Firestone Hot Springs η μάγισσα

aw with a witchy experimental girl!

the billows of steam rising past treetops was a beacon. a welcome respite after a long journey; the young priestess weaving through underbrush with fluid steps. jaws full of gifs she'd place at the hearth of a homemade altar. a skull of a buck, a bundle of nightshade, a smooth shard of selenite. the preferred pickings for Nyx, to be given by her most devote worshipper when night falls. seeking a blessing, a whispered word...but for now, Lyre would succumb to more earthly indulgence. 

her stash tucked away beneath the flat of a rock, to be kept hidden incase any thieves were to steal her prizes. pools of steam and the warmest of waters call to her; reminding her so bittersweetly of the communal baths back home. they were empty, as to her liking, as the enchantress eases into a shallow pool. a welcome hug of soothing warmth in which she allows herself to relax. eyelids shut, breaths quiet and even.

the night was hers, but there was much daylight left to be spent.

He had lost everything. It had been ripped from his grasps, burned in front of his sorry eyes. Somewhere he had children, somewhere his mother and father were rebuilding, somewhere his brothers lived in hiding. He was welcome to none of it now. He had allowed his temper to take over for a time, contained in the bubble of Siena's now empty lands.

But now, he was to move on. Moving forward, leaving the past where it belonged; forgotten and shattered, he could still take the life he deserved, he could have the glory of saying he had done it on his own.

He passed through a maze of hot springs, the steam a comfort but a wall as well, blocking out the scent of another until they were in his sights. A woman lounging, he forces himself to ease tensed muscles. Recovering from a long winter? He greets her with a question, tone friendly and betraying no further intentions. He does not wish for this to be long, only to pass through and search for lands that feel a bit more familiar.

the peace disrupted by the voice of a man. heavy-lidded eyes of citrine glide to leer at him through the pillars of steam that engulf her. with a sigh, the worshipper of Nyx turns in the gentle tides to face the stranger. fur of timber and night flowing in the gentle waves like ribbons. 

"i suppose so, yes." her tone is flat but not hostile. the thaw of spring was welcome as it meant there was far more to harvest. more to offer. with the slightest tilt of her head, the elusive woman inquires; "and what are you doing out here?"

she found it odd he was in such a haste he wouldn't find reprieve within the pools. but the truth would be revealed in time, and she was nothing if not patient.

Passing through, I suppose. Was his answer, plan and simple. He had nowhere to go, and nowhere to be. The steam is a nice break, but not a territory I wish to claim. He found it to grow overwhelming after a short time. He wanted something more broad, open space and rocks flat for sunning.

But now settled into a conversation, he said himself a respectable distance from her. Can I ask your name? He asked, offering his own in advance. You may call me Cinar. For the first time in.. well, ever, he left out the title of 'shazhada' in his introduction. It had no merit here.

The steam admittedly felt rather pleasant as it surrounded his fur. The warmth was a comfort.