I'm just saying you're kind."

Alrek finished replacing the knife in his boot and sat up slightly, his eyes narrowed. He didn't like that soothing-the-animals tone one bit.

"It's Alice, isn't it?" asked the second man. "Alice. You showed us to our rooms last night."

"Um. That's right. It's Alassa, though."

"You did a good job, Alice."

"Thank you." Alassa's voice was getting smaller. Alrek picked up the manure shovel as he stood up.

"You left so soon, though..." murmured the first man, who was definitely moving around the stall. "We wanted to thank you, Alice."

"Um. Thank you. I mean—"

"Don't they tip the girls over here?" asked the first man suddenly. "Do they not do that?"

"You know, Brucil, I don't think they do," said the second. "When they do pay them at all, it's just coin up-front. They never get a tip."

"Such a shame," the first man said softly. "They just pay them in petty coins, with no... special reward for extra-good service? For an extra-pretty smile?"

They were getting noisier—pacing around in there. Surrounding her. He could actually hear the stablemaid's wavering breath.

Alrek turned and walked out into the aisle, barely holding in a growl.

Chosen. That was the accent—that slight drawl, that carefully posh enunciation. They were from the Kingdom of the Chosen, the would-be empire on the eastern peninsula. Scouts, they'd said? Son of a bitch.

The stall door was closed, but he could see the tops of their heads—a very tall man by the door, the other on the far corner. There wasn't room for anyone to flee, not with the door blocked, not with the horse in the way. The barmaid appeared to be cornered.

"I. Um." Alassa's voice was very soft. "Please, I must see, um..."

"Now, now, Alice," purred the man by the door. "Don't you want to accept his tip? You've been so good so far..."

"You wouldn't know what to do with all those wages," cooed Brucil, advancing on her. "They've got you so confused..."

Alrek reached up as high as he could, over the stall door, and clanged the man by the door on the head with the manure shovel.

In the cramped acoustics of the stable, the impact rang out like a gong, and there were startled shouts and cries of alarm as the man slumped limply to the ground. Alrek kicked the door open, ready to swing again if the other man tried any—

Oh.

Alrek had only heard two men. Only seen two men tall enough to be seen over the stall door.

But there had been, in fact, three Chosen soldiers in this stall with Alassa and the horse.

And the two remaining were armed.

Alrek sucked in a breath through his teeth. Shit. Should've slept in the inn.

~ ~ ~ ~

"You idiot."

"I'm fine."

"You numskull."

"It's literally barely a damn scratch, druid."

Alrek leaned against the back of the cart, nursing his wound with a rag drenched in something that fizzled painfully and probably did next-to-nothing.

"It was very noble," Alassa said, eyes wide and shimmering, her hands clasped over her mouth. "I mean, I was about to yell for help—and I mean, you could have just made it clear you were in there and they probably would have backed off—"

"It wasn't noble," Alrek growled, his head throbbing with pain where the soldier's stupid axe had decided to make some mischief. He was lucky that there had been no room to swing with any real force, so it had practically been a tap. With an axe. On the head. "I just fuckin' hate Chosen even more than I hate head injuries. Those fuckers're all going to the gallows, right?"

The innkeeper fretted with his beard. "Well, we don't have a gallows, but they're certainly going somewhere, that's for sure! We've contacted the Baron up north, Baron Iswiel. I expect he'll send some, erm, 'diplomats' to explain the error of their ways and the equality of all peoples, and, erm, that sort of thing."

Western Plains 'indulgent diplomats' were very, very good at persuading people of things like that. They were usually busy serving in the Plains Barons' constant infighting, but nobody here liked outsiders causing trouble. Especially outsiders from the peninsula.

"Great." Alrek scowled up at Larya. "See? If I hadn't done... whatever it was I did, the scouts probably would've rode off and reported all their findings. People around here don't even have a gallows. Hell, the innkeeper gave them rooms!"

"One room," the innkeeper corrected miserably. "I—I mean, was I supposed to pick a fight with them? They weren't doing any harm, I thought."

Alrek gestured at the innkeeper, holding Larya's green gaze.

