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bramble-mouse · 4 months ago

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The Faery Doctor

Chapter 1

Tags: G/t, gentle giant, timid tiny, fantasy setting, adventure Content warnings will be tagged appropriately for subsequent chapters. These may include death, gore and vore. They will include no sexual themes. Minors, please do not interact!

The cold north made a necessity of woolen garments- and thankfully, Trish Mctavish rarely traveled without hers. It was a handsome green plaid piece made by her father, a memento of the cold lands he’d grown up in. The Summer Court’s lands which her parents had built their own on made little need for such heavy garments; true to name, the weather was always sunny, always balmy and a far cry from the rest of Alba’s all-year-round grey skies and sheeting rain. As a child, the sun had been welcome, making ease of play and affording her parents reprieve from washing up a muddy child after a romp in the rain. As an adult, however, when her practice took her on the road, Trish had discovered the cold, misty splendor of a rainy day.

She snuggled in close to the ram she shared the back of the wagon with, a round, woolie fellow the wagon driver had called Samson. He was a welcome companion at present, when the early autumn chill still clung to the dregs of the morning. Trish reached into her pocket and unfurled a bit of parchment. On it, was a hastily drawn map and the name of her destination: Dalrstead.

‘I was told you’d treat anyone.’

The tall, hooded woman spoke, the glow of her golden eyes pinning Trish to rug in her entryway. The strange woman dwarfed her utterly, being a good few heads taller than the tiny, birdlike faery doctor. She nodded to her guest silently, fiddled with the edges of her apron to keep calm.

The hooded woman’s shoulders had sagged in some relief. She flicked her wrist and a pen and paper appeared, which she used to start sketching.

‘You will find him here. Please, he…he needs a skilled hand. I’ll give you any reward you ask.’

Trish felt the weight of the hand drawn map, the urgency of the woman. Just who was her patient to be, she wondered? Faery doctors often treated primarily the Folk, but her mother had taught her how to treat near every type of non-human under the sun (and even those who favoured the moon). She’d helped a mother mermaid give birth to triplets. She’d soothed a naga’s chronic headache. She’d even fitted a goblin with a prosthetic leg. Trish’s patients were all sorts.

So why had this woman been especially secretive about the nature of this one? All she knew thus far about the fellow was that he was a mountain dwelling hermit and his name was Frio Frostfang. She didn’t even know the nature of his illness- especially vexing. Trish had brought a broad medical kit, as many different ingredients as her pack could feasibly carry. All others she would have to buy in Dalrstead, or forage in the surrounding woodlands. “Look just up ahead, lass.” The wagon driver said, starting Trish from her thoughts. He sucked on the end of his pipe.

“Dalrstead, the Sjev Mountains and the northern woods between ‘em.” Trish turned to glance over her shoulder and was rewarded with the sharp, snow capped peaks, the endless brushwork of ancient pine trees and the hodgepodge of buildings up the road crowned by chimney smoke. “Goes without sayin’, I reckon, but, seein’ as you’re no local, I’ll be the first to give you the warning.” The wagon driver said. “Steer well clear of the northern woods. Everythin’ that grows there is old and beyond our ken. Not to mention it’s the frost giant’s huntin’ grounds.” Trish’s throat bobbed. Frost giants. She could remember meeting one giant in her life, a hill giant with a twisted ankle that’d cried like a baby when her mother treated him. He’d been a big lump of a thing with the sensibilities of a child despite being an adult. He’d been so pleased with her mother’s work to heal him, he’d uprooted a tree to give her, like a clumsy bouquet of flowers. Her mother had laughed and thanked the hill giant, but bade him plant it again for her instead. “Tanner’s boy went missin’ last month when he decided he wanted reindeer hide and went huntin’ for it too far past where it’s safe. Damned fool boy.” He shook his head.

