Orcer. Such was the first thought that came to Cymir's mind. When he and his companion walked through those green gates the building before them was reminiscent of said description. Bricks of pale brown, wetted and kilned, acted as the materials of the old home. Underneath its dark roofs, of the nation's common wood, the building laid surrounded by shelves of greens. A style vaguely familiar to that of the rival nation. Although smaller and not exact to the word.

  Moving through the yard, albeit small, it became clear that every gap of space raised a different plant. However to the youth the air intoxicated. From bitterness to sweet to sour. As if a second scent mixed with the prior one of oceans, yet still stood distinctly. To which he rubbed his head to mend nausea. Finding it difficult to move upon the flagstone paths as the gravel between churned out loud under his steps.

  Concerned the child rushed to help. Assisting with practiced motions the two reached the stone stairs before the wooden entrance. Then letting the youth sit, the boy plucked and ripped a leaf of a near plant and a pinkish petal from another. Whilst the other hand soaked a small cloth in snow. Wrapping them together into a tiny bundle.

  "Put this on your tongue," the child spoke, "It should help."

  Staring at the child's green-dyed hands, Cymir replied, "This... is safe?"

  "Yes, a leaf of a coldbreath cools the mouth and the petal of sweetluck is sweet. My grandpa does this whenever he feels sick"

  "No... your hands."

  "Ah... My grandfather also says a little dirt doesn't hurt."

  Cymir stared at the wrapped cloth before him. Looking at the child's green eyes he turned to his companion for advice. Yet only a shrugged replied as he knocked on the door. That was not helpful at all. Shaking his head the youngster hesitated a thanks, but claimed such remedy was not needed. To show proof he stood up, but held a unsteadiness in his movement. Sadly the reassurance caused the boy to lean in closer, his words lowered into a harsher tone. Such lead the youth to turn away and disregard the assistance.

  "Would tea be a preferable recourse?" a hoarse voice asked, "Rubin, remember to rinse your hands after gardening."

  From the entrance an old man stood. A face of wrinkles and aged, green eyes stopped the child's insistence. Once his grandson had vanished into the garden he beckoned the the pair in. He walked with a limp supported by a slim cane of polished darkwood. As such the two guests followed while the boy had vanished with gloom. Cymir stared and contemplated before moving on.

  Having entered a tad late the youngster quickly removed his shoes with a few hops then speeding up his pace. Cotton socks slid against the hardwood floor following the taps of wood against wood. As he moved through the interior, its design brought a sense of warmth. Of longing and comfort. Akin to the cafe at the college, yet here it felt more authentic with herbal scents.

  Down the hallway, pictures hung within glass frames, shelf dividers displayed knickknacks of metal, wood and stone. Such forms drew interest, yet the youngster failed to identify what of. Some were of glasswork displays while others leaned towards metallic figures and emblems. Otherwise the walls were split by wooden paneling below and plaster for the rest. Still while not too similar, the details reminded him of the antique blend of materials that persisted in Orcer's architecture.

  Guided to the guest room, the old man began to rummage through the cabinets. The dishes and wares within held a sense of organization, but the crawl of disorder grew. Why where there two stacks of the same plates in two different spots? Finding the kettle he lit a flame underneath. Then mortared a blend of dried plants to be added later. Across the room Menor emptied the satchels he carried. Spreading out the winter thaws upon the singular, large table. On the other hand Cymir watched with disappointment and doubt at the yield.

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  Looking over towards the thaw, the old man asked, "Slow day?"

  "Short day," Menor replied, "Bears were active where we foraged."

  "Two cubs! They were big too!" Cymir added, "Ah, I'm Cymir and he's Menor."

  "Beton," he replied, taking out a few cups, "Wood, clay, or glass?"

  Menor asked for the wooden cup, while Cymir opted for glass. Finding satisfaction in his work, Beton turned towards the pair a took a chair. A sweet aroma danced from the heating kettle. Tickling the youth's nose into a sneeze. Taking a thaw in hand he slowly turned it around, checking and setting a few to the side. One by one the old apothicarian sorted through the pile. Ordering them via their sizes. While doing so Rubin walked in and bowed. Immediately after, without waiting for a reply, he brought the platter of cups to the table and poured the tea. Then walked off to do chores.