Larya's arms were folded, and she raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Yes, Snatch, and I'm sure you knew that the local political infrastructure was ill-equipped to handle technically nonviolent agents of a violent military force when you ran at them with a ladle or whatever."

"Shit shovel. I would've been lucky to have a ladle." He pointed bitterly to his injury. "I wouldn't have a scratch on me if I'd had a ladle. I once broke a troll's arm with a ladle."

"Why didn't you just knife them?"

"Horses smell blood, Larya."

"Oh, for—" Throwing her hands up in the air, Larya looked over to the barkeep. "Isn't there any healing magic here?"

"I just need some willowberry gum," Alrek grumbled. "Just want the throbbing to go away, and maybe for you to stop echoing your voice like that. I can barely feel it."

"That's because it's a head injury, Snatch."

"You're a head injury."

"See, I know you're hurt way worse than you say, because you're usually even worse than that at comebacks!" Hand on her hip, Larya waited for the innkeeper's response.

The innkeeper mopped his brow with a rag, looking around uncertainly. "I mean... no, I'm afraid. We had some preserved peaches from the patron dryad, but those bandits took it. Probably used it on themselves after you thrashed them."

"A peach dryad?" Larya's eyes lit up. So did her cheeks. Alrek gritted his teeth. "Might we, um..."

"Asleep for the winter, of course."

"Right."

"There... is a healer up the hill, though." He pointed hesitantly, off into the part of Alrek's vision that just got all blurry and blue. "She helps the village out sometimes, when we run out of peach nectar. She's from the Rose Tower, though. You know how Tower mages are. Reclusive."

"A Tower mage? Here?" Larya grinned at Alrek. "That's brilliant! We'll have you fixed up in no time!"

Alrek nodded. He was having trouble keeping up, but he was still able to limply brush away Larya's hand when she tried to feel his head injury again. "Stop doing that."

Alassa was saying something he didn't catch. Larya frowned at him. "What? I'm just trying to check on it."

"You're just poking it. What do you think you're gonna learn from just poking it?"

"Excuse me for being concerned about my partner's well-being."

"We're not partners. We're just workin' together for a time. And your concern's that whenever I say something's wrong, you gotta poke it."

Alassa was arguing with the innkeeper, heated words in their drawling, twangy local language. He couldn't follow; Alrek's Southwestern was about as bad as his signing, even when he wasn't concussed.

Larya huffed, pulling his attention back. "I do not!"

"Every time. 'Oh, Larya, that knothole's got a lust bug nest in it.' 'Oh, really?''" He did a very squeaky impression of Larya. "'Golly, better stick my hand in it! Oh no!'" He flailed drunkenly. "'Why wasn't I warned?'"

Larya's cheeks reddened until she looked like a very angry apple, her round, heart-shaped face only worsening the resemblance. "I do not sound like that."

"'Hey, Larya,'" he went on, as she climbed into the cart and got the draft horse going—they had been loaned Claire, fittingly enough, on the condition that they dropped her off at the innkeeper's cousin's when they got to the next town—"'I got bit by a raccoon, hurts like fuck, what do I do?' 'Ooh, neat, lemme poke it a bunch! Wow, blood sure is red!'"

"I'm forgiving this only because you have a head injury."

"'Ooh, quicksand, you say? Better give that the old once-over OH NO HOW COULD MY PLAN GO SO WRONG?!'"

"I think I actually like you better when you're concussed."

"I like you better when I'm concussed, t—ow! Would you stop poking it?"

"I'm a tactile learner."

"Well, fuck off!"

~ ~ ~ ~

Meanwhile, Alassa and the bartender argued in furious hushed tones.

"They can't go to Poppy's!" hissed Alassa. "You know what folks say about her!"

"Poppy keeps people alive." The bartender and bookkeeper of the village inn rolled his eyes. "They asked. Besides, you can't trust the gossip of random vagabonds. The brewster says she's fine."

"The brewer visits her every week."

"So she's fine! He wouldn't do that if she wasn't."

Alassa glared fiercely. "Didn't you hurt your hand a month ago? How did that get better?"

