((A conceptual piece, not made to refer to any RP or ongoing plot - simply a creative writing exercise, taking place in the future. The tale itself could be a piece of Beorning lore, though I do not claim it as such. Nevertheless, I hope it is enjoyable.))
The Tale of the Stinging Nettle
The room was painted subtle pink and orange from the setting sun. Dusk was approaching.
Arindiis walked in, her long steel blue dress brushing over the floor, sending a humble cloud of dust and fine dirt flying. Her left hand secured a worn, brass candleholder between her thumb and pointer finger, while her right rested with reverent gentleness on the little back of her son, Asbjorn.
It was nearing midsummer, and just as folk were busy preparing for the celebrations, the insides of the Beornings stirred with excitement and energy. Asbjorn, despite the droopy sensation in his eyes and tired muscles, was in denial over his own weariness.
"Lay down." His mother commanded, with a smile in her voice, and little Asbjorn climbed into his linens, then pulled a light wool plaid over his socked feet.
"Tell me a story." The boy said, muffled by a yawn that he promptly denied with a shake of his head and sweeping of his lengthy, golden locks.
"I have a good story, I think." Arindiis purred, folding her dress around her curves as she sat down, elegantly leaning over her son, enfolding him in a veil of ashy brown tresses.
She begins; "There once was a healer. A very talented woman, who was said to be able to speak to the plants. She was loved, not alone for her skill, but her ability to keep the most vast of herb gardens ever to grace the earth of these lands."
"Was it here?"
"Perhaps."
She paused, giving Asbjorn a chance to ask more questions, but for once: he was quiet.
"In her garden, one spring, she created a new plant. A herb, with so much magic that it was never before seen. It could -"
Asbjorn piped up from under his covers, wide blue eyes staring with intense curiosity: "Did it rival Athelas?"
Arindiis paused, then smiled. Her son's vocabulary was nearly beyond her own, despite his tender age of nearly seven winters. However, she had no reason to be surprised, as his father too was a man of artistic language and intellectual insight.
"Just nearly. It could heal those with constant ailments, and was particularly powerful against illness brought on by late winter. This plant was named the Nettle."
"Nettles sting!" Asbjorn exclaimed defiantly - his mother's story had not mentioned this!
"Hear me out, my darling. The Nettle was rare, and grew only in the healer's garden, but soon it spread beyond her hedge and into the woods, where it thrived well. It was so strong, and so magical, that it kept growing and growing. As well as this; it saved many old folk from illnesses, many mothers-to-be from lacking nourishment. It fed the wild animals and the ones grazing in the clearings.
However, soon it became as common as woodland daisies, and it was eaten nearly daily by the people of the woods.
The Nettle was upset, for she had been the queen of herbs, so mysterious, so magical. She had been a saviour of the people, and now she was treated like common cabbage. She was plucked wildly, and despite her powerful ability to spread, her ranks grew thin. She felt close to defeat, though she had sworn her realm would never fall.
The Nettle sought the healer, and asked her creator for one simple ability... To be laced with a poison, not deadly, but so painful to the touch that she would only be picked, if truly necessary.
And so she became the Stinging Nettle. Many of her ranks became insubordinate, and accused her of malevolence. They were cast out, now known by the name: Deadnettle, and as they did not sting, their magic soon waned. "
Asbjorn had grown more restful, though he still demanded answers: "Is the Stinging Nettle evil?"
"No, she is simply protective, and will not share her magic with those who do not know how to handle her, or are too cowardly to risk the sting."
"But how do we eat Nettles?"
"We dry the leaves or boil them, so the poison goes away, and all the good remains. That is the secret the healer taught only those she trusted most."
Asbjorn noded, closing his eyes and they became heavy and his vision unclear. The sun had set, though the sky lit up light blue, and the fog began to gather by the river.
"Who told you the story, mother?"
Arindiis smiled and paused to see if the boy had drifted off. He grew impatient and grunted inquisitively, stirring slightly.
"My own mother did."
The room fell quiet, and the candle flicked. Arindiis sat still yet, purring a 'goodnight', before arising.
