Welcome to Gaia! ::

He has made a fortune in the past few days - perhaps not a legitimate fortune, given the nobility in this city, but a fortune to a hedgewitch who days before had been digging through the nightly trash behind restaurants in order to find his dinner. He had started carving little charms out of wood: pale wood, dark cherry wood, things found in rubbish heaps and broken off of trees, whittled and carved into the shape of prancing Guardians. Setting up his booth in one of Palisade's older districts had netted him a veritable fortune selling them, now that the Awakened Guardians had begun to make their appearances. Those that had been unable to find an Awakened one to seek a blessing or a touch from had apparently all come to his booth to purchase a little talisman of their own.

They weren't imbued with anything -- they were, in fact, just pieces of wood, some with ribbons or colorful thread tied around them -- but they boosted morale, and for a few coins apiece, Striga was now in possession of more money than he'd had in a long time. He hadn't had to go searching for the Freds, nor had he had to cutpurse or sing for his supper.

It means that at the moment he is sitting at his booth, leaning back on his stool with his booted feet up on the lip of the booth itself. His hat is pulled down, shading his eyes, and he is chewing, habitually, on the end of a long blade of grass. Passersby might think him asleep, but no one even thinks to steal one of the little trinkets. He is a known hedgewitch. The rook that sits on his shoulder views potential thieves with a baleful eye.

Striga is a kindred spirit to Ever's nonchalant devil-may-care attitude. The hat alone might clue people into this, or his general dress: he wears a motley of colors, stripes and woven sashes and bangles around his wrists that jingle and rustle when he moves. The pants he is wearing, alone, are deep green and look as though he had to pour himself into them.

This same attitude means that he doesn't quite rush to look up when that voice calls out to him. He pauses for just half a second (was he dozing?) and then pushes his hat back. His skin is the color of coffee with cream, a stark contrast to his silvery-white hair, and it is almost surprising that his eyes are such a normal brown considering all the rest of him.

The rook on his shoulder quorks at the newcomer before the witch speaks, "Maybe. They're on sale two-for-five."

But this has to be him. The voice and the coloring and the clothing are all correct.

For just a moment Striga's dark eyes widen, and the ghost of something like irritation crosses over his face -- but then greed wins out, as it always does, in the end. He takes his boots off of the lip of the booth and his chair falls forward, all four legs on the ground; a moment later he stands, pushing the hat back minutely so that he can see. "Won't cover it here -- I don't have the proper materials. We'll have to go back to the shop." One brow quirks. Striga does not actually care about the pregnancy, but then tips his head. Earrings jingle. "I could deliver it, too."

Striga looks around -- watching the customers idle away from his stall, though one or two hang around in the crowd, maybe just waiting for Ever to leave -- and then nods. He gathers up all of the intricately carved little deer into a sack (they all jumble together inside, it's a wonder none get broken) and slings it over one shoulder. "Alright. It's on Tanner's Street."

The rook quorks again, and hops off of Striga's shoulder to fly ahead of them.

He gestures with his chin for Ever to start walking, but hangs back just a bit -- tips his hat to the crowd. "I'll re-open tomorrow, gentlefolk, if you want another guardian for your mantel!" His voice has a distinct musical quality to it. And maybe, strangely, it soothes some of the irritation out of the crowd, makes people just nod and smile and go about their business.

Striga pauses for just a heartbeat, brown eyes shrewd and narrowed, before he seems to come to some conclusion and continues walking. This time, his posture is as it normally is, a bit lax, a touch too carefree. Garnet wings back down from overhead and settles on the witch's shoulder, The rook isn't convinced, given the look it keeps shooting Ever -- but Striga chuckles, seeming to understand what's going on. "Rook doesn't like you," he starts in his habitual drawl; "why don't you have one yet?"

The witch makes a little tch sound, and then reaches up to stroke the rook's glossy back. It really is a marvelous looking bird, half-again as big as a rook ought to be, with what looks like a noble lady's bracelet (complete with namesake stone) around its neck. "Hasn't shat on me yet." And with that cryptic sort of remark, he suddenly turns left down a rather narrow street.

Tanner's Street seems as though it is wedged between two streets where it really shouldn't have fit: the buildings here lean in towards one another, and the shadows are deep, the cobbles a bit damp. And the smell -- the tanning vats in the area probably account for that, and for the name of the street. The third building on the right seems to be the shop, as Striga angles for it. "So you need something t'stop a pregnancy, right?" His eyes glitter as he glances over his shoulder as he unlocks the door, having pulled a key from his belt. "How much are you willing to pay?"

Price will, of course, increase potency.

"Alright," Striga says, and now the deal is cut-and-dry. Even if he makes Ever something that won't quite do the job, he's still keeping the purse. That makes things easier to judge, easier to deal with. Though he suspects that in the grand scheme of things, shorting this customer his due will probably have repercussions.

As if to answer these traitorous thoughts, Garnet screams at something from his perch on Striga's shoulder -- and then jumps off with a sudden rustling at wings, flying towards something unseen. Maybe the rook picked up on those thoughts and was disgusted -- but a quick glance down his shoulder and the side of his shirt proves there's no s**t there.

The door unlocks with a heavy 'clunk' and Striga steps back to usher Ever in. "Alright, I can do that. Just wait a minute, there's a chair you can sit in." He'll shut the door behind them, move to a long, low counter that is set up along the length of one wall.

The immediate reply is a single snort of laughter, muffled from where Striga has disappeared behind the counter. The only way to tell exactly where he crouches behind it is to watch for the feathers in his hat as they move. And, perhaps, to then listen for the hedgewitch's humming, which is surprisingly musical. It is broken in parts by muttered comments, perhaps for his own benefit as much as for Ever's:

"Cohosh," a rustle and a quiet noise at the smell, "Queen Anne's lace, wild -- yam," he grunts, and then rises, with a small white linen bag in his hands. It bulges in places (perhaps the yams he mentioned), and after a moment he pauses, lips pursed. "And neem, if I could find it."

A moment later he reaches distractedly up and takes off his hat, laying the thing on the counter. And though some might suspect the silver hair is artifice, it isn't. There are no dark roots. It is just .. silver hair, on what otherwise would be normal gypsy coloring. "Well, when I can find the neem, you'll have it. She'll just need to take the leaves off the yams and brew them in the tea. The yams're an extra bonus."