The meadow, again.

I guess it could be worse. It is, after all, the place where we found one of my favorite people in the world and the only other location in Helovia aside from the Basin that I know so well. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised; the only other place with as many plant types growing is also a meadow, and if momma isn’t exaggerating, we’ll need damn near all the cotton the field can spare.

She’s sent me along with a gathering group today, I guess to see if I can follow directions when outside of her watch. The leader is the other Weaver, a guy who I haven’t seen much aside from occasional glimpses in the Crafter’s Cave, but I know his name is Farenjer (momma told me as much before she sent me with him) and that, so far, he seems like an okay guy. Maybe a little antisocial, but I guess it’s a trait that most crafters carry, as dad is too – the comparison makes it easier to accept him almost immediately as a figure I can look up to, and I am on my best behavior as we enter into the autumn touched meadow of purple flowers.

Farenjer sends us out to find the fluffy white substance he weaves with and anything else we find of use to the healers. I don’t know any herbs, and so I’ll be better off just looking for cotton; the Mender should be able to find those for herself. And so my dark nose goes to routing around in the tall, golden grasses, lion’s tail wriggling with enthusiasm anytime I find a cluster of the desired material.

In time (about thirty minutes or so, perhaps longer or less), I have a good mouthful – too much really to carry back much more by myself, and so I begin to amble my way back towards the group, Lena in particular. Father has gone over the magic of creation with me, and while I’ve yet to see cloth being made, I figure I can get my eyeful of that later when Farenjer makes use of all we’ve gathered. My main interest is in learning what sort of plants that the healers use – a region that hasn’t been covered in my lessons, perhaps because momma doesn’t seem to know much about plants or their uses as she knows about politics, lore, and magic.

Picking a spot nearby where we’d all parted into our little gathering clusters, I set down my bundle of cotton and traipse my way over to the pretty bay mare and her kitsune. I want to know all sorts of things – kind of like why in the world a multiple tailed fox has such a weird name and what sort of flowers girls like best (as surely she knows the answers!) – but I know better than to spew questions out in torrents. One can only answer so much at once without missing an important point or two.

"Miss Lena," I say, polite as I’ve been taught though I’d rather just get my questions on with and forego introductions and niceties (but momma might ask about my manners and behavior when we get home, and its better to be safe than sorry), "did you need help finding anything? I’ve already got a bunch of cotton."