Irene Didn’t Answer Right Away. Just Watched The Woman With The Kind Of Look That Skimmed Bone. Not

Irene glanced at the notebook, eyes tracking the neat scratch of pen to page, then shrugged lightly. “Call it thirty-six even. I’ll mark the rest for morning and bag it when it’s all here.”

She didn’t say thanks for the compliment — didn’t even really react, not right away. But her gaze drifted toward the shelf where the skullcap was stocked, and the corner of her mouth tugged in something that almost passed for a smile.

“It’s better now than it used to be,” she said, quiet. “Place was running on fumes when I got here. Half the labels didn’t match the jars. Found a bottle labeled blessing oil that was just sunflower and perfume.” Her brow lifted slightly like she still wasn’t convinced it wasn’t a joke. “Stephens doesn’t do much upkeep. She remembers things. Doesn’t always write them down.”

She watched the little creature — Sage — nose the edge of the basket, but didn’t reach to stop it. Just kept her arms loosely folded, fingers tucked into opposite sleeves. “Long as she doesn’t eat the poke root, we’re good.”

When Juniper mentioned the walk, Irene’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a pause. A flicker of something not quite hesitation.

“I wrap up in fifteen,” she said. “If you’re still around, I can walk a block or two your way.”

It wasn’t a favor. Just a practical offer. That’s how she framed it — like she was doing it for the sake of safety, not company. Still, there was something gentler in her voice than before, like the fatigue had settled into something quieter, less edged.

“You can leave your basket here if you want,” she added, tipping her head toward it. “I’ll keep it behind the counter for pickup.”

Then, finally, she nodded once, as if deciding it mattered enough to register: “I’m Irene. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of me too.”

Juniper smiles easy as the other agrees to look over her list. Walking deeper into the store and looking through the shelves as she passes. This place is comfortable for her. Even if it was her first time in the shop there was comfort to be had around dried herbs and potent mixtures. Even Sage seemed to be relaxed among the scent and atmosphere.

“Ha- no, no um… banishing's. It’s not all for one thing really. Just trying to fill the coffers y’know?” It wasn’t entirely a lie. She tucked hair behind her ear awkwardly. It would be quite a while before she was ready to start growing her own ingredients. “Oh, that’s fine. I figured that verbena would be a long shot anyways.” 

As the basket was placed on the counter, she took a peek inside and smiled. The quality was nice. There was nothing worse than getting herbs with the beginnings of dry rot. These were pristine, however. Well worth whatever the price may be. “This is wonderful, thank you. Would it be possible for me to pick it all up tomorrow? Say late morning? Got pretty much everything else done today so I shouldn’t be held back on account of other errands. What will I end up owing you?” 

She takes out a small notebook to jot down the numbers, so she remembers them. Sage crawled down her shoulder and arm to stand on the counter. Peeking into the basket as Juniper reminded her to not touch anything she wasn’t supposed to. “Juniper by the way. I have a feeling you’ll be seeing a lot of me from now on. New in town and let me tell you I was excited to hear this city has a proper apothecary. This place is very well stocked and taken care of.” She had no idea if this person cared about that sort of thing. But she felt the need to compliment the space anyways. 

The question came out of nowhere from the less than enthusiastic clerk. A soft question that made her smile. People here were surprisingly nice, even when they came off as cold. “I should probably be alright. It’s not that long a walk, streets are well lit. If you are heading the same way I wouldn’t turn down the company for a block or two though.” She offered back. While she felt like she could handle herself, and this woman probably could as well. There was nothing wrong with a little extra security.    

The wind had teeth out here.

Irene hadn’t meant to come this far. She’d walked until the roads narrowed and the town thinned behind her, until her ears were full of the sea’s growl and the storm’s hush. Her boots stuck twice on the walk down to the rental lot, the mud soft and mean beneath the heels. She could feel her wards straining —distant, but tethered still—and every bone in her body whispered that she should turn back.

She didn’t.

The dock looked abandoned, lights off, boats lashed in neat crisscrossed lines like some ritual offering to the waves. Practical. Smart. Not enough to keep anything truly safe. She didn’t expect to see anyone, let alone the figure mid-run at the edge of the dock.

