Once again, someone knocked upon the door.

Latgalay was sitting, massaging her temples to ease the throbbing pain left in the wake of the raven. She still felt him, even a day later. She still saw through the raven’s eyes as an additional sight. And if she did not take care with her thoughts, she could still relive a single, terrifying memory, presumably belonging to the raven, from long ago. It was a nightmare, and just thinking of thinking of it made Latgalay shiver.

The knock came once more.

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Latgalay’s poor head could not handle the sharp noise, which she likened to teeth biting through her mind. But still, she had to maintain her authority, which required her to maintain the illusion of hale body and mind. She could not remain in bed forever.

She opened the door, and there, Morwen the Poet stood, tapping his foot in impatience, preparing to knock once more.

“What purpose brought you here?” Latgalay asked. The bright afternoon hurt her eyes, perhaps shortening her patience.

Morwen brushed by and left her in the doorway. “The business of your chief and then some of my own,” Morwen said.

He sat in Karreki’s favorite chair and lounged there arrogantly, his feet upon the table. While he spoke, he stared at Latgalay’s chest, and he grinned lasciviously while she crossed her arms to block his view. Latgalay was not pleased by this scoundrel poet’s attention.

“Jaxtos has requested more of whatever balm you provided him before, along with a tincture of some nature. He said that you knew his needs and sent me to retrieve the concoctions. It seems he is erstwhile consumed by dealing with the visitors.”

Jaxtos sent the poet to fetch like a dog? Latgalay thought with some mirth. Of course, she withheld from speaking that thought, as the poet would undoubtedly win in any contest of wit. She set to preparing the same medicines as before, to both numb the pain, and perhaps improve performance elsewhere. It was not long before she finished and handed the concoctions to Morwen the poet. But he did not leave, nor rise from his chair. Unfortunate, Latgalay thought. She had hoped him soon gone.

“What else do you require then?” Latgalay asked sourly, when Morwen made no attempt to leave and let her lie back down.

“I have business of mine own as well,” Morwen said. “Or perhaps, a request.”

“Get on with it,” Latgalay said.

Morwen scoffed, but kept going. “Among the visitors, there is a fair kenbennas that I wish to woo for a time, for her beauty is great. However, her chastity is greater, and she is famous for her spurning of all men. And to add to the challenge, she appears to have no ear for music, nor patience for my voice.”

From the description, Latgalay thought that the kenbennas sounded like a reasonable woman, especially if she had no time for the poet. Latgalay wished she could also throw the poet out on his ear. However, the poet stood in the chief’s council. She was prevented from such uncivil conduct.

“And what would you have me do about this kenbennas?” Latgalay asked. She had brewed tea while mixing the chief’s medicine, and now she sat by the hearth to drink it. If she had to be upright, she could at least drink tea. And if a pinch or two of blackleaf had been mixed in to help alleviate her pains, all the better. Unfortunately, the blackleaf also left her slightly dizzier than before, but the pain did dull.

“As I know that you craft various tinctures,” Morwen started, “And that you are an expert of the alchemy of the land, it is my hope that you will turn this adroitness to aid my cause.”

Latgalay let a heavy sigh. “Speak plainly poet,” She said. She returned to massaging her temples. Listening to the poet drone on and on was bringing her headache back, worse than before, even with the blackleaf in her tea. She wondered if perhaps she should have added another pinch.

“As you request,” The poet said. “I desire for you to craft a drought that I can slip to the kenbennas, that will loosen her chastity, and her hate for words, and men. Particularly, to lessen her disdain for this humble poet.”

They sat in blessed silence for a moment, while Latgalay sipped her tea, and pondered. It seemed to Latgalay that the poet was asking for something that should not be given. If she were to provide a drought that stole a warrior’s agency, then she could be held in derision by the tribe. And perhaps, Latgalay would feel some guilt, if she aided any man in the humbling of a woman. But to refuse the poet’s request was to earn his ire. And the poet stood next to the chief.

“Can you craft such a mixture?” Morwen the poet asked, after growing impatient with the silence.

“A mixture to make her desire you?” Latgalay asked, seeking a way out of the poet’s request without causing relations to sour.

Morwen nodded.

“Such a magic does not exist,” Latgalay said. “Not even Karreki could force love, nor can the spirits change a heart. My simple alchemy cannot achieve what neither Karreki nor the spirits could perform.” Latgalay ordinarily would not call her alchemy simple, but she sought to mislead, hoping that the poet would give up his request and choose to go his own way, without any such tincture.

