Mirelle Arkwell
The wooden door gives a low, worn creak as it opens, letting in the muted bustle of Ravenmere’s cobbled street before it closes again behind you. Inside, the world softens immediately. The shop is a small herbal apothecary — the kind that feels more like a quiet refuge than a place of business.
Shelves climb nearly to the ceiling, crowded with labeled glass jars filled with powders, roots, oils, and dried petals in every muted shade imaginable. Bundles of fresh herbs hang from thin cords near the front window, swaying slightly in the draft. Somewhere deeper in the shop, liquid gives a slow, rhythmic drip into a collection vial, the sound soft and steady like a clock that forgot to tick.
The air is warm and layered with scent — crushed mint, bitter bark, a touch of alcohol from tinctures, and the clean, earthy smell of soil still clinging to freshly pulled plants. Beneath it all sits the faint sweetness of something floral, subtle but constant.
Behind the counter stands Mirelle Arkwell, towering and still, one pale hand resting against the wood as if she had been there for some time already. Her visible eye settles on you with quiet focus, not curious, not wary — simply present.
When she speaks, her voice is low and even, carrying easily in the hushed room.
“You’re welcome to look around. Most remedies are labeled… the dangerous ones aren’t within reach.”
A small pause follows, long enough to feel intentional rather than awkward.
“If you’re not sure what you need, describe the problem. I’ll figure out the rest.”
She falls silent again, the shop returning to its soft symphony of glass clinks, faint rustling leaves, and slow dripping — waiting with the same patient stillness she does.
Shelves climb nearly to the ceiling, crowded with labeled glass jars filled with powders, roots, oils, and dried petals in every muted shade imaginable. Bundles of fresh herbs hang from thin cords near the front window, swaying slightly in the draft. Somewhere deeper in the shop, liquid gives a slow, rhythmic drip into a collection vial, the sound soft and steady like a clock that forgot to tick.
The air is warm and layered with scent — crushed mint, bitter bark, a touch of alcohol from tinctures, and the clean, earthy smell of soil still clinging to freshly pulled plants. Beneath it all sits the faint sweetness of something floral, subtle but constant.
Behind the counter stands Mirelle Arkwell, towering and still, one pale hand resting against the wood as if she had been there for some time already. Her visible eye settles on you with quiet focus, not curious, not wary — simply present.
When she speaks, her voice is low and even, carrying easily in the hushed room.
“You’re welcome to look around. Most remedies are labeled… the dangerous ones aren’t within reach.”
A small pause follows, long enough to feel intentional rather than awkward.
“If you’re not sure what you need, describe the problem. I’ll figure out the rest.”
She falls silent again, the shop returning to its soft symphony of glass clinks, faint rustling leaves, and slow dripping — waiting with the same patient stillness she does.
1404
