Mozu's Village, 4 days later
The small village working with the tilled grains for the Hoshido Empire may look like any other. Iridescent lamps light the small, dirt-packed roads, all that are dividing the dozens of small wooden homes that form this collaboration of existence. The chirping of crickets is all that fill the night air, but none of the buzzing of insects would disturb the apothecary that is working while the rest of the hamlet of villager's slumber, whose indirect attempts at equalizing the concert of crickets through constant work to be a close match if walking next to her home. All you would see of one of the open windows, held open with a small block of wood, would be the burning dim light of a personal lamp, leaving to barely illuminate the large room of a home, filled to the brim with parchment, ink, food, and, most of all, varying samples of plant life. Nonetheless, one peering inside would note that, near the lamp, would be a brown-haired woman, too busy incessantly scribbling her observations of a recent plant that came into her possession than to notice anyone observing her.
Finding herself working through the wee hours of the night, in a home she built on the site of her family dying, to be hard to chew on. Despite the trauma that the biologist survived through, after many years, she was able to come back and settle down. Though working under Ryoma was the greatest of services she could ever hope to give, and gained much in return, she still felt something was missing. Even years of delving into her research, cataloging all she could get her hands on of the wilds of Hoshido and Nohr, she felt all the accolades she earned to be nothing more than tinder of an ever-consuming fire, growing in rage rather than dying out. A few months ago, after taking a trip to her village's forest to collect some of the more common variants of honeysuckle, she finally felt something that eased her being for the first time in years. After returning to the capitol, she found herself thinking of the beautiful foliage of greens that those woods would provide her, the shelter she used often in her life. The shelter that protected her life. After weeks of the invasive feelings of yearning to return, she found that what she felt must have been the call of her simple, country life, beckoning her back to the very grounds of her home. With little else to latch onto, she found having anything to remind her of her family, her mother, to comfort her weary heart. The request that would mean the world to Mozu was barely a blip to those in charge, and quickly granted her request to set up a field base for her to conduct her research.
With renewed vigor and an unshaken dedication, Mozu took the opportunity seriously, working on ways to make her tonics and medicine the best they can be. But when Saizo delivered the news of the border and what has been happening to her dear friends, she had no choice but to examine what Saizo found and how it can help her efforts in Kanpo arts to create something to combat the strange curse. The strange white herb may seem to be a host to fungi or a dying leaf as the season transitions, but to Mozu, there was much more to this plant. Said to have been wrought by the tears of ancient Naga, this white leaf glows in many colors when held up to oil lamps. Dragon Herb.
In all the excitement of getting her hands on such a rare plant, the poor girl has mindlessly nibbled on some Dang Shen root she harvested a few days ago. The root is supposed to help her stomach process some of the stress she has been feeling in her stomach. Small sparks of purple jumped from many of the ends of the roots she had dried and sat in a small bowl. Though the strange energy does nothing upon touch, its effects have become more known as the poor girl toils away at her research. Subconsciously, she tugs at the knots of her white torso band, trying to loosen the once-sized ensemble for her...
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Candace's Campsite, Unknown
A bandit rushes into the inner sanctum of his leader to relay news to her, only to be met with a sickening site. Strewn around the inner tent lies dehydrated corpses, rough half a dozen the confused bandit can notice in the low green light from the opposite side of the tent entrance that barely illuminates the area. The sickly hue also reveals each of the bodies that lay about are absent of skin and blood, not a drop dirties the patted dirt ground the encompasses most of the ground, now more of a mass grave that has yet to be dug or burned than the tent of their lavish leader. More disturbing is the few bodies he does notice look to be frozen in action, trying to claw either towards the entrance he came from, or digging their fingers into their own bodies, trying to strip some invisible force away from them, now frozen in posistions of uncomfortable death.
"Who enters MY tent without permission?" A voice calls to the bandit who just entered, drawing his attention toward the source of the green flame. He squints, starting deep into this void of death that is the heart of the camp, feeling as a shrew who stumbled upon the den of a snake who sups for seconds. A small cackle interrupts his frozen fear thought process, speaking out to him in a sultry voice,
"Oh, is it a bit dim in here? Hmmm... Let me fix that!" A snap of fingers was heard by the messenger, as the green flame flows towards the top center of the room and intensifying, revealing onto him a more ghoulish sight. It was not just a half a dozen corpses, nor just humanoid. It seemed whatever game from yesterday that was brough in for rations was victim of whatever happened in this tent, as well as other soldiers and even broken corpses of a few stonefaces lay about, crumbled into grainy bits of pebbles and grey flesh that was once a semblance of animated life. The clicking of boots breaks his stare, seeing an unfamiliar sight. The leader as he knows her is no longer visible. What was close to a facsimile of a human in blob form that could not move from a stained stone throne, now said throne is empty and clean. Instead, a vaguely similar, if you can call anything similar, (save from some facial features of lips, nose, eyebrows, and eyes), angular humanoid walking towards him.
With no other thought coming to mind except self-preservation, the bandit tries to make a heel turn to run, facing the safety of the outside tent of vagabonds and ruffians looking in, noting what he could not; a green tendril wrapping around his leg and whisking him back into the green void of the tent flaps the eerily eek out, along with the single sad yelp of the bandit.
Dragging upon the disgusting ground, his mas tearing through the brittle corpses, bits of bone and flesh getting caught up in his hair, skin, and various pits, muffles further screams. This effort in vocalizing his fear is cut short when he is lifted into the air and held upside-down while the witch approaches him.