Irene stopped short just as the woman jumped.

Not slipped. Not fell. Jumped. Clean. Deliberate.

It was the sort of motion that knew gravity’s rules and simply chose not to care. The sort of leap that wasn’t meant for onlookers. So when the woman surfaced—sleek, sharp-eyed, at home in a way that made Irene’s skin feel too tight—she held her gaze, because looking away felt wrong. Unkind, even.

“You know,” Irene said, once the silence had grown long enough to deserve words, “Most people call it a day when the storm starts naming things.”

Her voice didn’t carry well over the wind, but she didn’t raise it either. Just enough for the other woman to hear, if she wanted to. Just enough to be real.

She didn’t ask what she was. Didn’t need to. There were some things you didn’t poke with language.

Instead, Irene’s hand found the railing, fingers brushing over the salt-slick wood.

“I won’t stay,” she added. “Didn’t come to interrupt.”

But she hadn’t moved yet, either. The kind of stillness that came from knowing you weren’t the only one who’d come out here to remember something you couldn’t name. Or forget something you couldn’t shake.

Let the sea judge them both.

Who: Open (0/4)

Where: PL Boat Rental

If the wind were still able to fill her lungs, Ha-Jeong knew that it would taste like magic. She knew storms, had sailed in more typhoons than she could count, and this was no natural storm. But she found that she cared little for its origin. She was reminded of her centuries at sea. How she had volunteered herself for solo deck duty in almost every storm the ship had seen. It had been a selfish move as much as it had been a logical one. Her body could simply withstand more than her human crewmates, but she had also loved the feeling of being swept up in something so much bigger than herself.

She sat on her dock, the humans she usually employed to run the place summarily dismissed and sent to safer pastures. She had gone around on her own and spider tied all vessels that hadn’t been stored on racks or in the 3 operating boat houses. The dock rocked beneath her, undulating with the sea.

Ha-Jeong stood and started to remove her jacket. The other haenyeo used to call her ‘ineo’ when she had spent her decade on Jeju. That was perhaps her favourite way she had spent the 90s. She cocked her head from side to side as she took a starting position. If she was honest with herself those ladies hadn’t been the only people to accuse her of having a more aquatic than human nature. Ironic for this was perhaps the one human idiosyncrasy she had left, as she ran towards the edge of the dock, wind running through her hair, she was reminded of a little girl centuries ago who would have done the same.

As she flew over the water, the tumultuous storm current sipping around her body, she felt a presence appear behind her on the dock. As the water welcomed her, an embrace no colder than her own, she quickly broke through the surface to meet the eyes of someone who was either just brave or just stupid enough to witness her in her human indulgence.

Does your character feel more comfortable with more clothing, or with less clothing?

More clothing. Definitely.

Not because she's trying to hide anything dramatic — She just doesn’t like the attention. Irene has never been the kind of person who walks into a room and wants eyes on her. Less clothing… that invites stares, comments, and assumptions. She has had enough of that to last a lifetime.

She feels safer when covered. More in control. Like there’s a layer between her, her weapons and everything else. It’s not about shame — it’s about comfort. About not being seen unless she chooses to be.

Irene tolerated the hug like she might tolerate a cat sitting in her lap uninvited—still, unmoving, but with a faintly stunned look in her eye like she wasn’t entirely sure how it had come to this. She didn’t return it, not exactly, but she didn’t push Allie away either. Which, for Irene, was saying something.

“Matching energies,” she echoed, dry as ever, but her voice was quieter now. Less like bark, more like rustling leaves. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

She let Allie take the notebook without protest, though her fingers lingered a beat too long before letting it go. Like maybe part of her was tempted to hang onto it, if only to make sure it didn’t end up under the peppermint again. Or the radiators. Or that one cursed drawer that ate things whole.

At the question, though—do you have something like it?—Irene’s expression shifted.

Not visibly. Not much. Just a flicker in the way she blinked, the angle of her shoulders as she turned and started walking back toward the counter. Something closing behind the eyes.

“No,” she said simply. “I’m not a witch.”

