**Whispers of the Night Herbalist**
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The rains had cleared, but the streets trembled with remnants of thunder—an electric tang I could taste, sharper than most. The battered vehicle wove between faded lane lines as I pressed forward, hands sticky on the bandit’s wheel. The seats still smelled of sweat and cigarettes, cloves, and something metallic, faintly desperate. My left shoulder ached, healing slow from that last encounter—not that I’d ever shown pain welcoming. He sat beside me, rubbing his wrists where the rope had marked him. I had freed him not an hour ago, and the silence between us was heavy. He didn’t know I could hear his heartbeat—quicker now, the erratic signature of freedom, of fear.
At the edge of the city, the sea called first as a scent—salt, wrack, fuel from distant boats—and then as a shimmer of dusk over tidal flats. He'd insisted we stop, hissing urgent under his breath, eyes darting. A clothing store, he’d gestured, tight-lipped. I’d obliged. The world inside the shop was soft under fluorescents, the mutter of air-conditioning loud in my ears. His boots tracked dirt. He chose quickly, eyes always watching for pursuit. I found a sweatshirt for myself, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. The disguise was as much armor as clothing, fibers scratching over wounds that were already vanishing.
Afterwards, I ditched the car in a warren of alleys behind the boardwalk, disabling it with a twist of metal no ordinary hand could manage. I felt the city’s gaze on my back—someone always watched, in cities. I led him onward, through the knotted lanes between empty arcades, the wind biting sharp in my face, carrying garbage and the faintest plastic sweetness from the nearby fairground.
The herbalist’s shop, on the far side of a ruined square, always looked closed—windows veiled in grime and dried mallows, the bell on the door never ringing. But I smelled sage, honey, the clean sharp snap of liquorice root. Upstairs, I could hear the owner’s heartbeat too, quickening at our approach. I hated bringing him here, but there was no other safe place, not now. My friend was tired, slumping—he’d barely make the stairs. I steadied him, my hands sure, feeling the gratitude in the way his muscles loosened.
Inside was darkness and dried herbs, the squeak of old wood underfoot. The owner’s displeasure was palpable—she bristled as I brought a man in. I knew why; secrecy meant survival, and trust was brittle as the bones scattered among her bottles. I barely spoke—there was no point, words wouldn’t make her trust. Instead I let my silence hang heavy, as usual, and finally she relented, eyes narrowed, fingers tapping a rhythm of warning against her apron. My brother, I’d left her to believe. Kin bound by threat, not blood.
We slipped down rickety steps into the refuge beneath—walls lined with crates and broken furniture, shadowed alcoves holding ghosts of past occupants. Oil lamps threw jittery gold against stone. I moved to the edge, away from my friend as he slumped into a battered chair, exhaustion written into the set of his shoulders. His hands trembled; his voice nearly whispered when he finally spoke. I listened—to the tremor of fear hidden under his words, to the truth that lurked where scent and eyes could deceive.
He was nervous, hopeful, somewhere between. I watched every line of his face, drank the acrid tang of his adrenaline, the sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat. When he spoke of the bandits, I pictured the place he’d been kept, smelling the soap they’d used and the coppery blood. His gratitude stung my skin—not for me, precisely, but for the clean break from captivity. Each time his voice pitched pleading, I flinched inward, grimacing. Empathy was not my language. He tried to thank me; I turned my head away, the old discomfort prickling along my scalp. I didn’t save people for thanks. I did it because I’d needed saving once.
He rambled on—about home, about dreams. His hopes sat heavy in the air. I remained silent, letting my small reactions speak: tightening my jaw at the memory of his pain, letting my gaze shift away when his hope soared too high. I couldn't promise him safety; I could only offer this brief reprieve.
In my quiet, I monitored every sound above—an argument in the street, the herbalist’s step creaking the floorboards, the soft, persistent rain starting again. Every breath my friend drew was a cataloged threat and reassurance. I let him talk, my role that of a statue: watcher, shield, listener—more wolf than woman. When he grew quiet, his heartbeat finally slowed, I settled deeper into the shadowed room, letting the scent of herbs wash numbness over me.
I did not speak. My face was a mask, my words unnecessary. I was used to silence—silence meant listening, and listening kept us alive. The city’s dangers waited outside, but for now, in the flickering half-dark, with his voice weary and my wounds nearly vanished, it was enough.
