Of all possible places to find the ginger beauty, the most likely would always be the Undercroft. Though she had no lab of her own - yet whispered the voice in her head, the one that lead her to greater heights - there were countless books to read that were pertinent to her own personal research. Nephele's initial interest in botany and herbalism in her early decades had been purely scientific. What concoctions could she make with their natural flora? Could she help advance their knowledge of medicine and poison alike? And what of the more reactionary uses for such herbs - compounds, powders, ignitable substances? It all tied into her desires to build, to craft, to turn the nature of the world into a viable machine without sacrificing the integrity of the wilderness around her.
So here she is, slim legs folded up against her chest and a book resting open against her freckled knees. It's a pose she has assumed many times over her lifetime, but the pinch to her brow and the tuck of her lip between her teeth betrays her anxious mood. One hand anxiously twirls the end of her hair through her long fingers, twisting it around her knuckles in a habit she's never managed to rid herself of.
The Blight feels like an infection in her own ribs, a constant pressure in her lungs that drives her to stay up later and later into the night. She wastes countless candles, wax pooled against wood as she falls asleep clutching her books to her breast. Nephele is not so egotistical to believe she will be the herald of the cure, but everyone has a duty. A calling. She is no fighter, but she can at least do this. Research, and experiment, and try to find any kind of answer. It is not fame that calls her, to be the heroine of this era. These woods are a living, breathing ecosystem. A womb, a cradle, a playground for her child's heart. The Greatwood is a mother, and to see her sickened is like losing a part of herself. All she cares about is helping.
So she sets aside her current book with a sigh, rubs her eyes and reaches for another. She is one of the longest living races, breathed into existence by the Gods. If it saves her home, Nephele will whittle away her plentiful years of life reading every written word in every language she knows.
So here she is, slim legs folded up against her chest and a book resting open against her freckled knees. It's a pose she has assumed many times over her lifetime, but the pinch to her brow and the tuck of her lip between her teeth betrays her anxious mood. One hand anxiously twirls the end of her hair through her long fingers, twisting it around her knuckles in a habit she's never managed to rid herself of.
The Blight feels like an infection in her own ribs, a constant pressure in her lungs that drives her to stay up later and later into the night. She wastes countless candles, wax pooled against wood as she falls asleep clutching her books to her breast. Nephele is not so egotistical to believe she will be the herald of the cure, but everyone has a duty. A calling. She is no fighter, but she can at least do this. Research, and experiment, and try to find any kind of answer. It is not fame that calls her, to be the heroine of this era. These woods are a living, breathing ecosystem. A womb, a cradle, a playground for her child's heart. The Greatwood is a mother, and to see her sickened is like losing a part of herself. All she cares about is helping.
So she sets aside her current book with a sigh, rubs her eyes and reaches for another. She is one of the longest living races, breathed into existence by the Gods. If it saves her home, Nephele will whittle away her plentiful years of life reading every written word in every language she knows.
Your goodness must have some edge to it -- else it is none