  Such diligence, Cymir thought taking a sip of the drink. Tasting the sweet mixture brought calm to the aching mind. The prior nausea vanished. With enjoyment of the warm beverage the three of them sat in silence and patience. However such idleness soon brought indulgence of thoughts to him. Tapping his fingers in succession his eyes wandered again.

  A smile appeared on the old man as he noticed the curiosity of the youth. He asked for the youngster's thoughts. Finding the response particular he called for his grandson to guide the curious individual around. After all the current house was one of the first built prior to the nation's founding. Acting as a workshop and living quarters for the apothicarians of the time.

  Once again Rubin entered and bowed. Guiding Cymir out of the room. Who had his curiosity sparked and eyes glowed with excitement.

  "You seem to have your hands full," Beton spoke, "Did not expect to meet you here."

  "I would say the same," Menor replied, "Why would someone of your caliber request such a simple item?"

  The old man laughed, "To test your experiment. Identifying late thaws has drawn many eyes of the field."

  "The success rate of water displacement is only around twenty-five percent. Failing to achieve the target level of identification."

  "Still you won. A none-destructive means is still a boon. Wouldn't you agree?"

  Menor sipped his tea nodding. Recalling the topic the two continued to discuss the details. Through exchanging thoughts Beton smirked. Such a surprise. The individual he imagined to be young and green held neither. Instead an insight with an unexpected depth. Indeed what his peers called an eastward gale.

  Moving the topic along the younger of the two asked of Rubin. From Menor's perspective, he stated even after a single instance the capabilities of the boy stood clear. Developed enough to hold confidence. By no means was talent the answer. In response the old man admitted apprenticeship caused by some unfortunate situations. So during the last several years the child had slowly learned all he knew.

  "He's set to inherit the family's apothecary," Beton commented, "An obligation that needed to be met. How about you? What plans does both eastward gales have?"

  "What an odd connection," Menor replied.

  "Academia is a small world. Rumors and details flow freer than a river. Perhaps you are aiming for victory of the city's grant contest?"

  "I would if I could." He shrugged. "As of now I'm stuck in this partnership."

  Towards those words, the old man returned the inquiry. Asking of Cymir and his particular qualities. In all his years he lived not one person resembled the absent youth. Menor simply smiled. Claiming that his acquaintance has potential. Although they met under unique circumstances, not much can be said. As further inquires pried the man simply sidestepped the topic towards another.

  "So tell me," Menor started, "How bad is the illness?"

  Beton froze.

  "Custom orders are usually conducted on need to know basis. Allowing individuals to avoid divulging certain information. Also alchemists and apothecarians prefer winter thaws and not late thaws because of simplicity. The only reason you want lates is due to the potency. Even then with your reputation you could of easily obtain the grass. But then there's Rubin."

  Leaning back into his chair Beton closed his eyes and inhaled. His thoughts swirled before exhaling. With a crestfallen face he told Menor not to tell his grandson. At least not now. He had known there was only so many years left. Not even sure if he had an illnesses or not, but a remedy made of late thaws gave temporary relief to whatever persisted.

  A stack of thaws laid besides him akin to kindling for dying embers. Each of the grass held a fairly large stem. Counting the amount the old apothecarian stood up and retrieved his coin bag. Three mavs per large stem and two for the rest each. While handing over the payment, he made a request. To forage more. Especially lates once the normal grass dies out.

  Distant in the hallway the front door opened as cheerful chatter emerged. Drinking one last cup of tea Menor stood up and took the payment with a nod before walking out. As he passed by he whispered back how the boy already knew, yet ignorant to its severity.

  Without looking, Beton said, "Make sure you do what you want."

  "Of course," Menor replied.

  Walking down the hallway the man waved to his acquaintance and the boy. Behind was the sound of a mortar and pestle.