She coughed, spitting up bile and blood onto the rocky ground by the side of the road, and once again cursed the sickness that was slowly claiming her life. Wiping her mouth with the back of one hand, she cautiously rose to a standing position, wary of the dizziness that could rise at any moment to send her crashing back to the ground.
Once she had steadied herself, she looked up, noting the position of the sun in the grey skies overhead. It's not yet noon, she thought wearily. The day was half-over, and there were still many chores left to be done.
As she continued slowly on her way, she stuck her hands into the pockets of her tattered old dress. They were full of plants, full of freshly-picked herbs. Where did these come from? she wondered, irritated, before vague memories returned to her: memories of gathering herbs; memories of travelling far in this oppressive heat to search for them.
She halted in place as a momentary disorientation washed over her. Who was it, that gathered those herbs? Who am I? she wondered, panic-stricken, looking at wrinkled limbs that seemed, for no good reason, to belong to someone else. Who is this old woman.... She had the sudden feeling that she was old far before her time. An old woman, clad in rags, walking across such a severe, parched land of rock and sandy soil.... With shaking hands, she held her throbbing head for many long seconds, until the disorientation began to lose its hold on her mind. I remember now... I am Innogen, Wielder of Air, Water, and Space, she thought vehemently, as if to reassure herself that it still was so.
When the memory-fogging spell had completely passed, she continued on her way, once again sure of her identity and her place in the world. Damn the Ritualists, she thought bitterly while she walked cautiously along the dusty, stony path. Damn them for exiling us all here, to the Wastelands. The poisons of this accursed place are twisting my mind, even as they twist and sicken my body.
The old, white-haired woman finally reached her hut. Partially hidden and sheltered between a couple of large boulders, it was little more than a rough lean-to, built of small logs and driftwood. It was more solid than it looked at first glance, but heavy winds, Innogen knew, could rattle it around something fierce. At least it isn't raining anymore, the elderly woman thought wryly. There are few things I hate more than leaks. And this hut had plenty of those.
Fastened to the top of Innogen's shelter was a tall stick, from which a small square of once-white fabric had been hung. It flapped proudly in the morning's chill breeze. On this makeshift flag was embroidered the symbol of the Elementalists, the symbol of her people: a dark red circle surrounding a sweeping, angular pattern that some said ressembled a butterfly. She'd always thought that the butterfly was a fitting symbol for the Elementalists. Butterflies were wild and free, true creatures of the chaos that underlaid everything in the world. She always ignored the small voice in the back of her head that insisted that butterflies, also, were fragile and easily killed....
Innogen entered the dark, tiny hut. Her fingers trembling with age, she hung the recently-gathered herbs from the ceiling. If I'm lucky, the rainy spell is over, and these will have a chance of drying, she thought, then looked with a sigh at the other, similar bundles of greenery that had already been hung up to dry over the past few days. Because of the past week's worth of constant rain, few of those medicinal herbs had dried, and some had even begun growing mould from the heat and humidity. It pained the old woman to see potential medicine wasted because of a whim of nature. But that is the way of things; and there's no use in complaining. Still, it was hard to accept.
A quick glance revealed that the barrels kept at the side of her hut, which were used to collect fresh, clean water, were running low. Why now, of all times? she mentally complained. Drinking the Wasteland's poisonous rainwater was a bad idea, she knew, and most of the local streams and ponds were similarly tainted. The poisons were mild, true, but they built up to devastating effects over many years. Water fit to drink could only be found at certain freshwater springs. Even so, it was only a matter of time before each spring became irrevocably tainted as well. Luckily for the people of the Wasteland, new springs were always flowing up from aquifers deep below the ground. Though the plants and animals they ate and the very air they breathed sickened them, at least the water they drank was clean.
The nearest clean spring is over an hour's walk from here, the elderly woman realized with a groan. I've already walked so much today; my feet hurt terribly. I cannot travel any longer! She wished longingly for a chance to lie down and rest, but there was too much left to do that day. Besides, I'm thirsty; and there's washing to be done. Once again, she sighed. I need fresh water, but the voyage to the spring is beyond me. She reluctantly decided that there was only one solution to her dilemma, and steeled herself to carry it out.
A look of serene concentration slowly enveloped Innogen's face. A couple of seconds passed; then, suddenly, the air around her began to swirl with tiny drops of moisture. The water began to trickle, slowly at first, then more and more strongly, into the watertight barrels. After many minutes of intense mental effort, the old woman broke her concentration, and her simple Water spell dissolved away. The barrels were now full to the brim.
Because of her magical exertions, Innogen felt weary to the bone. Ah, that's why I don't do this more often, she thought, chuckling humorlessly. This tired feeling would pass soon, she knew. It always did. But still, the urge to rest became even harder to ignore.
Ignore it she did, however, turning resolutely to the job of preparing the pitiful few herbs which had managed to dry over the past week. Crumbling a few dried leaves into a small bowl, she sat down cross-legged on her small, mat-covered floor. Taking up a pestle, she set to work grinding the leaves into powder.
As she ground the leaves, Innogen worked whispery, delicate threads of Earth magic into the newly-created powder, to enhance its worth as a medicine. It was difficult for her, and almost as tiring as the much more powerful Water spell she'd just cast. That's only to be expected, she thought tiredly. I have little aptitude for Earth-based spells. But the people of this Wasteland... my people... have few other healers. I must do everything within my power to help keep them safe and healthy. She knew, however, that that was an impossible task.
Sheer weariness soon threatened to drag her down, kicking and screaming, into slumber. I can't remember being so tired in a long time, she thought, somewhat amazed, as she continued to work. No doubt I'm still recovering from the massive spells I cast such a short time ago. One day; no, maybe it was two days ago.... Was it the last vestiges of the memory-clouding fit, or simply the forgetfulness of old age, that made the details slip from her mind? She couldn't tell. Still, having cast such powerful spells a short time ago, especially ones that modified Space, the hardest of all five Elements to cast, would surely continue to affect her for quite some time.
Innogen continued to grind the herbs, doing her job with exacting care. As she sat and worked, she stopped dwelling on her tiredness, and thought instead of the one whose safety was extremely important to her and to all her people as well. I hope the boy is safe.
I did the best I could to counter the Ritualist's machinations. She grimaced as she thought of her people's ancient enemies, and began grinding with renewed energy due to her anger. Once again, she cursed the enemy's cleverness in playing on the boy's greed. Once they got through to him with their promises of unimaginable gold, there was nothing I could possibly do to dissuade him. Even if I'd told him the truth about his heritage, even if he believed every word, he'd still have gone off and chased after castles in the sky... He's not the brightest young man, is he now.
Outside the small, rude hut, the sun crept slowly across grey skies. Innogen continued to work, slowly and deliberately, as time passed. Now, all I can do is hope. Hope that he uses the 'poison' I led him to take, when I sent my spirit through Space to the other world and disguised myself as a wisewoman. Hope that he doesn't decide to use other means to kill that sorceress the Ritualists sent him after. Hope that he doesn't get himself killed, by the sorceress, or by her dangerous friends... Hope that he has enough common sense to preserve his own life.
The old woman paused, staring at the small bowl before her, now full of fine, magic-laced powder. However much it pains me to admit it, there's nothing more I can do to shape events in the other world now. All I can do now is sit and wait - for a sorceress from another world to arrive.