This Is A Seasonal

In the heart of the ancient forest known as God's Garden, where the trees stood tall and the air hummed as though with magic, there roamed an old, wiry wolf named Iolaire. Her fur, once sleek and black, was now peppered with gray, a testament to the passage of time and the hardships she had endured. Despite her age, Iolaire moved with a grace that belied her years, her keen amber and venom eyes ever watchful as she navigated the dense undergrowth.

On this particular day, Iolaire had ventured deep into the forest, her mind set on a singular task: collecting herbs and plants to fill her medicinal stores. She believed herself to be the best healer in the land, a title earned through years of study and practice. Unlike other wolves, she possessed a rare gift—a dexterity with her paws that allowed her to perform surgeries and sutures with precision and skill.

With practiced efficiency, Iolaire moved through the forest, her nose twitching as she sought out the scent of the herbs she needed. She plucked leaves and roots with care, storing them in an old, worn satchel that hung from her neck. Each plant she collected held a purpose—a remedy for fever, a salve for wounds, a tincture for ailments of the spirit.

As she worked, Iolaire couldn't shake the feeling of urgency that gnawed at her heart. She knew that death lingered on the edges of her awareness, his shadow growing longer with each passing day. But she refused to succumb to fear or despair. Instead, she focused on her task, determined to leave behind a legacy for her family in The Hallows.

For hours she toiled, moving deeper into the forest until the light began to fade and the air grew chill. But still, Iolaire pressed on, her determination unwavering. She knew that time was a fleeting thing, a river that flowed ever onward, carrying her closer to the inevitable end.

Finally, as the last rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, Iolaire emerged from the depths of the forest, her bag brimming with herbs and plants of every variety. She paused for a moment, her gaze sweeping over the landscape before her—a tapestry of greens and golds bathed in the dying light.

With a satisfied nod, Iolaire turned and began the journey back to The Hallows, her steps steady and sure. Though she knew that her time in this world was drawing to a close, she also knew that her legacy would live on—a testament to her skill, her wisdom, and her unwavering love for her family.

Iolaire returned to The Hallows, her steps steady despite the weariness that settled in her bones. Without hesitation, she made her way to the infirmary, a place that Gwynevere had put together with the help of Resin, Iolaire's own mother.

With a sense of purpose, Iolaire set to work. She hung the freshly gathered herbs to dry, their fragrant aroma filling the air around her. Moving with the precision of a seasoned healer, she ground other herbs with a mortar and pestle, blending them with animal fat to create healing salves.

The night passed in a blur as Iolaire worked tirelessly, her focus unwavering as she tended to her task. With each jar and crock she filled, she felt a sense of satisfaction knowing that she was leaving behind a legacy of healing for her family in The Hallows.

As the sun climbed out of its bed, casting the dusky blues and purples of morning through the infirmary window, Iolaire's work was finally complete. With a tired but contented sigh, she surveyed the shelves lined with jars and crocks of medicine, a testament to her skill and dedication as a healer.

With her task accomplished, Iolaire allowed herself a moment of respite. Sitting amidst the fruits of her labor, she closed her eyes and breathed in the earthy scent of the herbs around her. Though her body was weary, her spirit soared knowing that she had done all she could to prepare for her departure from the world that would inevitably come. But not yet. Not just yet.

And so, as the day continued on and the world stirred awake around her, Iolaire slipped out of the castle and made her way to the small, comfortable den that she shared with Deathbelle. The old woman chuckled to herself, wondering what Gwynevere would think of the plethora of new supplies that had shown up during the night as though left by some helpful specter.

Iolaire's old bones creaked and crackled like old, dried twigs as she moved along. Every once in a while she had to hop, willing a hip to pop or a join to resettle. Maybe some of her own concoctions would be used to alleviate whatever ailment took her in the end.

"Iolaire"