It was too smooth. Too practiced. Not even a hitch.

“I just know a thing or two about herbs. Plants. I read a lot.”

The lie settled neatly between them, well-worn and wrapped in just enough truth to pass inspection. It always sounded better when she said it like that —like it wasn’t a big deal. Like the books and the jars and the faint, prickling hum of the walls around them weren’t strung together with old wards and stranger things. Survival, after all, had never been about honesty.

She paused near the counter, reaching to flick off a lamp that had started to buzz again, half-listening to the light catch in Allie’s laughter.

“You should be careful with those kinds of notebooks,” she said, tone light enough to sound like she was joking—though the words had an edge to them, buried deep. “Write the wrong thing down and it might try to make itself true.”

Then, as if to soften it —because Allie was still glowing at her like Irene had hung the stars with her bare hands —she added, “But I guess that’s your kind of magic.”

She gave a short nod toward the journal. “Just make sure it doesn’t end up in the peppermint again.”

        she giggles, a little apologetic, but mostly just tickled with humor. and, anyways, she’s pretty sure irene’s kidding. allie’s never put glitter in the mortars on purpose, but maybe if it’s gotten on her hands … still, her eyes flicker over to them, just to make sure the stone of them isn’t entirely bedazzled. but, before she can fully set her gaze on them, irene’s talking about her little lost thing, and allie remembers why the wind brought her back here.

        her head tilts sheepishly. yes, of course, she’d left something behind again. really, it doesn’t matter so much as long as she keeps coming back to the apothecary, and she always does. if she could hold onto things longer- memories -it wouldn’t matter so much. but it was on her mind and worth a try and she had hope and now, here she is! and here irene is, and she’s found it.  “ oh my gosh, thank you, thank you! you’re the best! ”  she forgets about her quest to keep irene from getting too grumpy with her as her eyes catch hold of the little journal. allie squeals, and rushes forward, wrapping her arms around irene’s shoulders in a brief squeeze, fueled by a rush of affection.  “ you’re so good at finding things, i think that’s why we’re friends. ‘cause we have, like, matching energies. ”  she lets go soon enough, resting back down on the ground, instead of pushed up on her tiptoes, reaching for the clouds.

         allie takes the journal back from where it’s dangling from the tips of irene’s fingers, clutching it gratefully, tender, to her chest. there’s more laughter spilling from her lips.  “ i’m very lucky, but it’s ‘cause of you, silly. ”  she doesn’t believe irene’s threat of keeping it, mostly because there’s nothing in there that’s all that interesting. of course, it’s all interesting to allie, but … everything is.  “ do you have something like it? like, a little book you keep all your magic stuff in? ”

Irene didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t rise to meet the bait like so many did — like Briar wanted her to. She just kept her eyes on the other woman, the corner of the worn label finally peeling back beneath her thumb like paper tired of keeping secrets.

“For fun?” she echoed, tone flat enough to skip.

She set the jar down with a soft clink. Not careless, not reverent — just exact. As if even glass had a place, and she wasn’t in the habit of misplacing things.

“I mend things that don’t belong to me,” she said, matter-of-fact. “I walk places people don’t think to look. I make sure what’s buried stays that way.”

A pause, but not because she was searching for anything. She just wanted the silence to sit there for a moment, thick and quiet and full of things unsaid.

“I’m not here to amuse you,” Irene added, finally lifting her gaze fully to Briar’s. There was no heat in it — just clarity, cool as the bottom of a well.

“And I don’t trade in curiosities.”

She stepped back behind the counter, rolling her sleeves down one at a time, slow and methodical like it was the end of something, not the beginning.

“But you asked. So that’s it. That’s your favor.”

Her hands moved to the ledger again, pen flicking once to mark a line through something unseen, invisible to everyone but her.

“No refunds. No rerolls. If you wanted stories, you should’ve asked for something easier to return.”

Briar's confused by all the obfuscation; ledger this, ledger that. Goodwoman Stephens is brave indeed, dealing with this sort of orderly chaos. Were she to start her own public facing endeavor she'd not last the week before she was caught trafficking in sleep aids because some neck-tied hoglet a city over wanted his cut of the coin. Of course should the police come for her they'd all be quite dead in short order; food for the root, but that would beruin the point; the girl is overcautious.

