Mizuki knew how to cook and was generous with that talent, as well as generous overall, offering her rooms and attempting to be a good host. That uninhibited warmth was a point in her favor.
But did Isra like Mizuki? Did she instinctively want to spend more time with her? It was hard to say. There was something nice about Mizuki, perhaps the way that she seemed to place no particular expectations on other people. She was an easygoing girl. But Mizuki knew the rules of the world in a way that Isra did not, and it was clear to Isra that as much as Mizuki was free-spirited and rules-breaking, Isra’s own breaking of the rules was somewhat looked down upon.
The conversation shifted from topic to topic with only minimal input from Isra. Mizuki talked about chrononauts, and Alfric, and how rumors could be spun from the aether as surely as a wizard making magic, which wasn’t actually how wizards did it, and then she talked about someone named Bethany, who apparently had slighted Mizuki in the distant past, which was now forgiven, but not so forgiven that it wasn’t worthy of comment.
The house was a stately one in a neighborhood that seemed to be filled with stately houses, though the yard was somewhat small in comparison with what people had in Pucklechurch. It was wrapped with a brick wall that had become overgrown with vines, and the vines continued on over the wooden siding of the house too, though they were somewhat more managed there. The gardening was, to Isra’s eye, conspicuous, with plants that didn’t like each other terribly much crowded in together. No doubt someone thought that it looked nice, but it was distinctly lacking in beauty, and given that edible plants were packed in with poisonous ones, she doubted that it served any possible function.
“The flowers are nice,” said Mizuki, leaning down to sniff one.
“Yes,” said Isra, hoping to be blandly inoffensive. It took her mind a moment to catch up. The revelation that she was a druid and saw the world in a way that was distinctly different from others changed the texture of this exchange. Isra had assumed that this was some kind of social nicety of the sort she had trouble with, because that’s what those sorts of things usually were. But with her newfound knowledge, she could see that Mizuki simply saw the world in a different way, a dull and blind way, and to Mizuki, the statement was true, rather than a social lie. “No,” said Isra. “The flowers shouldn’t be there. They’re watered and coddled, clipped.” It might have been fine if it was like the battlefield of the forest, plants fighting each other for nutrients, water, and sunlight, but it wasn’t even that.
“Ah,” said Mizuki, straightening. “Well, I think they look nice.”
“They’re like a caged animal,” said Isra. “A cat with his claws cut off or a dog with its tail docked.”
“You, um, don’t like gardening?” asked Mizuki.
“Gardening for food respects the nature of the plant,” said Isra. “This sort of gardening is offensive. I think I understand it better now though.” It was a painting done by a blind man. Perhaps if you could only feel the paint, rather than see it, you might think it was nice.
Mizuki gave her a thoughtful nod, and Isra felt relief that she wasn’t pressed for more.
After a sharp knock on the door, they were let in by someone wearing a strange outfit that Isra only belatedly realized was a uniform. She had read of uniforms in books but never seen one in person, aside from what the clerics wore. Or perhaps she had seen uniforms, and simply failed to recognize them as such.
They were led into a room where two women were already waiting at a table, though no food was yet in sight. The two women wore almost identical dark blue dresses whose exaggerated shapes, especially in the shoulders, helped to obscure their bodies underneath. Based on their hands and faces though, they were both skinny in a way that Isra had only rarely seen before. They were identical, down to the smallest wrinkles. They were in their fifties, or perhaps even older, possessed of a certain weariness and disaffection. They did not smile or stand to greet Mizuki, though they did exchange brief pleasantries.
“This is the woods witch I told you about,” said Mizuki as they sat down at the broad oak table. “Isra, this is Floren and Doreda Brangle, the local sorcerers in Liberfell. Floren, Doreda, this is Isra Jamin, from Pucklechurch.”
“We extended an invitation to Dom,” said the one on the left, Floren. “We’ll get this breakfast started without her and hope she comes later.”
“She’s a solitary one,” added Doreda. She said this while looking at Isra, and the obvious question seemed to float in the air. Isra didn’t deign to answer it.
“Well, we appreciate it all the same,” said Mizuki. “I feel like it’s been years since I’ve been over here.”
“Too long,” Floren said, nodding. She raised her hand and snapped her fingers, and someone in a uniform came in through a side door, which swung open. The room they were in was fairly small, only big enough for the long table and some chairs, but it had large windows, and there were more plants next to the windows, giving it some sense of openness and life.
“You can request whatever you’d like,” said Doreda.
“Two fried eggs, gelatinous center,” said Mizuki without missing a beat. “Three slices of bacon, some fruit, I don’t care what, and some kind of pastry. And a glass of whatever juice you have.”
The woman nodded, then looked at Isra.
“Two chicken eggs, boiled,” said Isra. “Oatmeal with honey and jam.” She had seen someone eat that and read about it in a book, but never actually had it. “Three slices of bacon. And… fruit.”
“Will you have the eggs hard or soft?” asked the uniformed woman in a pleasant voice.
“Soft,” said Isra, guessing from context.
“The usual for me,” said Floren.
“And me,” said Doreda.
There was some silence until the woman left, which Isra thought was curious. If the woman could hear the snapping, surely she could hear everything they were saying.
“Now then,” said Floren. “How was your second dungeon?”
The question seemed abrupt to Isra, before she remembered that these three were all in a guild together, and Mizuki likely hadn’t just talked to them about the druid business, she had probably included quite a bit more. Knowing Mizuki, perhaps lots more.
“Good!” said Mizuki. “Actually, quite good. We didn’t get as much of a haul from the second one, but we made out well, I think, and we have some eggs incubating, which I have a good feeling about. Though I do have a professional question.”
“So early?” asked Floren. “Very well.”
“There was a giant bear-thing,” said Mizuki, frowning as she tried to remember. “It was the size of a house. And our bard was putting all of her effort into a song specifically for me, some kind of blended amping up of my power. It was like I was electrified, in a good way, able to feel the aether like it was an extension of my skin. I drew on everything I could and focused it into a powerful spell that still somehow managed not to kill the bear. The thing was, I… hurt our bard somehow. I didn’t just break the song, which would have been bad enough, I… took something from her?”
“Ah,” said Floren. “Comes from youth, and indolence as far as your studies go, and not having been in enough parties. Your bard will be fine but likely laid out for a week or so.”
“No,” said Mizuki, frowning. “She was up and singing within an hour or two.”
“Then she comes from good stock,” said Floren, raising an eyebrow. “Most can’t handle it so well.”