Recent content by Thistle Brambledew

A rasping laugh escaped Thistle, dry and rough as sand scraping over stone. It carried no mockery, only a kind of weary amusement, as though the sound had been scraped from the walls of a thousand old ruins. He bowed slightly, the prisms' colored lights glinting off the bottles around them...

Thistle gave no immediate answer. He simply watched her, his old eyes half-lidded in the shifting colored light, as though weighing the question itself upon unseen scales. At last, he spoke, his voice low and measured, more felt than heard. "We listen for what is hidden beneath the clamor of...

Thistle's smile deepened into something gentler, almost reverent, as he reached for a battered cabinet tucked against the cart's inner wall. His paw, steady despite the slight tremor of age, slipped through a curtain of hanging charms and beads. From within the dark recess, he drew out a small...

Thistle listened, not with the eager air of a salesman, but with the patient, solemn regard of a monk hearing a confession. His head tilted slightly to one side, the light from the bottles painting shifting colors over his battered cloak and the bundles tied into his quills. He placed one paw...

Thistle chuckled softly, a sound like the crackling of dry leaves, as he accepted the coin with a flourish. He did not pocket it immediately, but let it dance across his knuckles, reflecting flickers of the multicolored lights behind him. "Ahhh, one who knows how to stir the deeper waters...

The cart sat slouched against the creeping mist, its old wood weathered but vibrant with life. Its wide doors stood open to the square, revealing shelves upon shelves of glass bottles, every shape and hue imaginable, packed tightly within. Some bottles shimmered with golden light, others glowed...

Some time later... The sun had long since dipped beneath the hills, and a hush had settled over the crossroads where the little cart had lingered these past few days. A candle flickered behind its stained-glass window, casting dancing patterns across the path as the final customers wandered off...

Thistle didn’t let go. Even as her sobs softened into small, fragile sounds, like the mewling of a newborn kit, he remained where he was. His arms stayed around her, not tight, just constant and steady. His head rested lightly near hers, his breath even and slow, like a metronome to steady her...

He rose. With a quiet scoot of the bench, he stood and carefully stepped around the narrow table. The cart was cramped, filled with shelves and dangling charms, but he moved with practiced grace, mindful of every edge and motion. When he reached her side, he paused only once to brush a few of...

Thistle did not interrupt. He sat as he had before, unmoving and unmoved. Not with indifference, but with steadiness. As if the weight of her words belonged here. As if the cart itself had been built to carry them. A faint click echoed from overhead, and the copper disc shifted into place...

Thistle didn’t speak right away. The hush of the cart stretched, but it didn’t feel empty. The flame in the brazier stilled, as if it too was holding its breath. A slow creak groaned along one of the overhead beams. Something turned in the ceiling rig, a hanging charm long since set in motion...

Thistle let her speak without interruption, only nodding once when she confirmed she was alright. His paws rested loosely on the table, open and still, offering no pressure. When she finished, he took a slow breath of his own. Something about her words had weight. “You did well to anchor...

The shimmer continued to fall for a few moments longer, then ceased, as though the mechanism above had sensed the silence. The final flecks drifted onto the table and Corda’s shoulders, soft as frost. Thistle didn’t move right away. His eyes lingered where Cordan had just been, his paws resting...

Thistle gave no grand reaction to the slam of the cup or the righteous declaration that followed. He only turned the empty vessel once with a finger, tilting it to catch the last smear of plum-dark residue along the bottom. “It’s workin’,” he said quietly. “Good.” He lifted his own cup, no...

Thistle did not rise. He remained exactly where he was, paws folded, eyes following the arc of Cordan’s voice without flinching. The rage passed over him like wind across reeds. Only when silence returned did he move. Slow, unhurried, like a beast used to sudden shouts and louder ghosts...