Trish frowned and turned back around, staring down at her boot clad feed as they swung with the motions of the wagon. “But…don’t the…the frost giants…” She trailed off. “Don’t come into Dalrstead, not for a good thirty winters now.” The driver interjected

“Raids were somethin’ terrible when I was a lad. Had to hide in cellars for hours, prayin’ the brutes wouldn’t sniff you out. Nothin’ on countin’ the dead and missin’ after, knowing just where they’d wound up. Or freezin’ while you try to rebuild enough to get through the night.” Trish chewed her lower lip. “And…and why did they stop?” The wagon driver took a long pull off his pipe and breathed out the fragrant, earthy smoke. “No one knows. Some say somethin’ worse is livin’ in those woods now, closer to the village. Others say it’s an old god come back to life that’s started protectin’ us again. Far as I’m concerned, I don’t give a rat’s ass which it is. Dalrstead’s peaceful and that’s what rightly counts.” Trish paid the wagon driver for his time and disembarked at the front gates to the town- though it was more a log arch than anything formal.

Many southerners viewed those who lived up north through one of two lenses: pity, for the poor land they inhabited or condescension, because of course they were all nothing but uneducated peasants. That was the mind of those in cities and larger towns, at any rate. Trish’s first experience with a northerner had come in the form of an adventurer named Gudrun who’d accompanied her orcish travelling companion to the Mctavish’s home for an injured eye. He’d walked away with a salve that would prevent complete blindness and Gudrun had grown fond of the doctor’s then young daughter. Trish and Gudrun still exchanged letters sometimes, when either of them were able.

What Trish knew for certain about northerners was that they didn’t have time to give a damn about most niceties. They were intelligent, resourceful and hearty folks who took care of one another. They were a far cry from the simple, stupid folk others in cozier climes claimed them to be. The food culture of Dalrstead stood as testament to these qualities. While there wasn’t much that grew well in so cold a place with short springs and summers, folk had learned to transform every ingredient they could lay hands on into hearty, flavourful meals. The mead and whiskeys from this region were second to none, boasting deep, complex flavours built upon carefully cultivated ingredients. Trish blinked free from her far away thoughts and back into the town square, where her feet had mindlessly carried her. The late morning market was a bustling place, the hubbub audible all over Dalrstead. A trio of women with children hanging from their skirts swapped stories. A strong dwarven fellow washed a heavy blanket at the laundry pool, scrubbing dirt out along a washboard. A handsome fellow with dark curly hair and curiously rose coloured eyes caught Trish’s attention and he smiled, offering a friendly wave. She blushed and snapped her gaze back down, all but running in the direction of the town tavern, The Crooked Cat.

The interior of the wooden structure smelled of pipe weed, a wood fire and yeasty bread still baking in the oven. Instantly, the chill began to depart from Trish’s extremities, and her thin, bird-like little body gravitated towards the comfortable heat. As she removed her gloves and walked towards the front counter, she heard a loud, incredulous snort. “Reward’s bloody good, that’s why.” A deep, gravelly voice insisted. Trish jumped at his tone, every muscle in her body tightening. She peered up through her glasses, the errant brown curls that fell into her eyes.

