Bazyli
Legacy Name: Bazyli

The greenhouse is meticulously cared for, that much is obvious from just looking at it; and yet, it does not have that un-lived-in, minimalist look that many places now have. Rather, it is a maximalist paradise. Books of all sorts (but mostly about plants or vegetarian recipes) stuff to capacity a shelf in the corner, on top of which sits a well-loved monstera plant in a pot. Garlands of dried herbs and flowers, small terrariums, and string lights are hung with care from near the ceilings, making a loop around perimeter of the greenhouse. In addition, there are lanterns strewn throughout, some on the floor, some hung, others sitting on some surface or another, out of the way of the watering can's aim. Said watering can sits near the door, patiently waiting for its owner to stop by and put it to good use taking care of its plant buddies. And speaking of, boy, are there a lot of 'em! Flowers, herbs (so many herbs!), leafy greens, edibles, decidedly unedibles... the greenhouse feels like it goes on forever even though, logically, you know it has to have an end somewhere; after all, you did see the outside of it before coming in.

The owner of this wonderful place, a Glade Neela by the name of Bazyli, had invited you over for tea, but so far, you haven't caught hide nor hair of your host. So, in lieu of his company, you delve deeper into his abode, quietly oohing and ahing at the plants he has on display. You step carefully on the stone path, because at times, the greenhouse is more like a jungle than a garden encased in glass. Propagated sproutlings, well on their way to becoming fully grown, spill over the rim of the pot and onto the path, vines reaching toward you from the confines of their containers (some of which, you note, are rather unorthodox; is that a boot?) thus the caution in stepping, lest you crush a newly sprouted life into paste and upset your host.

You keep walking for what feels like an eternity, but that can't be right, right? Again, you saw the outside of the greenhouse before coming in; granted, the end of it did continue into the woods, and most of it was covered by vines and obscured by foliage and trees, but... A noise suddenly catches your ears, something other than the rustling of leaves, and something you didn't exactly expect to hear here: the clicky-clacking of the keys of what surely must be a vintage typewriter. Pushing aside a low-hanging palm frond, you at last come across someone else, in fact, the only other someone who should be in here right now: none other than the one who'd invited you here, Bazyli.

As you move the plant's arm in order to see better, the click-click-click-clacking of the typewriter keys stops, and the Neela in front of you cranes his neck to look at you, a small smile breaking out on his face when he does. "Ah, you've made it!" His voice is quiet, with a delicate, slight Polish accent. "Pardon me for working while I waited for you to arrive; I was simply composing a thank-you note in advance, for you taking the time to visit me." You can hear the sincerity in his voice, and you let him know that you simply could not be mad at him, like, ever. Which gets a gentle laugh out of him. "Oh, dear me, you are so sweet!" His voice is honeyed in affection for you, in a way that one loves an old friend despite the fact that this is your first time meeting, even if it doesn't feel like it.

Around him is a makeshift office: the desk that the Neela is seated at is sitting sturdy on a large stone slab on the ground, as is the chair Bazyli is sitting in; the typewriter is a gorgeous sage green, and sure enough, you can peep your name on the letter he was typing even from this distance; in front of him, at the end of the greenhouse (as you suspected, the outside is covered in vines, ivy and kudzu and lord knows what else), the desk is filled with messy scraps of paper, and a few Japanese-style sweets, as you're pretty sure that's mochi and mochi donuts respectively; on the wall is a large corkboard with a veritable smorgasbord of things pinned to it, including fliers for a myriad of farmer's markets and unused and possibly antique seed packets; on the back of his chair sits an apron in a similar color to the typewriter; and the entire area is lit by candlelight, coming from hanging orbs and lanterns scattered about. You don't know how he got all of this in here, much less keeps in in pristine condition in spite of the surroundings, but he manages, it seems. But really, does it matter? He's cultivated an immensely Aesthetic workspace, and frankly, you're jealous.

"So, my friend, you wanted to... interview me, yes?" The question comes almost shyly, and you nod, pulling out your handheld tape recorder, as well as a copy of the witchy magazine that you write for, and a business card for yourself, including your Twitchcraft username. He takes them both, nodding, and sets them on his desk. "Thank you. I have read your articles, they are quite good. Now, which aspect of my craft were you wanting to talk about? My gardening, or my witchcraft?"

Eagerly, you tell him that, lord willing and the creek don't rise, you'd like to talk to him about both. He acquiesces, easily. And talk you do! Your conversation seems to last hours and hours, and yet the light around you two doesn't change; the candlelight and sunlight remains consistent. You talk about kitchen witchery, about herbs of all sorts, about farmer's markets and feeding other people, about gardening and garden witchcraft and everything in between. You feel like this could be your best article yet, and Bazyli seems to agree. You thank him profusely as the interview winds down, and he thanks you for allowing him to run a few ads for free in this month's copy of the magazine to advertise his services and goods.

You journey back out of the greenhouse seems to take significantly less time than venturing forth into it did; maybe it's because you didn't spend as long in awe of Bazyli's gardening prowess as you did on your way in. You leave the greenhouse without incident, but on your way back home, a luna moth had gotten stuck in your car! Presumably it had followed you on your way out, or had landed on you and you hadn't notice, and you simply shoplifted him. No matter his origin, you decide to take him all the way home with you to live out the rest of his days, unknowing that Bazyli had sent one of his familiars to watch over you.


credit:
profile by nene edited by past and silas
background by thomas verbruggen @ unsplash
cursor from rw-designer.com
fonts by google fonts
divider from gifcity
writing by silas
thanks to nlp for letting me adopt him!!!