Do not wander, do not stray. Whatever you do, however you can help it, do not go far from here.
Passing through the Blue Badger Gate, a wicker basket nestled into the crook of her elbow and her other hand clenched around an old scythe, Buttercup pressed forward into the Shroud. Like an orchestrion with but a single roll to play, she repeated that mantra in her head. Though she smiled — reflexively — at the birdsong drifting from up on high and the familiar smells of a new season, the nails of her free hand could not stop biting half-moons into her palm.
Follow the paths — even the desire paths, if I must — collect the herbs that Fufucha asked for, then go right back home.
She did not hate or fear the Twelveswood. On the contrary, there was a part of her that thrived especially when waist deep in the clear rivers, or climbing trees for the sweetest faerie apple, or crawling through massive hollowed trees, chasing fireflies in the evening. But… her cane bumped against her backside as she walked. The wood it was made of belied the weight she felt when carrying it, heavier still when in her hands.
No, she did not hate the Twelveswood, and the world beyond it even seemed to call for her. The fear of failure simply rang louder in her mind.
She thought about this each and every time she had errands in the Shroud. Her internal lamentations were sharply cut short, however, by the sound of coughing, followed by the heavy stomps and shrill hisses of familiar beasts. Something must've kicked them into a kind of tizzy, she thought, and the coughing troubled her. Ears pricking up and shifting to give her a sense of direction, there was another cough, almost a wheeze followed by a whine.
That was when she saw him. The scythe and basket clattered to the ground unceremoniously, the cane off her back and in both hands. Buttercup scarcely had time to think, plan, or process any of what she had intended to do; as she had reached the ailing miqo'te, she shielded him with her body, stance wide as she cast her magic. From the earth rose rocks to crush the microchus; the sapling received a gust of a wind, followed by its boughs and body strangled by vines. It fought against its restraints, but the vines were far stronger, cutting into the wood until it carved it lifeless.
Turning around, Buttercup dropped to her knees beside the young man, her hand seeking the wound that she knew was there before having laid eyes on it — she could smell the blood and the toxins in the air surrounding them. Replacing his hand on the wound with her own, she casted a spell to cleanse him, then another to (hopefully, hopefully, please, gods) restore any of his life essence lost.
Pulling her hand away and rising back to her feet, she looked at him, and this time when she smiled, it glittered not unlike the creeks in the noonday sun. Perhaps this time she had saved someone.
"Does it still hurt? Can you walk?" Buttercup reseated the cane in the strap on her back. "And more importantly, what are you even doing out here, fighting half the forest?"
