The Heat of the Day//Closed
The sky was reigned over with clouds puffy as they were white. It had been days since the pure blue had peeked out again, chancing to catch a glimpse of those roaming the continent below, but now it spied openly. Ysmay sat astride her horse, Thumbelina, a grey and white speckled mare rumored to be the fastest in the continent--a rumor confirmed by the princess herself, racing her against the best Cintra had to offer.
Thumbelina was laden with packs the princess had filled along her journey--small vials of crystalline glass stoppered with a cork, shoved together with a cotton blouse acting as a barrier between them. Some filled with the burning red of alghoul blood, others with crushed fleder fangs, three with glowing green cadaverine, another with necophage oil, one colored purple with what she suspected to be Hanged Man’s Venom, and two small vials secured with droppers filled with a deconcotion she’d created--stolen from a Witcher tome--White Raffords. Beyond that, the princess wrapped a cemetaur jaw in a piece of leather, teeth sticking in place, rubbing holes into the fabric with the sway of Thumbelina’s hips, the swish of her tail jostling bag tied together with leather string.
Paying a Witcher seemed convenient, however Ysmay liked the feeling of being self-sufficient in this regard. Travelling the continent for ingredients to create potions, poisons, and further along what was known about the world and the beings in it. It was a holiday from politics, after all, and stating that it was for educational purposes, well...who would argue with that?
The duo came to a stop when the sun reached its peak in the day, drenching the fields beside the road in waves of heat, a pucker of wind pushing bunches of flowers and overgrown grasses to whisper to one another, giggling in the breeze. Ysmay dismounted, leading her horse to a thrown shadow from a lone oak tree on a small hill, full in its leafy skirt, and sighed when the cool of the shade kissed her skin.
She even thought she could hear Thumbelina breathe a sigh of relief.
With a groan, the princess melted at the base of the tree, laying her back against the bark while Thumbelina grazed beside her, careful not to leave the shade. It seemed the whole of the fields waved in harmony, basking in the noon-day light, even Ysmay nearly fell asleep, nodding off against the tree before a haunting melody teased at her ears.
Even the heat that blushed her cheeks couldn’t touch the ice inside when she saw them.
She wasn’t sure exactly what they were. She wasn’t a Witcher, after all. Though they looked to be a wraith--a ghost. They wore tawny dresses that skimmed their ankles with long white hair that draped their shoulders, sparkling against the light. Their skin was sun-bleached and wrinkled, sticking to their bones, jutting out against their small frames. Their eye sockets sewn shut along with their mouths, and they floated a few inches from the ground--not that it was easy to see amongst the bushes of budding flowers--yet they sang.
It was mournful, full of sorrow, and yet a melody that fully ensnared her in rapture. It seemed they couldn’t see the Mage watching them, these wraiths, because they began to dance. They writhed and moved their sun-drenched bodies in a way that was both grotesque and graceful--twirling with all the lithe beauty of a ballerina with the visage of a rotting corpse. The mage stood, her back pressed firmly against the bole while her hands moved beside her, inching as slowly as they could to grasp Thumbelina’s reigns, holding the horse in place so as to not spook the dancing wraiths, entwined in melody.
A thought passed to a few vacant vials in her bag, and ectoplasm would be helpful...though the mage turned her mind from it. There were far too many wraiths there for one lone mage to take on by herself.