Still, whether it's the 1720s or the 2020s she supposes a pig's only ever good for carving.

"But asking games are such fun!" She muses. "Tch. You've so serious a tone. I'll wager too that you're quite the stickler aren't you? How about this, as I've no need for any materiel; Tell me, what do you do for fun? Outside this shop I mean. Otherwise, I simply won't believe you know how to have it. That's the favor I ask."

( jessica alexander / female / she/her) — IRENE CLERMONT has been living in Port Leiry for 6 MONTHS. They currently work as a SHOP ASSISTANT AT TUMATARAU APOTHECARY , and are 26 years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a WITCH/HUNTER or if they’re connected to THE BROTHERHOOD. They tend to be quite VINDICTIVE and SECRETIVE, but can also be RESILIENT and COMPASIONATE.

Connections / Pinterest

Name: Irene Clermont Occupation: Apothecary Assistant & Brotherhood Hunter Age & Birthday: Twenty-Six | August 15, 1999 Sexuality: Straight Species: Witch (Mirrormind, aspiring Weaver) - Currently a Hunter Hometown: Columbus, Ohio Relationship Status: Single Personality Traits: Irene is calculating, quietly intense, emotionally closed off but not cold. She’s fiercely loyal to the few she trusts, slow-burning in her grief and rage. Tactical, self-disciplined, and emotionally guarded, she is a survivor before anything else—but her anger runs deep.

TW: Torture / Death / Mental Illness / Exile

"They called her dangerous. And they were right."

Born into the Circle of the Reverie —an insular coven of prophecy, dreams, and memory— Irene was always the wrong kind of magic. A child cloaked in quiet, feared for the way her eyes lingered too long, for the way her presence stirred old feelings. They whispered about her blood. About how her mother had lied. About how no one knew who her father was.

But Irene did.

She found out as a teenager: her father wasn’t some mystery, but a hunter —skilled, tactical, and very much alive. She met him in secret under moonlight and ash, learning to fight with her hands and her heart. He didn’t ask her to shrink. He made her sharp. Loved. Seen. And when her magic began to twist—when she realized she could pull best or worst memories to the surface and make others live them again—he was the only one who wasn’t afraid.

But the Circle was. And fear makes monsters of the devout.

The truth came out. And then everything burned. Her father’s location was leaked. Another coven took him—tortured him—killed him. Her mother, complicit in the secrecy, was punished until her mind broke open. Irene found her father’s body cold. Her mother no longer knew her name.

Then came exile.

Six months ago, Irene arrived in Port Leiry, drifting quiet beneath its fog-covered skyline. She tends an apothecary now—mixing poultices for strangers and tucking herbs into brown paper while her mother stares at walls she doesn’t understand. But at night, Irene hunts. Not for coin. Not for chaos. She hunts the witches who destroyed her family—one by one. The ones who killed her father. The ones who made her mother scream. The ones who stood back and smiled at their pain.

Her magic is unstable—raw, frayed by grief and sharpened by rage. As a Mirrormind, Irene crafts illusions in the waking world—twisting what others see, what they believe, what they feel. She can cloak herself in beauty or fear, turn hallways into labyrinths, or smiles into threats. It’s misdirection at its most intimate, seduction, deception, and control laced into a glance.

But Irene is more than that. She was born different—something the Circle feared from the beginning.

She can do what most Mirrorminds cannot: not just create illusions, but resurrect emotion itself. With a touch or focused gaze, she can pull someone's strongest memory to the surface —grief, joy, terror—and force them to relive it in unbearable clarity. The scent, the sound, the pain of it. As real as the first time. She doesn’t just show you your past—she makes you drown in it. It’s a rare, unspoken branch of Mirrormind magic that even the most devout fear to name.

Now, Irene trains as a Weaver —learning to slip into the minds of her enemies in sleep. To plant nightmares that linger like bruises. To stitch fear into their rest. Weavers are artisans of the subconscious—quiet, slow-burning retribution —and Irene wants that precision. That patience. To haunt before she harms.

