Gordon grumbled under his breath, his face contorted in a mask of annoyance, as he scooped up the cold, gray ashes from the previous night's pyres. "Damn, damn, damn," he muttered, the words punctuated by the scraping sound of the shovel against the charred ground. He was furious. He had meticulously planned to delegate this gruesome task to Thomas and Elias, convinced they wouldn't mind after his impressive display of wind manipulation. He had envisioned a relaxing morning, watching them toil while he enjoyed a well-deserved rest.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans. Both Thomas and Elias had mysteriously fallen ill overnight, confined to their beds with fever and chills. Gordon couldn't help but wonder if they had somehow contracted the same curse that had plagued the villagers, a chilling thought that sent a shiver down his spine. He hoped it was just a common illness, but the timing was suspiciously convenient.
Gordon's mood plummeted further. Not only was he stuck with the grisly task of ash disposal, but a chilling realization had dawned on him. He instinctively knew that Thomas and Elias's sudden illness wasn't a mere sickness; it was a curse. And even more unsettling, he knew how to treat it. The knowledge surfaced in his mind, unbidden, just like the understanding of the Ichor Curse.
He felt a surge of frustration. He wanted to rush to Robin, to share this crucial information, to finally offer some tangible help. But the memory of past suspicions held him back. He was tired of being the odd one out, the target of wary glances and whispered accusations. He was fed up with trying to help, only to be met with mistrust.
"Damn it," he muttered, his voice tight with suppressed anger. "Why does everything have to be so complicated?" He wrestled with the urge to act, to share what he knew, but the fear of being ostracized again held him captive. He just wanted to be a normal hunter, to do his job, and to be left alone. But the strange knowledge that kept surfacing in his mind wouldn't let him.
Despite his reservations and the fear of being suspected, Gordon finally made a decision. The weight of his knowledge, the potential to save lives, outweighed his personal anxieties. He resolved to go to Robin's house.
He wouldn't rush in blindly. He intended to assess the situation first, to see if he could offer his help discreetly. But deep down, he knew he couldn't hold back any longer. If his mysterious knowledge about the curse and its treatment proved to be true, then he had a responsibility to share it. Too many lives were at stake. He had to try, for the common good of Oakhaven.
Gordon approached Robin's house, his footsteps hesitant. He knocked on the door, a light, tentative tap at first, then more forcefully when there was no response. He waited, his ears straining for any sound from within, but the house remained silent. He began to think that no one was home, that Robin had perhaps gone out to tend to another victim. He turned to leave, a sense of disappointment settling over him.
But just as he was about to step away, he heard a faint shuffling sound from inside. Then, the door creaked open, revealing Robin. Her face was drawn and weary, her eyes shadowed by dark circles. She looked exhausted, her skin pale and her usual vibrant energy completely absent. It was clear she hadn't been sleeping.
"Gordon?" Robin asked, her voice raspy, a hint of surprise in her tired eyes. "What brings you here?"
Gordon hesitated, his gaze shifting nervously. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for her reaction. "Robin," he began, his voice low, "I... I think I might have a solution. For the sickness... the curse, that's plaguing the village."
Robin's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of hope amidst the weariness. "A solution?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "Come in, Gordon. Tell me everything."
He stepped inside, the familiar scent of herbs and remedies filling the air. They sat at her worn wooden table, the silence heavy with unspoken questions. Gordon began to explain, his voice hesitant at first, then gaining confidence as he recounted the strange, unbidden knowledge that had surfaced in his mind. He told her about the Ichor Curse, about how he instinctively knew its name and its effects, and how he believed he knew how to treat it. He emphasized the inexplicable nature of his knowledge, the way it felt like a memory that wasn't his, a truth he simply knew.
Robin listened intently, her brow furrowed, her gaze fixed on Gordon's face. While she was undeniably skeptical of his claims, the sheer desperation of the situation had worn down her usual caution. She had exhausted every avenue, every remedy, every theory she possessed, and yet the curse continued to claim victims.
She had run herself ragged, her mind and body pushed to their limits, searching for a solution. Gordon's story, though bizarre and seemingly impossible, offered a glimmer of hope, however faint. She was willing to humor him, to explore any possibility, no matter how improbable.
"Gordon," she said, her voice laced with weariness, "your story is… unusual. But I've tried everything I know, and nothing has worked. So, tell me. What is this 'Ichor Curse,' and how do you propose we treat it?"
"It's... it's a condensed hate," Gordon explained, his voice low and hesitant. "That's what the Ichor Curse is. Pure, concentrated hate, made manifest." He struggled to articulate the feeling, the knowledge that seemed to have been implanted within him. "It's not just a sickness, or even a normal curse. It's like... like a poison made of pure negative emotion."