There were four men at the counter, geared to the nines in all manner of weaponry, from halberds to claymores, and even a heavy crossbow that Trish would have no chance of ever lifting, let alone getting a shot off of. The man who stood at the head of the pack sported dark hair shot through with silver tugged back into a loose ponytail that trailed down his back. His skin was bitter pale, and a nasty set of scars made by a beast’s claws marred the left side of his face, depriving one eye of sight and drawing the corner of his mouth down in a permanent grimace. “Hunting giants is a fools errand, lad.” The barkeep replied firmly. He was a round fellow with a bushy, ginger beard and keen green eyes. He continued to polish a claw mug with a worn cloth. “I’ve other marks much less likely to bring a raid upon us.” The scarred man leaned forward over the counter top. “I didn’t take the folk of Dalrstead for cowards.” “We aren’t.” The barkeep narrowed his eyes “We ain’t fools either. Now step back, boy. There’s a young lady lookin’ for directions, I reckon.” The scarred man’s upper lip formed a snarl. He backed up, turned his attention onto Trish and sauntered slowly over to her. “That so?” He scoffed. He began to circle Trish, and the woman felt her knobbly knees knock together. She dared not look up now, keeping her attention firmly on the floorboards. She winced when she felt him tease the end of one of her braids, hold a moment and let it fall over her shoulder. “Then by all means, let’s not keep the little mouse. Lest she get lost and a cat decides she’s lunch.” Trish gripped her skirts tightly until her knuckles turned white. Her heart pounded in her ears. The scarred man chuckled, whistled to round up his boys and they all trudged over in front of the fireplace, thankfully far away from the bar. Trish felt like crying. Or throwing up. She wasn’t certain which one would arrive sooner when the barkeep’s voice startled her out of her panic. “Now now, lassie, take a good deep breath. Got somethin’ for your nerves.” Trish nodded mutely and claimed a barstool. A warm mug smelling of orange peel and allspice was set down in front of her. “Mulled wine. On the house, on account of the reception you received.” The barkeep said. Trish nodded and managed to get out a near inaudible, shaky ‘thank you’ before taking a first experimental sip.

She winced at first from the heat but allowed the feeling to ground her. Adventurers of all sorts chattered away in the Crooked Cat. One trio of dwarves looked over a worn map much too large for any of them. A pair of snow elves talked over mugs of something warm- maybe the very same mulled wine Trish drank. A larger group of young adventurers laughed as they swapped stories of their latest exploits in vivid detail. Trish pointedly did not look for the scarred man and his lackeys. “If you’ll beg my pardon, lass…You don’t look much like an adventurer.” The barkeep observed. “What brings you in apart from a drink?” Trish held the mug with her thin fingers, savouring the warmth.

“I’m…I’m looking for someone.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “A…A ‘Frio Frostfang’. I…I’ve been told to seek him out.” The barkeep paused, his gaze flitting quickly to the four men by the fireplace, silently drinking as they listened to their scarred boss talk. “Why?” The barkeep inquired. Trish pursed her lips together nervously. She reached into her coat pocket and produced the rolled up bit of parchment her mysterious client had given her. She slid it towards the barkeep. “I’m a…a faery doctor. And…a client gave me…gave me the name. And these directions.” The barkeep unfurled the map and scanned over the paper. He let out a little chuckle. “Trust that old worrywart to go about things the complicated way…” He muttered. The barkeep pushed the map back towards Trish and dug about in his apron pocket. He withdrew a stone covered in runes, which he pressed into Trish’s hand as she made to reach for her map. “On the north-eastern outskirts of town, there’s an old road leading out towards the forest. Follow it but be careful not to stray off the path. Keep close to the mountainside. Turn right at the fork and follow the road up into the mountains until you reach a clearing with a lake. You’ll find this,” He indicated to the cave mouth on the drawing “On the opposite side of the lake. You’ve got the key inside now.” Trish turned the stone around in her fingers curiously before stowing it in her coat pocket. She started rolling the map back up. “I…” She started, stopped. “Do you…do you know the woman that…” “Can’t tell you about her, I’m afraid.” The barkeep shut Trish down quickly. “Not in the company of this lot, anyroad. All I can say is she’s worth trustin’.” Trish felt some weight lift. Yes, she’d fully intended to do her work regardless of what type of person that hooded woman had been, because a good faery doctor healed every patient they received without question. But to know she wasn’t walking into some awful trap was something of a relief.

“Thank you..for…” She trailed off and gestured at the mug when no words would form. The barkeep laughed. “Come by for a mug any time. Best in the village.” He took her empty mug and set it in a basin under the counter.“Call me Filip, lass.”

The faery doctor managed a bashful smile, pushing her large, round glasses up the gentle slope of her freckled nose. “Trish. Trish Mctavish.”

#bramble stories #The Faery Doctor #Trish McTavish #g/t community #giant/tiny #g/t writing #cw: alcohol #mdni

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