The witch is unaware of her own intrusion. How is she to blame? No lines have been drawn in the iridescent green grass on either side of the grumbling creek; there are no borders here to tell the hag where and when not to trod through the faintly fragrant flowers. She is merely curious, and like an empty and aching belly she must satiate her curiosity swiftly before relenting to worse repercussions. The vixen's gaze reflects the same soft blue of the sky today, but she pays little attention to the cloudless atmosphere. The beauty of the realm before her has entranced the witch, and she finds herself drawn towards one foreign plant to the next as she tries to study them all. Some of the species are recognisable for the witch has endured many years as a subject to their potent qualities: yarrow, to cure ailments of the belly; mint, a poultice of which that can ease a headache; and even the beautiful black berries known for their toxicity seen close to the perimeter of the forest: nightshade. It is her lack of knowledge regarding the regional flora that unsettles her the most. How is she to carry on concocting potions if she knows nothing of the local plants? Black lips clench tightly at the thought.
We will need to correct this, and swiftly.
Leaving the flowers alone for the time being, the star-strewn girl redirects her attention to the creek. She stops her approach immediately, and although her head is held low in relaxed posture her ears stands tall and erect: someone else is here. Her eyes watch the maiden as she lowers her head to drink.
Horns. The people here have not only wings, but protrusions from their head as well. It is another new concept for the girl who only knows of a world of sorcery, not genetic diversity. I will have to watch this one as well.
She watches as the alabaster and rose maiden wades into the water, noting the height at which the gentle rapids rise on her bodice. The stranger was yet another behemoth, and the black hag was beginning to think herself as less of a witch and more a dwarf. Her tail lashes against her hocks as she remembers the winged boy she met in her swamp.And where are you now, little soldier? Looking for your lost relic?
Her eyes narrow in suspicion at the sight of the dame, who no longer appears to just be bathing. Is that what you are looking for?
Leaping forward to transition into a smooth trot, the black makes her way to the creek bank and stops just shy of the water. A crisp gust of wind tousles her ivory locks as she greets the horned lady.
"Are you in need of assistance? You appear to have lost something."
We will need to correct this, and swiftly.
Leaving the flowers alone for the time being, the star-strewn girl redirects her attention to the creek. She stops her approach immediately, and although her head is held low in relaxed posture her ears stands tall and erect: someone else is here. Her eyes watch the maiden as she lowers her head to drink.
Horns. The people here have not only wings, but protrusions from their head as well. It is another new concept for the girl who only knows of a world of sorcery, not genetic diversity. I will have to watch this one as well.
She watches as the alabaster and rose maiden wades into the water, noting the height at which the gentle rapids rise on her bodice. The stranger was yet another behemoth, and the black hag was beginning to think herself as less of a witch and more a dwarf. Her tail lashes against her hocks as she remembers the winged boy she met in her swamp.And where are you now, little soldier? Looking for your lost relic?
Her eyes narrow in suspicion at the sight of the dame, who no longer appears to just be bathing. Is that what you are looking for?
Leaping forward to transition into a smooth trot, the black makes her way to the creek bank and stops just shy of the water. A crisp gust of wind tousles her ivory locks as she greets the horned lady.
"Are you in need of assistance? You appear to have lost something."