Her magic is unstable—frayed at the edges, easily overwhelmed by emotion. The deeper Irene feels, the harder it is to control. Grief tangles the threads. Anger burns through illusion. And when she loses control, her powers lash out in unpredictable bursts—sometimes triggering someone else’s worst memory without meaning to, sometimes trapping her in a vision that isn’t hers. That’s why she’s learning to become a Weaver: not just for the power, but for the discipline. Weaving requires patience, precision, detachment—all the things she’s had ripped away. If she can master that control, she can make her pain purposeful. Turn the chaos into something quiet. Deadly. Lasting.

Because revenge isn’t just a blade. Sometimes it’s a dream you can’t wake from.

She doesn’t fight loud. She fights smart. And she fights only those who deserve it.

Once, she was just a child. Curious. Kind. Too soft for the world she was born into.

Irene doesn’t make noise. She makes consequences.

More:

She barely sleeps. Between taking care of her mother, Brotherhood work, and pushing herself to control her magic, Irene exists in a state of constant exhaustion. Nighttime is for training. She runs drills in silence, practices weaving on scraps of cloth and empty walls, trying to thread dreams into something she can hold. She doesn’t rest until her body forces her to.

Her mother’s sleep matters more than her own. Irene’s primary motivation for becoming a Weaver isn’t power—it’s mercy. Her mother, fractured and fading, is haunted by memories the Circle forced into her. Irene believes if she can learn to weave well enough, she can soothe her mother’s dreams, give her a few hours of peace. She hasn’t succeeded yet, and every failure feels like a personal betrayal.

She avoids mirrors. Her Mirrormind magic has backfired before—turning a glance into someone else’s memory, or her reflection into a moment from her own past. When she’s overwhelmed, reflections can feel like traps.

She used to laugh all the time. When she was younger, when Riven was around, Irene was a bright, warm presence—curious, clingy, always offering the last bite of her treat. She was the kind of child who believed in promises and tried to keep them all. Sometimes, when she sees him again, that ache creeps in—of who she could’ve been if things had gone differently.

Her most precious possession is a silver-edged knife. Slender, balanced, and etched with quiet runes, it was the last thing her father ever gave her. He said it was forged from hunter’s steel and carried through generations. She wears it at her thigh like a second spine. It’s not just a weapon—it’s a vow, a memory, a tether to the person who believed in her first.

She keeps a small box of things that don’t belong to her. A child’s drawing. A coin from the Brotherhood’s first offering. A feather she once pulled from her father’s coat. None of it is magical, but she treats it like it is. These are her anchors when her magic spirals, her grief surges, or she forgets what softness feels like.

She’s cast a cloaking spell over her magic—layered, meticulous, and laced with intent so fine it hums beneath her skin. It took weeks to perfect, built from forgotten sigils and quiet hours hunched over worn parchment, every line a thread in the weave of her protection. The Brotherhood doesn't tolerate strangeness it can't control, and Irene knows too well what happens to witches who shimmer too brightly. So she dims herself carefully. No flare, no scent of power, nothing for the gifted or monstrous to catch hold of. It’s not just concealment—it’s survival. A hidden pulse beneath her heartbeat. She checks it constantly, reinforces it like a cracked wall. Even when she’s alone, she whispers its binding words. Just in case.

Irene’s eyes flicked up just long enough to catch the shape of the woman behind the counter before dropping back to her screen. One corner of her mouth tugged — not quite a frown, not quite amusement.

“Goody Stephens isn’t in,” she said simply. “Hasn’t been for a while.”

She finally set the tablet aside, screen darkening with a quiet blink, and leaned back in the chair like someone bracing for a shift in weather. The stranger —no, not quite a stranger, not if she knew where the burdock root was kept and didn’t flinch at the smell of the drying room —had that familiar kind of confidence that came with previous access.

“She’s not here,” Irene said, tone dry but not unkind. “But I can take the parcel.”

She didn’t move to grab it. Instead, her gaze followed Briar’s fingers drumming on the wood. The sound grated just enough to set her nerves on edge, but she said nothing about it. “Yeah,” she said after a beat. “New-ish.” That was all she offered at first.

