Her captive was scarcely breathing, and his lukewarm temperature suggested hypothermia. Death would soon follow. His robes hung sopping from a wall peg, and she'd quickly built him a makeshift palette of old fur blankets and a cloak of crow feathers.
The fire helped to warm the small one-roomed cottage. Smooth stones were nestled around its hearth, some big and some small. When they had become too hot to touch, the witch wrapped several in warm cloth and then nestled them under his covers. Others she placed into a ceramic basin with her fire tongs, and covered them with spring water from a crystal flask.
Her fingers ran over jars, bowls, matts, vases, and tins as she pecked around her cottage. From a cupboard she found leaves of the silver apricot, dried and crushed into powder. In a glass jar she found hazelwood twigs, steeping in liquor of whortleberry. She snagged a bulb of garlic from where they were strung up overhead in the rafters. She tapped the vials on her racks, and extracted an essential oil of angelica. A drop she'd waste, no more. And a drop of Fennel, she supposed. But then they were not so rare or terribly hard to make. ..
She settled down the basin, sprinkling in her ingrediets and letting the two hazel wood twigs lean against the side. The water turned translucent and somewhat purple. It still needed a hint of freshness and life. Leaning onto her window sill, the witch gestured out into the evening air. A soft gust blew fresh apple leaves into her palm, and she dropped them gently onto the surface of the steaming water.
The witch stood with the basin in hand and turned to weave her way back through the cottage, picking up a clean cloth from one wall and wetting it before she knelt upon the makeshift palette. She pulled aside the heavy comforters, and reached down to dab against her captive's face, throat, and torso. As she worked, she examined injuries she had found covering a good third or half of his body. They were scald marks; the sort of which one might have incurred if thrown into a caldron of boiling water. They seemed recent, if the ugly red color was proper indiation. Some form of healing- mayhaps a potion- had healed the worst blisters and sealed most leisions.
"In the name of the mother;" she murmured, comfortable but focused even at such a late hour, "in the name of the three; let his blood be rejuvinated with the heat of life. Turn the fire of these wounds to greater purpose, to drive back the frost."
She bathed him carefully and swiftly with the heated water. When she was done, she fed him some of the liquor of whortleberry. A flush had risen in his cheeks. She touched his face and neck, and then chafted gently over his shoulders. The spell was taking hold, it seemed; he was heating up. Satisfied, she pulled the covers back over his head, and stood. She left the cottage for a short while, sitting amoungst her herbs and contemplating the evening gloom.
A Mulan child had neither accidentally nor casually found himself in Rasheman. The scalding she'd witnessed had seemed unnatural; the center wound had been red as if he'd been struck by the boiling water with quite some force. Could magic have been responsible? Some battle internal to Thay? Some trouble or misfortune she might inherit?
On a whim she stood up and went to find a white candle to light. She selected an incense stick made from rue, burdock, and antimony, which she gathered up in a bundle of sage for smudging. She lit both until they were smoking gently, and then carried them about her home to ensure the smoke reached every corner.
"Let all dark eyes and malevolant wills be cast out and barred from this place. Let it depart shamefully and know: all evil is unwelcome here, in the light of this candle, in the fervor of my sight."
