Wheeling Gull Isle xxv. in the town of black magick

In the shadows of the wood, beneath a canopy of green, she went to speak with the gods of her mother. 

Silence permeated the air, the movements of the Seelie that circled and traced in the loam - crude loops blessed by crumbled liverwort and white sage. These herbs left bitter tastes blooming on her tongue as she piled their leaves at the centre, pinned by a chunk of tiger's eye. 

The stone was cool, wet in her mouth as she plucked it from its bowl, the yellowed skull of a deer, where it had soaked in the anointed waters beneath the light of the moon's phasing. Slippery, it tumbled, nudged into place by an onyx snout similarily purified in rosewater. 

There was grace in the calculated movements, beauty in the silent reverence, a language hidden in the trembles of her lips. Tangible relief shone in her gaze as wind whispered through the branches, heart catching in her throat - a story that spoke of beseeching safety, pleading protection.