sixthiterationlogs | [MINGLE] Just don't touch the puffball

WHO: Mark Watney
WHERE: 6I Town Hall
WHEN: 7 June, after lunch
OPEN TO: ALL - MINGLE
WARNINGS: n/a
NOTES: Please note in your subject line if a top-level is to Mark (or whoever)

I have to be honest, as a botanist, there's a lot about this new, expanded world to be excited about. It seems like almost every time I go out to collect samples, I find something I haven't seen before, and nearly every minute I'm not working in the fields or greenhouse, I've been in Ravi's lab doing tests and compiling observations. Some of the specimens are pretty spectacular, but for a lot of them, the things that make them impressive are also things that could be a problem for the average villager.

Which is why I'm here now, in the town hall, lining up a variety of plants on a long table at the front of the room, some dried, some placed carefully under glass, many seeded in whatever I could find to use as a pot: Sauce pans, old boxes, tea cups.

Early this morning, I left a message on the blackboard in the Inn in big chalk letters:

Seminar on new native plants
TODAY - TOWN HALL - AFTER LUNCH
IMPORTANT INFO!!

In the old place, I used to take folks out one at a time and give them a crash course on what was edible and what was poisonous, but that's just not going to cut it now.

As I wait for folks to arrive (As I wait, hoping folks will arrive), I lay out labels in front of each plant listing what I've been calling it, whether it's dangerous, and any known properties. Once I'm done running my mouth, people can come up and get a good look.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Mulcahy had come to the lecture to listen intently - as one of the first victims of the native flora, he had more of a want to know as much as he could than most people. The several days of illness had been the most unpleasant he could remember; he'd been sick before, certainly, very, very sick, but it wasn't anywhere near the level that it had been with this unknown plant.

He did want to thank those who'd helped cure him for their aid, and this seemed like a good time to do it. And at the very least he could stand as proof that a cure for the illness was possible, since Jude had gone a few weeks before. It would likely hearten people to know that just because something was serious didn't mean it was fatal. He'd asked for a list of people who'd made the journey, and was quite happy to see one of them before him now: the pretty young lady who seemed to have a good knowledge of farming, if he was recalling his facts correctly. Margaery, that was it.

Stepping closer to her, Mulcahy smiled and nodded at her as she turned to face him. "Miss Tyrell, isn't it? I was hoping to thank you for your help last month."

"Margaery," she corrected him gently. Usually it was "Lady Margaery" or "Queen Margaery", but neither of those terms mattered very much anymore. It was easier for her to be called by her name. If anything, it allowed her to feel separated from the circumstances that brought her here. She could simply be the woman that she was learning of, rather than the one she made herself into.

He had been a name on the board, and while she had met him briefly before, it only occurred to her now which name belonged to him. "You don't need to thank me." Did she even deserve gratitude? All she had done was what the Observers ordered. There was no act of selflessness involved, only following their command. Though, she hadn't thought about the aftermath when she returned, her mind had been fixed on losing her brother. She hadn't considered how the others were faring.

"How are you?"

"Ah, Margaery, then," he replied with a smile. Mulcahy was raised to be polite, and only went on first-name basis once people really insisted on it, but in this village he'd found that the vast majority of people did. "Forgive me if I slip up - old habit, you understand. I'll try my best to remember."

Maybe she didn't think she deserved any thanks, but he would beg to differ. "Of course I do. I know the, ah, the people watching us told everyone they had to go, but you still chose to go, and to help people with little to no personal gain to yourself. I'm just wanting you to know that I'm grateful, even if I haven't found you to tell you so before now. Not everyone would be so willing to help a fellow man." Command, maybe, but from what he'd been able to tell, there hadn't been a punishment invoked for not going on this trip. At least not for the people chosen to do so.

"Oh, I'm doing much better, I promise. I hardly cough at all now!" He chuckles a little at his small joke, but does let it pass by. "We also burned out all of those pods around our houses - Jude Sullivan and I lived next to each other, you see. It seems to have been a bit of an infestation."

