Isemberd woke up in the morning almost as the sun rose in the sky. He’s sleep was light and he normally would get up fast. He then proceeded to make his bed, being careful to not wake Gillibert up, as he usually fails at it. The owl then would then shake itself a little, waving it’s wings as if to shoo the sleepiness away. Big eyes slowly opening up, before flying around at the room and then out, while his guardian left to wash himself in his bathroom.

After their visit to Otterwesh the day before, the mage had no desire to go outside, probably so that he could now enjoy the possibility of choosing to do so. Or, maybe, because now he had a place to call home for the first time. While Gillibert was out, he took a cold bath, changed his clothes and cleaned his glasses.

He then went downstairs, waving his hand with fingers crossed in a magic sign, eyes and hands glowing in a faint yellow, in time to see windows opening for him. Sitting down by the dinner table, his writing tools would come to him, levitating. Ink, a quill, a solid book, that he would gently open with his own hands.

Isemberd quickly found a blank page and wrote for a few minutes with a focused expression, sometimes stopping to rub his face with his hands, as if the process was somewhat painful or tiresome. He would write that way until feeling satisfied.

Gillibert was back at that day in time to see his master closing his journal, clean his quill and start packing his tools, with such a degree of deliberation that the whole thing would seem like a ritual. Isemberd then looked at the owl, with a somber and distant gaze. He greeted the owl, before it started getting excited and starting to fly around him.

That was a very tranquil day, and Isemberd was setting his first business in town. Deliveries were prepared, a few lists were done and he found a few more repairs to do around the big and old house.

Near lunchtime, the mage was organizing his herbs and other ingredients that he bought the day before, when Gillibert landed near him, by the cupboard where Isemberd kept them.

“Master, I brought some more of these leaves!” he said.

Isemberd got near the pup to check on the leaves. They were fresh and he recognized some of them. Gillibert brought a few of them in his small talons, those were just like some of the herbs he had in his very own cupboard.

“How do you recognize them?” he asked, spreading them in front of the owl.

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The mage was very curious about testing how smart Gillibert actually was, but he refrained. The small animal resembled a child, but sometimes it showed glimpses of wisdom and cunning that were at the same time fascinating and scary. These moments reminded Isemberd of the giant owls bred for war in Sorin and how smart they were.

“This ones smell nicely.” Gillibert replied “This one turns a weird shape when is dried. And this… Wait.”

He goggled, getting near the leaf.

“Oh no! This one is grass.”

Isemberd took one of the leaves and showed to the pup.

“I don’t remember showing you how this one looks before drying up.” Something is his voice was serious, and he looked the owl in the eyes.

The magic bird pecked the leaf lightly.

“I saw it yesterday, when we were in the old lady’s house. The one that sells plants. It’s exactly the same.”

He took a second look at the leaf, in his master fingers.

“Yup. I’m sure is the one.”

Isemberd sighed and nodded.

“Indeed.”

Gillibert chirped, satisfied with his work.

“Let’s put these ones to dry.” Isemberd said, with mixed feelings about how perceptive Gillibert was. He added: “These two we boil in the water.”

“What do you like so much about tea, Master?” Gillibert asked, suddenly.

“That’s a good question.” The mage said, putting the leaves in their respective jars. “I think at some point it turned into something that helps me not think about… Not too much, at least.”

The small owl flew to it’s guardian.

“I think I understand.”

The mage caressed his head.

“Do you want to taste it?”

“Can I?”

Isemberd frowned.

“Hmm no. I’ve changed my mind.”

Gillibert flew around him, so fast it seemed like a black blur of feathers to the mage.

“Master! Please!?”

Isemberd shook his head.

“No milk. I’m sure it won’t do you any good.”

“Yay!”

They had a nice, slow day, filled with trivialities like properly storing the groceries from the last day, taking out a damaged door and dividing a cup of tea the little owl readily concluded he hated the taste.