Gordon's words hung in the air, thick with an almost absurd sincerity. "And the only way to cure it," he continued, his voice unwavering despite Robin's increasingly incredulous expression, "is with love. Pure, distilled love."
He paused, then elaborated, "Specifically, one hundred tears... tears that come from genuine, selfless love. And then... the water is condensed."
Robin's face, already etched with weariness, now contorted into a mask of disbelief. She stared at Gordon, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly agape. "One hundred tears... of love?" she repeated, her voice laced with skepticism. "Condensed water? Gordon, are you serious?" Her expression bordered on comical, a mixture of exasperation and disbelief.
"Yes, I'm completely serious," Gordon insisted, his voice firm, though a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. Inside, however, a torrent of profanity raged. What the actual fuck is a tear of love? he silently screamed. A hundred of them? Condensed? Is this some kind of sick joke? He maintained a facade of unwavering conviction, but his internal monologue was a chaotic mess of confusion and disbelief.
Despite her overwhelming skepticism, Robin, driven by a desperate need for any solution, however improbable, pressed Gordon further. "Alright, Gordon," she said, her voice laced with a mix of resignation and curiosity. "Let's say, for the sake of argument, that this... this 'tear of love' cure is real. How exactly do you propose we gather one hundred of these tears? Do you have a plan?"
Gordon's carefully constructed facade faltered slightly. He had no plan. He had simply relayed the bizarre information that had inexplicably surfaced in his mind. The practicalities of collecting such a fantastical ingredient had not yet crossed his mind. He stammered, his eyes darting around the room, searching for inspiration.
Gordon's gaze darted around the room, desperately seeking inspiration, a plausible explanation, anything to validate his outlandish claim. But his mind remained frustratingly blank. He stammered, his words trailing off into awkward silence. He fidgeted, his hands twisting in his lap, his eyes avoiding Robin's increasingly skeptical gaze.
Robin, observing his discomfort, sighed. Despite her disbelief, she felt a pang of pity for him. He was clearly out of his depth, struggling with information he didn't understand. She decided to cut him some slack.
"Gordon," she said gently, her voice laced with weariness, "thank you for coming. I appreciate you trying to help. But... I think we've reached an impasse. Perhaps it's best if you go home and rest. I'll... I'll think about what you've said."
She rose from the table, her posture suggesting a polite dismissal. Gordon, relieved to be spared further questioning, nodded gratefully and stood up. "Right," he mumbled, his face flushed. "Yeah, I'll... I'll go." He turned and walked towards the door, his mind still reeling from the absurdity of the situation.
Gordon limped back towards the burning place, his shoulders slumped, his steps heavy. He grumbled under his breath, a litany of self-directed complaints echoing in the empty air. "Damn it," he muttered, "I should have just stuck to patrols. At least then I wouldn't be covered in soot and smelling like burnt flesh."
He regretted underestimating his previous duties. Patrolling, while sometimes tedious, was a far cry from the gruesome task of burning corpses and collecting ashes. The stench, the heat, the sheer macabre nature of the work was taking its toll. He longed for the relative simplicity of walking the village perimeter, of keeping an eye out for wandering monsters. This was clearly much, much less enjoyable.
After a period of grumbling and half-hearted shoveling, Gordon's patience finally ran out. He surveyed the remaining piles of ash, a sigh escaping his lips. He was tired, his muscles ached, and the thought of manually scooping up every last speck of dust was unbearable.
He decided to take a shortcut. He closed his eyes, focusing his energy, and then unleashed his power. Instead of a swirling vortex of wind to intensify flames, he created a gentle, controlled gust, a subtle current that swept across the ash piles.
He carefully manipulated the wind, directing it to gather the fine ashes into swirling clouds, then gently guiding them into the collection containers. It was a delicate process, requiring precise control, but it was far more efficient than using a shovel. With a few concentrated bursts of wind, he was able to gather the remaining ashes with surprising speed and ease.
Gordon placed his hands on his hips, a broad, self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. He surveyed the neatly filled containers, the ground now almost completely free of ash. A wave of satisfaction washed over him. He had not only completed the unpleasant task, but he had done so with efficiency and style, using his powers to their fullest potential.
"Not bad," he muttered to himself, his smile widening. "Not bad at all." He felt a surge of pride in his ingenuity, in his ability to find a solution to a tedious problem. He had turned a grueling chore into a demonstration of his power, and he was thoroughly pleased with himself.
Gordon, feeling a rare sense of accomplishment, decided to indulge in a moment of leisure. He had initially intended to check on his ailing colleagues, Thomas and Elias, but the morning was still young, and he felt he deserved a break.