He blinked. "What? What are you talking about?"

Her eyes lit up in anger, and she slapped her palm and switched back to speaking Western. "See? I'm telling you, the rumors—" She spun to face the adventurers.

The cart rolled off into the distance, already a half-mile away.

"Did they just... ride off without saying goodbye?"

"Adventurers." The barkeep chuckled and strolled back inside. "Treat everyone else like side characters in their grand, exciting story. Rude as devils. You can't blame 'em, though, with the head injury. And the other's a druid, so..."

"Did they even remember to pay for their rooms?"

The barkeep froze in the doorway.

"Adventurers," he muttered.

~ ~ ~ ~

The woman who answered the door was almost certainly not the mage. At least, Larya hoped she wasn't. She had thick, wavy black hair down to her shoulders, her complexion a soft, rosy varnish. She was slightly below average height, but her form was full in a way that made up for it—not quite plump, but soft-looking. Her clothes were plain but well-made. Most notable were two sunrise-pink poppies nestled in her hair behind her ear, the vines of which appeared to be holding up her half-bun.

A big grin swept across her face when she saw them.

"Hello!" she squeaked, her big, green eyes widening with pure delight. "Oh, like, you aren't from the village! What's your names? I mean, what are your names?" She giggled, brushing a loose strand of hair from her eyes.

Alrek turned and started walking away. Larya caught him by the shoulder and smiled politely. "Um, hi. My name is Larya Nuptuel. This is my friend, Snatch."

"Larya," Alrek hissed.

Larya hesitated. "Oh, yes! He wants you to know that he picked his name as a thief name, and when he picked it, it didn't mean—"

"No, I don't want her to know that, because we're leaving." Alrek tried to tug free, but Larya was a lot stronger than him right now, and she managed, with difficulty, to keep him in place.

The little cottage they had arrived at stood at the top of a small hill. It was surrounded by wildflowers, hued like a striking sunset. Dandelions, poppies and pink primroses abounded, and countless orange morning glories climbed up the walls and peeked into the windows.

"My name is Nessa," sang the woman, extending her hand to shake. Larya's hands were a bit full wrestling her thrashing colleague, but Nessa kept holding her hand out expectantly. She didn't seem... too bright, Larya supposed, nor old enough to be an accomplished mage. Healing magic was notoriously complex, and this girl didn't look a day over Larya's or Alrek's age—she probably wasn't even well above the local drinking age. "It's, like, soooo nice to meet you!"

Larya stared at the hand as Alrek twisted and writhed himself right into a headlock. He was almost pathetically weak right now—she felt like a bit of a bully, but the fact that he was this easy to hold down only strengthened her certainty that he needed medical attention. "Um... are you the healer?"

At this, Nessa burst into giggles, clutching her belly with her free hand and nearly doubling over. "Oh! Oh, no, certainly not!"

Alrek's struggles dropped slightly. Larya held onto him, just in case. Plus, he felt sort of like he'd just collapse if she let him.

"So..." Larya chewed her lip, concerned. "Okay, so who is the—"

"Ooh, Nessi, are those guests?" chirped an only slightly deeper voice, as a man with shoulder-length blonde hair and bright blue eyes leaned in, mashing his cheek against Nessa's to beam at the arrivals. He, too, had several poppies in his hair, probably picked from the flowers growing all around the cottage. If anything, he looked like he could be a year younger than Nessa. Twenty, maybe, but just as curvy.

Alrek groaned.

"They sure are, Cetti!" Nessa beamed at him, not pulling back from the contact. Her head snapped back to Alrek and Larya. "Hi, so this is Cettlen! He's, like, my best friend." She took his hand and squeezed it. "Cetti, this is, like, Larya and Snatch! They're thieves!"

"Ooh, that's so cool!"

Larya's eyes widened. "Um—he's a thief—" she sputtered. "I mean, he was a thief. Now he's an adventurer. Which I am, too."

"Oh." Both seemed slightly disappointed, but they recovered quickly, practically bouncing outside to greet the pair. Nessa offered her hand again. "That's super cool, too!"