"There is nothing to forgive. I find myself falling into old habits, no matter how long I have been here." As much as she tried, she often found herself slipping into her chameleon persona, reading others for what they might not share or what they might wish to see. There was no need for it now and it didn't mean survival, but it was still woven into her being.

She would never believe that she was truly a good woman, certain in her heart that there was something cold an analytical. It wasn't sentiment that drove her, it was a need to survive. But she had chosen to go, as he said, to save a life. His insistence was touching, soothing away the still lingering pain of her brother's absence. "You think more highly of my actions than I do. I simply was following what they told me to do."

But she'd accept the thanks with a small blush to her cheeks. "That was how it happened? The pods were near your home? We can at least identify them now." She gestured to the display. "We have enough lichen now, if there is another outbreak."

"I think just as high of your actions as they deserve. We've all done things we didn't necessarily wish to do in the past. And even if your reasons weren't entirely, ah, altruistic, they still brought good with them, in more than one way. Actions aren't entirely a matter of black and white - we shouldn't hold ourselves to the restrictions that things we do are bad, or good. We can always strive to be better, but sometimes it's good enough to be... well, good enough."

It's a small sermon, something he's apt to fall into if given half a chance, but at least his aren't the fire and brimstone kind of many other priests. His focus has always been guiding people to find the good in life, helping their fellow man, and make the future a little better than the present is. In the village, it's hard to do sometimes, what with everything that's been thrown at them over the months he's been there. Even he's given in to sadness and misery on occasion. But if it applies to others, it also applies to him: he needs to see the good he does, or at least tries to do, and accept what good he does even as he strives to be better. A humble goal, but a humble goal is really more his speed.

Still, Margaery didn't deserve to have him fall into preaching mode, and when he realizes he's dropped into it, he blushes just a bit and looks briefly down before meeting her eyes again. "Sorry about that - old habit, you understand." The cross of twigs around his neck would give anyone from Earth a clue as to how that happened and what he means by an "old habit," but Margaery might read it as a religious symbol anyway. "I believe so, yes - some were found between our houses, and a very controlled burn got rid of them. He used to help me with acquiring firewood for my furnace; I'm afraid I'm not very useful in 'roughing it,' as they say. It's certainly good to know that anyone else caught by this will be treated quickly, thanks to your efforts."

The words were too similar to the High Sparrow's for her liking. She could feel her chest tighten as the familiar ache returned, normally only brought to the surface by darkness and isolation. 'So you believe you are pure? Perfect? Wholly without sin?' She shook her head, letting it seem that she was simply dismissing his attempt to compliment her.

"You are a septon?" No, that wasn't the word. As there were no maesters (there were healers), septons would be referred to as something else instead. "Forgive me, I mean a man that..." how did she describe the role? "A man that helps spread religion?" It was a crude explanation, but it was the closest she could come up with before shifting towards painful and uncomfortable memories.

"Mark will look after the lichen. He is better suited to sorting what these plants do."

"I take it a septon is a religious leader in your home?" The clues weren't too hard to put together, and Mulcahy fully expects that most places people originate here have religion of some sort, the home of Finnick and Annie being the one major exception. "My calling is as a priest, technically speaking, but if septon is something you're more familiar with, then use it, by all means. We don't spread religion, we..."

And there he paused, because while he didn't spread religion, he knew damn well that others did. Just, his mentors, the seminary where he'd learned, his specific order had always leaned toward helping people much more than anything. And he felt compelled to be honest about this, because as much as religion was and always had been a comfort to him, he knew it wasn't for everyone, and even his specific religion wasn't practiced by the majority of people on his world.

"There are some who try to spread the word of God and convert those who don't share our faith, through persuasion or scare tactics or any number of other things. My sect is more interested in helping our fellow man, improving their lives and spirits as best we can. We're only men ourselves, after all. Few of us are given the ability to perform miracles, but we do the best we can."

[MINGLE] Just don't touch the puffball

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