Author's note: This chapter and the next few I'll be working on descriptions during conversation and general imagery. If you are so inclined, I'd love some constructive feedback. General feedback is also welcome.
Thump.
The trowel bit into the dew kissed earth, guided by a strong, practiced hand.
Scrape.
Gently, layer by layer, the trowel lay bare germinating seeds: potential desperate to be realized. Each seed allotted precious resources down into roots that branch, twist and explore to find water and nutrients. In the other direction, the lion's share of a seed's resources drove a single thin, pathetic shoot. A shoot that struggled mightily through rain, soil, and around impassable rocks all to find the life giving rays of sun. The strength to live to the next day. The promise of growth and the chance to reach out high into the air.
Wrench.
One by one, the other hand reached into the uncovered pit and deftly removed the struggling potential. Their life lay hands of one whose motives they could not understand.
Toss.
One by one, they landed without ceremony on the ever growing pile of refuse. Condemned to die just as it was on the brink of living.
The herbalist, Piro, never gave the weeds a second thought as behind her their life withered.
Thump. Scrape. Wrench. Toss.
Thump. Scrape. Wrench. Toss.
Thump. Scrape. Wrench. Toss.
Piro's mind focused on her own intentions for this spot of earth. One can cultivate seeds with more useful potential than the wild, haphazard, short lived lives of weeds. Properly nurtured such seeds offer sweet aromas, shade, medicines, food, and more. A sacred contract exists between a farmer and her crop: provide for me and mine and I shall provide for you and yours.
Thump. Scrape. Wrench. Toss.
Thump. Scrape. Wrench. "Mreow". Plop. Roll. Purr.
The large cat rolled in the dirt in front of Piro, earth and weed seedlings clung to its long white fur. Playful green eyes glanced up at its owner as its paws stretched for the trowel. Miyuki batted the dark metal, then lunged and attacked it with both paws. A soft clang rang out as Miyuki's teeth met hard metal. Back feet kicked furiously at its handle. Satisfied, the cat looked up to Piro, triumph shining in her eyes as if to say "The mighty beast is dead for I have vanquished it!"
"Prrrrmreow?"
"As ever, I am inspired by your prowess. Miyuki: defender of the hidden grove, slayer of trowels. I dare say you deserve a treat for your selfless act," the herbalist indulged her companion: scritches under the chin for such a mighty hero. Joyous purring filled the air and Miyuki leaned in to Piro's hand and softly licked her wrist. This was no Taku, sure, and the loneliness wore on her, but Miyuki always managed to break the monotony.
Piro wiped her brow and surveyed her home. The sun barely kissed the top of the struggling forest and spilled light across abandoned fields and farmsteads. Previously a proud, if small, grove, the Fire Nation leaders scorched the land and used what remained to feed their mighty war machine. Only the truly desperate find "exhausted" locations such as this, teaming with few natural resources and extremely poor soil, palatable for farming. Or mad. In the years since Aang donned the Fire Lord mantle and granted Piro ownership of this land, Piro planted hundreds of trees, bushes, and wildflowers in this forgotten nook of the Fire Nation. Perhaps one day, if left alone, this grove would return to its former glory. Piro hoped she would live to see that day.
The unexpected squawk of a distant ostrich horse brought Piro back to the present. No one traveled these roads anymore since Fire Lord Aang ordered them closed and their locations removed from the official maps. Not soldiers, not commoners, not even vagrants. Who, then? Piro bowed her head, closed her eyes, and listened. Wooden wheels bounced against the unkept roads. Ostrich horses strained to keep pace. A driver's encouragement. A private carriage? "I'm about to have at least one guest," Piro surmised.
Piro sighed and considered what remained to do in her garden. So much to do and never enough time, but there was nothing to be done. Resigned, the herbalist took off her gloves and placed them in her apron. She walked slowly towards her stone cabin to wash up and put a kettle of tea on the fire. After all these years, there was but one person who might hunt for her still. Piro pondered what decorum looked like these days. It wasn't often that royalty came to visit.