The forest has grown into a treasured friend in the years she’s lived there, one she enjoys visiting the most when the moon is at its highest point in the sky. There is something so inviting about the quietude that befalls it - ill for some, yet lovely for those of her alignment. The witch is always respectful, gratefully taking only what she needs.
“Cé a chuirfidh tú liom ag casadh na mbó? Ag casadh na mbó, ag casadh na mbó. Cé a chuirfidh tú liom ag casadh na mbó? Le dúlsaí dolsaí daéireó...” She sings under her breath while carefully harvesting different parts of the plant, obliging her master’s passing comment on how the old trees were fond of old languages and how her voice might make a good tribute. Hopefully they won’t mind the fact that it’s just a knitting song.
An approaching presence silences the song and she looks up to find a young man with the scent of autumn to his soul and that eternal glimmer of fae to his features. That is more than enough reason for her to not bother concealing the fact that she is handling a deadly toxin in its natural form, simply offering a greeting instead of an explanation. “Good evening.”
@rotandrolla