Amor Pigmentarii

Soft light shimmered through the shutters. The warm glow filling up the room, lighting lines of tombs and glass bottles. The light was dim, covered by the wood upon the two front panes of glass.

She climbed down the wood steps, the creaks and cracks under her worn shoes ordinary. The building was old, older than her in fact.

The large door barred in place, closed tight. She made her way to opening up her home to the light, unlatching and pulling open the wood shutters. Light flooded from the morning skies, blinding her only for a moment. It was a welcoming warmth. Daily with the sun's welcome she would rise, open her home to the brilliant lights. Then begins her routines.

Each morning, prepare the herbs, freshen the mixtures,start the fires. There was quite some effort to be had before her doors could open to her people. Once she had prepared and of course, eaten, she pulled the large wood beam up and set it down upon the hard ground.

Her front door swung open then, and she used the heavy wooden beam to prop it open. She stepped out onto the dirt, looked up and down the street.

Her neighbor, the wood Carver Erik, was doing the same, opening his door to the morning air. She smiled and offered a wave, her pale hand catching the sun.

His smile back brightened her day already, "mornin' Bruno," he called to her.

She offered her own smile and tilted her head ever so much, ushering her own greeting. "Good morning, dear Erik," she walked past his door.

With pale in hand, swinging about at her hip, she walked out to the treeline. The thick forest dark and foreboding above her head, yet she walked through unfazed by its might. Bruno had taken this journey many times, and she will always take this journey. The river water was much fresher than the well's own.

The walk to the stream was short, the water always audible no matter where you entered the forest from. This stream, in particular, ran parallel to her village on the Western side. It ran south, toward the much larger river that separated the village from the rest of their people.

This created a life of seclusion for many of their people, Bruno herself included. No bridge connected their roads from the south. All goods, people, etcetera came from the north down common trade routes. The people of the village were born and raised there. Even the small platoon of guards was generational from over thirty years ago. Everyone knew everyone, such as the way.

Bruno knelt by the river, her deep brown hair pulled to one side of her pale neck. Her waved hair worn in a braid, as it always had. She grabbed for her pail, she scooped up the clean water. The pail filled in minutes.

Balancing the gathered water upon her hip, she walked back to town. She walked through the treeline, whispering her good-byes to the pleasant forest.

Her shop opened only an hour after her trip. Her shelves stocked full of her own picked and refreshed ingredients. The quills sat at the ready with parchment to write down what she would need to refill. The woods were full of life. Everything she sold she borrowed from mother nature's benevolence.

And thus were day went on. She continued her reorganization of her father's once-proud book collection. The books dust-covered and left abandoned. Her honey and lavender mixture in her boiling pot filled her home with pleasant smells. The sweetness encouraging children to visit. Her kind smile and opened door invited many to enter her doorstep to browse and discover. Her herbs and blends brought back loyal customers. For chats and refills on remedies, she had past made.

Her days filled the same as this, even in her spare moments, Bruno would work by her lonesome. With no more family and no one living with her, she spent free time reading, writing, organizing.

Life was quiet and simple. She had no need for dramatics in her day after day. She hasn't experienced a change in a decade. The last being the disappearance of her eldest brother. Since then, Bruno has done everything the same. She greets Erik every morning, fills her daily pail of water. She opens to her people; cleans, busies herself, then it's time to eat and retire for the evening.

A simple life helps to keep her alive. She is an apothecary. She works with medicine and science, her existence hated by many, but her town is small enough. The people have no qualms with her, her simplicity has given them no reason to be wary.

She intends to keep this peace.