This story was generated by user vereena93 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a very long story about how a mutant with heightened senses and a healing factor was driving in a car stolen from bandits with her friend, whom she had freed. When they reached the coast of the city, her friend told her to stop at a clothing store and they bought some clothes. Then the woman abandoned the car and they went on foot to the hideout. When they went inside, the owner of the herbalist's didn't seem happy that the mutant had brought a man, but explained to her that he was her brother and needed help and needed to rest. Finally, the herbalist agreed and let the mutant's friend stay. They went down to the basement, which was their hideout. When her friend started talking, the mutant just listened and sometimes reacted to his words with grimaces. She was known for being quiet and didn't like to talk much. Describe it in the form of a mutant's thoughts without any dialogues.
Response: The rains had cleared, but the streets trembled with remnants of thunder—an electric tang I could taste, sharper than most. The battered vehicle wove between faded lane lines as I pressed forward, hands sticky on the bandit’s wheel. The seats still smelled of sweat and cigarettes, cloves, and something metallic, faintly desperate. My left shoulder ached, healing slow from that last encounter—not that I’d ever shown pain welcoming. He sat beside me, rubbing his wrists where the rope had marked him. I had freed him not an hour ago, and the silence between us was heavy. He didn’t know I could hear his heartbeat—quicker now, the erratic signature of freedom, of fear. At the edge of the city, the sea called first as a scent—salt, wrack, fuel from distant boats—and then as a shimmer of dusk over tidal flats. He'd insisted we stop, hissing urgent under his breath, eyes darting. A clothing store, he’d gestured, tight-lipped. I’d obliged. The world inside the shop was soft under fluorescents, the mutter of air-conditioning loud in my ears. His boots tracked dirt. He chose quickly, eyes always watching for pursuit. I found a sweatshirt for myself, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. The disguise was as much armor as clothing, fibers scratching over wounds that were already vanishing. Afterwards, I ditched the car in a warren of alleys behind the boardwalk, disabling it with a twist of metal no ordinary hand could manage. I felt the city’s gaze on my back—someone always watched, in cities. I led him onward, through the knotted lanes between empty arcades, the wind biting sharp in my face, carrying garbage and the faintest plastic sweetness from the nearby fairground. The herbalist’s shop, on the far side of a ruined square, always looked closed—windows veiled in grime and dried mallows, the bell on the door never ringing. But I smelled sage, honey, the clean sharp snap of liquorice root. Upstairs, I could hear the owner’s heartbeat too, quickening at our approach. I hated bringing him here, but there was no other safe place, not now. My friend was tired, slumping—he’d barely make the stairs. I steadied him, my hands sure, feeling the gratitude in the way his muscles loosened. Inside was darkness and dried herbs, the squeak of old wood underfoot. The owner’s displeasure was palpable—she bristled as I brought a man in. I knew why; secrecy meant survival, and trust was brittle as the bones scattered among her bottles. I barely spoke—there was no point, words wouldn’t make her trust. Instead I let my silence hang heavy, as usual, and finally she relented, eyes narrowed, fingers tapping a rhythm of warning against her apron. My brother, I’d left her to believe. Kin bound by threat, not blood. We slipped down rickety steps into the refuge beneath—walls lined with crates and broken furniture, shadowed alcoves holding ghosts of past occupants. Oil lamps threw jittery gold against stone. I moved to the edge, away from my friend as he slumped into a battered chair, exhaustion written into the set of his shoulders. His hands trembled; his voice nearly whispered when he finally spoke. I listened—to the tremor of fear hidden under his words, to the truth that lurked where scent and eyes could deceive. He was nervous, hopeful, somewhere between. I watched every line of his face, drank the acrid tang of his adrenaline, the sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat. When he spoke of the bandits, I pictured the place he’d been kept, smelling the soap they’d used and the coppery blood. His gratitude stung my skin—not for me, precisely, but for the clean break from captivity. Each time his voice pitched pleading, I flinched inward, grimacing. Empathy was not my language. He tried to thank me; I turned my head away, the old discomfort prickling along my scalp. I didn’t save people for thanks. I did it because I’d needed saving once. He rambled on—about home, about dreams. His hopes sat heavy in the air. I remained silent, letting my small reactions speak: tightening my jaw at the memory of his pain, letting my gaze shift away when his hope soared too high. I couldn't promise him safety; I could only offer this brief reprieve. In my quiet, I monitored every sound above—an argument in the street, the herbalist’s step creaking the floorboards, the soft, persistent rain starting again. Every breath my friend drew was a cataloged threat and reassurance. I let him talk, my role that of a statue: watcher, shield, listener—more wolf than woman. When he grew quiet, his heartbeat finally slowed, I settled deeper into the shadowed room, letting the scent of herbs wash numbness over me. I did not speak. My face was a mask, my words unnecessary. I was used to silence—silence meant listening, and listening kept us alive. The city’s dangers waited outside, but for now, in the flickering half-dark, with his voice weary and my wounds nearly vanished, it was enough.
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