“Truly a shame then, that this is an impossible request for you to fulfill,” Morwen said, smiling coyly. “Considering how the request is, at its heart, simple. Perhaps, your understanding of alchemy is not so great, as I could see several ways to create such a tincture, though I myself make no such claim of understanding your craft.”

Latgalay watched the poet as she continued drinking her tea. Over time, as the blackleaf took effect, her headache had largely been replaced by the slight dizziness and light-headedness that blackleaf granted. Which while not desirable, was still preferable to the original headache. A headache that only would have been made worse by listening to this poet’s drivel.

“If you know how to craft this tincture,” Latgalay said. “Then why come to me with this request?”

“I am no expert in gathering or mixing the regents,” Morwen said. “I am merely a poet, a font of knowledge though I may be.”

Brekekay, Latgalay swore under her breath. Would the poet not grant her simple silence and be on his way?

“Though a concoction to increase a person’s receptiveness, and to decrease a person’s inhibitions, is well within the realm of your skill,” The poet paused. “As you already knew.”

Latgalay stared at the poet. If she could not end this diplomatically, then she would be forced to end this bluntly.

“I will not craft this for you, I will not help you subdue this kenbennas, nor will I aid you in violating her body.”

“Truly a shame,” Morwen said. He still smiled coyly. “And I thought that perhaps you might be persuaded to aid me in this, but perhaps you desire to take on a new master?”

“What?” Latgalay started. “What is your meaning?” She had absolutely no desire to take on any master. Karreki had been bad enough, but a new master? Oh. She remembered the crone’s plans.

“The kenbennas is the Hand of the Druid Boldjay, and the kenbennas claims her journey to our tribe was to claim a certain apprentice,” Morwen said, his smile only growing.

“And this Hand of Boldjay, has she spoken to the chief?” Latgalay asked in a weak voice.

“They are bartering over a certain apprentice as we speak,” Morwen said. “It appears that the chief is not so eager to lose the only access to medicines for the tribe. But Boldjay is powerful, the kenbennas insistent, and the crone is not here to dissuade them. In fact, it appears that the crone is the one that called for them.”

“What will happen to me?” Latgalay asked, almost withering in upon herself.

“It is uncertain,” Morwen said. “Not anything today, nor tomorrow. Though perhaps the chief and the Hand of Boldjay may come to an agreement soon.”

They sat in silence as Latgalay turned over the possibilities. She could see a faint glimmer of a hope of a plan. But she required additional knowledge before implementing this plan.

“How will the poet, and his seducing of the kenbennas, how will this aid me?” Latgalay asked.

“The Hand of Boldjay is required to maintain her chastity,” Morwen said. “Hence the challenge, and the subsequent pleasure of the act, of which I desire...But if the kenbennas is no longer chaste, then she can no longer represent Boldjay, which will end their bartering, at least until another of Boldjay arrives to take her place.”

Of course, the poet’s plan could work, if the kenbennas publicly lost her chastity. But the concoction that the poet requested would be used in private, as its effects would be obvious. There would be no guarantee that the Hand of Boldjay would announce her lost chastity, if she were even aware she lost it, which was not certain. If Latgalay were in the Hand of Boldjay’s position, she would tell no one of the failure, nor would she recall herself and risk losing her position.

However, Latgalay could use the poet’s lust and foulness to achieve a different outcome. For once in this conversation, it was Latgalay who smiled.

“Very well,” Latgalay said. “I shall prepare for you this concoction...Though care must be taken when delivering it.”

“It should have no flavor,” Morwen said. “Or one that could easily be masked by honey.”

“Naturally,” Latgalay said. She herself did not taste the blackleaf in her own tea, and with a few other selections, a bland concoction could be created, with her desired effects.

“And preferably, it should leave her awake, if not lucid.”

“If only you would have spoken so plainly at the start,” Latgalay said, muttering as she got up to craft the concoction.

She used blackleaf and elkmoss, willow and wormwood, and a few other...ingredients. She finally added a pinch of sweetcane, to cover any bitterness. Then she ground it all together in her mortar, before emptying the dust into a small leather pouch, which she delivered to the poet.

“I wish you a pleasant eve,” Morwen the poet said as he left. “For I feel that I shall be enjoying myself shortly.” And with that, Morwen was gone, along with the concoctions that Latgalay had prepared.

She could not help but cackle as she shut the door. Unfortunately, this brought on another wave of nausea that struck her, from her headache, and not from what she had done. Certainly, it was not from what she had done. At least, this is what she told herself as she dosed herself with more blackleaf and went to lay down.