Solo Log: What Won't Kill You

**[Spring 16, 501 AOV]**

After some fumbling with the lock, Mona opens the door and receives a distant croak in greeting. Disregarding her immediate plans, she heads upstairs to the greenhouse.

Little magicked lights spring to life and offer a soft glow to the sizable jungle. Taking a long, deep breath of the crisp air she centres herself. The druid isn’t sure how she’d survive here without this place. The lack of natural light reminds her it’s later than she realized. Luckily it doesn’t take long to find her companion, her green room mate, half buried in a small crater of soil and leaves.

“Hey there, you must be pretty hungry huh?” Mona gives him a pat, thumbs away some dirt, and a nuzzle with her nose. His one eye retreats slightly at the touch and she laughs. A final pat and she’s off to prepare his meal.

Tiny portraits of the amphibian hang oddly low on the walls but that's because they are at the perfect height in which a toad can appreciate them. Included is a mixture of postcards from her travels and other paintings, with the worst ones being her own attempt at art. Mona had to severely bribe Marcel for the only good one, marked by an elaborate gold frame. If she was still paying the price for it, well, it was worth it.

Having been fed, the toad was now happily soaking in a small bird bath, which had been repurposed to accommodate his stature. Both parties were now content, so Mona began her nightly ritual of attending to the plants in her ever-growing conservatory. She chatters to the toad as she goes, filling him in on her day and current investigations. She’s careful to leave details out in case she’s overheard, or someone thinks they could get this frog to speak. But just enough to help lay any worries to rest.

His company was well and good enough, but these days she longed for someone to share her day with. Or at least do more than the occasional nonsensical ribbit. Perhaps it was time to pay a visit to Madam Andromeda.

No matter how late she arrived home Mona was strict about her evening routine: tend to the garden, feed herself and the toad, tidy the kitchen, and an evening tea. These days it seems like the only thing she has control over, and the easiest way to find a slice of peace and quiet. Her eyes drift to the clock-- was that even the right time? Cleone had just set those last week-- and quickly looks away before the gears can make her dizzy. So, despite the late hour, she's hit with a craving she can no longer ignore.

Mona sets her fresh cup of tea on the window seat cushion and pulls open the cabinet door beneath. A flood of pillows and blankets come tumbling out, among other thingamajigs, but not the one she is looking for. Shoving the items aside, Mona roots around some more and smiles when her hand connects with a small metal case. The old container is dented enough that it requires two hands to open; so, she blows a puff of air to push away the loose curl that had fallen out of place during the hunt.

A furtive glance, linens hastily shoved back into storage, and she finally settles on the bench. There Mona studies the fruits of her labour: a cigarette she had confiscated from Marcel some time ago. How long ago now she couldn’t remember, nor the number of times she had taken them away. She wonders if that blasted *knight* of his still smokes or if he just encourages the habi--

Blonde curls go flying once again as she shakes her head free from the thought. After one last survey of the room, making sure the toad isn't within viewing distance, she places the contraband between her lips. Did she really need to go through this much trouble? The amphibian would probably smell it on her anyway. … Wait, do toads *have* noses?

Mona squints one eye as she thinks it over and dismisses the thought with a shrug. After a moment of concentration Spark ignites the thing, a trick she’d seen Marcel use. She takes a long drag that casts a red light over her hand and face, and then slowly blows it out the window.

It's a terrible habit, really Marcel, and stands by that. However... is the occasional drag really so bad for either of them? She sighs since she’s mostly worried about how often he smokes. Its different for her: It’s not like it’s going to *kill* her.

Bile rises in her throat, the thought sours in her mouth. The memory of a sword raised high. With a grimace the druid furiously stamps out the cigarette on the windowsill with more force than necessary. It hardly had a few drags taken from it before it was utterly destroyed.

She blinks furiously to erase the tears and red glimmer from her eyes. Her breath stutters as she fights to take a breath, leaving her to take a dizzy minute to realize what just happened. Mona nearly knocks over the teacup from earlier as she storms off to bed.

Although it’s been a few days since, the crooked cigarette remains pressed into the sill.