Alchemist Properpine of the Wood

"Be a fool no more." - The Serpent Medea

Art by Oropezart

Only those who enter the darkness will glimpse its beauty. In that fleeting moment of appreciation, they understand it was a mistake to venture in. No one can unlearn the unsettling truths that darkness reveals—truths of the universe’s cruel humor and our own insignificance within it. Alchemist Properpine reveals many truths, both terrible and beautiful, to every scholar foolish enough to seek her ritual.

On nights when the air feels peculiar and cold, her dulcet song drifts through the wood and the resinous smell of distant burning torches. The ritual has already begun. A singer’s ominous appearance belies her soothing melody. Her hair and skin are as green as the moss beneath her feet. Properpine’s damp hair drips with serpent venom.

Properpine calls forth her tears. Stained by the serpent venom, their red shimmer is more crystalline than sanguine. She maintains the deadly yet beautiful venom in her hair, allowing it to seep gently through her scalp and filter throughout her body. A lesser alchemist would succumb to such a slow, steady stream of death.

With the practised ease of an ancient apothecary, she fills a vial with tears—the cure for hubris.

Tonight, with wrists tethered to the gnarled trunk of an ancient tree, a young scholar kneels. The bark shows the scars of the struggles of those who came before. Horrified yet transfixed, the scholar has traveled long in pursuit of this moment.

Silence.

The ropes that bind him are for his own safety. When the elixir takes hold, panic will consume him. In his frantic thrashing, he might otherwise flee—and other less charitable monsters lurk in the darkness. Earlier that evening, as Properpine and the scholar had prepared for the ritual, he was almost reassured when she told him panic would be essential to transformation.

Properpine raises the vial to the scholar’s lips. He drinks. Then coughs. His eyes widen with pinpoint pupils. The charmed concoction has begun its work. He screams, writhing against the bindings. As the delirium increases, a deeper truth begins to seep in. Properpine’s ritual is not a punishment; it is a rebirth.

"You are a fool," Properpine says softly. From her, this is high praise. To be a fool is to possess true courage, for only a fool would dare to venture into the unknown. Those who fully understand the dangers ahead would never take the first step. Without fools, there would be no discovery, no progress—no journeys worth remembering. Properpine knows this truth well, for she was once a fool herself.

Her lilting song fills the dank wood again.

Properpine’s transformation came at the age of seven, when the childish cruelty of other children stealing her toys gave way to the more mature cruelty of their mockery. She sought refuge in the solitude of the wood. At first, she lingered in the outskirts, where the brush was thin, and the creatures harmless, but the deep wood—wild, untamed, and unknown—called to her.

Properpine had long since lost track of how deeply she had wandered when she came upon a serpent resting in the muck of a swamp. A feminine voice echoed in her mind, edged with both sweetness and sharpness like the branches of a thorn jujube: “Medea is my name.”

Enchanted, Properpine reached out, driven by an ancient irresistible urge—to hold, to conquer, to understand. The serpent struck, sinking fangs into Properpine’s palm.

Properpine’s body twisted and writhed like the gnarled branches of the trees that seemed to overwhelm her. She screamed, but no one answered, for there was no one but the serpent. At first, she fought against the venom, but it soon overpowered her defiance. She gave in to its power.

The serpent’s voice returned: “Be a fool no more.”

Chaos became her teacher. Universes unfolded before her—a kaleidoscope of whispers, laughter, and lifetimes. Language quickly lost its meaning. She felt disoriented until at last, even the idea of orientation lost its meaning. The trees began to sway, shifting from trunk to root in a rhythm that shook the ground beneath her like a great, resounding symphony. At first, she clung to the still and certain image of how trees ought to behave. She tried to focus, to force her eyes to see the world as it was, but no matter how desperately she grasped for stability, her vision yielded to the symphony.

From the muck, the serpent emerged, gleaming scales undulating in harmony with the swaying trees. Her gaze held a peculiar truth—one that bypassed thought and drifted straight into Properpine’s soul. Truth without words. Properpine closed her eyes and swam into the starry darkness.

When she awoke, the world seemed sharper. Everything from the rustle of leaves to the dirt tangled in her hair felt miraculous. She wondered how she had overlooked the fragile peace that stood against the vast chaos of existence. It was beautiful.

The serpent, Medea, was coiled around a budding tree beside her. Properpine, though trembling with exhaustion, found the strength to speak. Her voice wavered with a blend of horror and admiration: “You tried to kill me.”

“Kill you?” The serpent unhurriedly turned to face her. “I freed you.” The clouds drifted, darkening the sky. The chill that followed felt comforting against Properpine’s skin, damp with sweat. “Now, I am your scar. How lucky you are. I’m the wind at your back forevermore.”

From that day, Properpine became both student and teacher of the darkness, her corporeal alchemy a gift to those who dare to seek her wisdom. She kills the folly within wayfarers and resurrects them into new understanding.

In the ritual, Properpine’s song comes to an end. The scholar’s screams subside. His eyes are wide with newfound clarity. He smiles and he cries.

Entered by: 0xea9e…DE2b