As for the dreamless tea, she gave the barest shrug. “Nothing fancy. Valerian, skullcap, pinch of nettle. Enough to knock out a restless hedgewitch without leaving ‘em foggy in the morning.” She paused. “Does what it says. No bells. No vampire facials.” That part almost sounded like a joke. Almost.

Then, softer —less like a statement, more like a test, “You worked here before?”

"Oh I wasn't aware Goody Stephens closed shop til dawn, given... well..."

Best not be outing things to new faces, Briar - a bit of subtlety, indeed. This one might be soft-headed, might need held by the hand; it has slowly dawned on her in her some five months living in this town that not all are quite so well equipped to handle the mania of the second, darker world lurking below the obvious.

"I'm simply here to drop off some fresh herbs for her; a gift in exchange for a favor paid; is she not here? Zounds, I'd have spoken with her."

Briar adjusts a parcel under hear arm, drums her heavy acrylics along a counter as she peers about the shop before settling on Irene. "You're new - or I simply haven't been back in a while." Then she's behind the counter, like she knows her way around; Goodwoman Kiri had helped her along in work for those first few months. Now she has slightly more exciting employment, but she's a soft spot for this little shop still.

She leans on the counter then, looking up into the woman's eyes, trying to suss out a first impression. "Dreamless tea, though? Do tell."

She never knows, with things as they are. Things are sold with strange names that are all smoke and spice and no delivery on substance. She'll never forget the disappointment that was vampire facial.

Irene didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she just watched her—this slip of a person who moved like sunlight had stitched itself into her seams, even soaked and barefoot in the middle of the storm. Irene’s mouth twitched again, that not-quite-smile hanging on like it was waiting for permission.

“I’m not chasing anything,” she said, voice low and even. “I’m just walking.”

The rain had picked up, steady now, but she didn’t move to shield herself. Just let it bead and roll off her coat like she’d forgotten it was supposed to bother her. Maybe she had.

She glanced at Allie’s bare feet and added, “You’re gonna catch something worse than a broken neck out here, though. There’s mud in the drains and runoff like soup.”

A pause.

“But you look happy.” Not a question, not quite an observation —just a simple fact, dropped between them with no particular weight. Like Irene had noticed and decided it was worth naming. She shifted her stance, hands still buried deep in her coat. “Can’t decide if it’s comforting or dangerous.”

Her gaze flicked up to the sky —not the clouds, not the wind, but something behind both. Whatever it was, it wasn’t close yet. But it would be. “I’m not the kind who runs from storms,” she added, more to the sky than to Allie. “But I don’t usually dance in ‘em either.” Finally, her attention dropped back to Allie. Something in her expression had softened —barely, but there. Like moss on stone.

“...Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

         she feels the witch before she sees her, in between some jump and twirl when she catches a warm familiarity in the breeze. the wind’s growing sharper, and she’s not if it’s from the storm, or if it’s stemming from the magic that’s coming just a whisper closer. allie’s reaching for her before she realizes, welcoming her in before allie finds irene’s name written on the signature. allie perks up towards the sound of another voice, eyes bright and searching, her voice even brighter against the rain.  “ break my neck? ”  there’s a lot of things you can break while dancing, but she’d never thought about her neck. allie’s never been careful, but she doesn’t think she could manage that. clumsy, and delighted, she recognizes the voice as a friend. “ oh, irene! you’re here! ”

         with her shoes in her hand, allie nearly skips forward to greet her. even rain-soaked, there’s a warm excitement that blooms inside her. it might’ve been cold, but that didn’t matter nearly as much. besides, the sun was still peeking through, just a little bit. even if a storm was brewing, something big enough to scare her away, she could still enjoy the last glimpses of sunlight.

         “ oh my gosh, are you kidding? i love the rain! ”  her hands fasten, earnestly, behind her back as she rocks forward. with wide, curious eyes, she watches irene.  “ what else would i be chasing? oh, are you a rain chaser? ”  she hadn’t thought so, but she always sorta’ thinks irene’s chasing something. maybe not the rain, but something.

Jessica Alexander -- 400*640