And so Lugh did pour of himself into the grain and we were sustained over the long winter. The Sun God did give of his spirit to the earth. - Unknown Verbenae Text
August 1st, Lammas
Outside Morrison
"Sure you don't want me to come?"
She was mid way through rolling up a sleeping bag and paused to cast a look over her shoulder. Neal had appeared in the doorway, flashlight extracted from a tool kit outside in hand and a look of deep longing transforming his expression as he scanned the camping supplies laid out on the bed. It was mid afternoon and outside long shadows were beginning to draw across the yard. "I'm pretty handy with a tent."
"And leave your wife alone this close to term? She's the only woman in the community who doesn't think I'm sleeping with her husband." Kiara moved across the bedroom and accepted the torch, testing the beam against her palm before clicking it off. "Let's not tempt fate."
Neal's arms crossed, he watched the brunette as she crossed back to the bed and resumed pushing items into a rucksack. She was wearing an over-sized flannel shirt, half buttoned that fell to her knees, giving the impression of vulnerability he knew full well wasn't accurate of Kiara Woolfe. His voice pitched low with mild humor. "Should I be offended or flattered by that?"
"Flattered," Her tone matched his, attention flicking back to him just the once, briefly, to trace his figure with a quick, bright smile. Neal's arms bare to the shoulder in an old wife beater, skin flecked with dust and grease from working under the car in the heat of the afternoon. His eyes were steady on her, his jaw rough with the beginnings of a beard. Somewhere between the smell of grass and oil and summer, the sight of her friend invoked a sense of homesickness she couldn't quite place.
She dropped her eyes away and drew the straps of the bag together, hauling it upright. "I'll be fine, though. It's better that I go alone, anyway."
Neal's arms dropped to his side, "Kiara," he began in low tones, moving across the room and setting a bracing touch to an arm. "Now I know you got your things to do and you know I respect that, but, those woods can get dangerous -"
The tiniest trace of irritation warred with patience on the brunette's fine features. She gently pulled away. "Which is why it's a good thing there's designated camping areas and rangers and - " she slid her hands along both her friend's arms as he looked ready to protest, brows contracting. "- I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself. Thank you for the gear."
Her lips found the edge of a cheek; stubble rough and pressed gratitude there.
It was her way of ending the conversation, swinging the bag over a shoulder and starting past him. The man turned in her wake. "I'm calling you in two hours to make sure you weren't eaten by a bear, you realize."
"Zero cell reception, you realize." She called back, half way down the old, winding staircase. It creaked loudly enough to cover Neal's reply, a faint "most stubborn woman I ever did meet".
-
So the Wise Ones did walk the pathways. Stepping between the worlds, following the descent of the Sun God to the Underworld. The Pathways became ours in turn. The hidden places. The lost. Those veiled in time.
-
She hikes for a good hour to find space from campers. It's the height of the summer season and the traffic rolling in is steady, though quieter before the weekend rush. The trail she takes heads over rolling hills and down into a prairie full of short, prickling grasses. Cottontails dart out of sight and white-tailed deer raise their heads to watch her pass.
There's a tiny cove accessible only by skirting down a sharp incline, an isolated little sandy shore where the lake washes in bracketed on either side by rocky outcroppings; the mountains looming in the distance. The Dreamweaver makes camp in the shadow of towering pines as the sun extinguishes itself in a riot of pinks and golds across the water. Makes camp with the deft working of someone who'd been in the outdoors enough to know how to achieve a rudimentary shielding from the elements.
The night settles in hot and Kiara's skin is flushed with it, sweat beading in the hollow of her throat, between her breasts, the small of her back. She doesn't make a fire but lights candles; but takes a long piece of purple cloth, brilliant with tiny spun flecks of silver out of the rucksack. The velvet whispering as its unraveled, the candlelight shivering as the breeze rolls in from the water.
Summer wind, warm and familiar.
The Verbena settles on her knees - pulls her shirt over her head, shucks her jeans and socks and unpins her hair from her nape so it spills; dark and wild around bare shoulders. She'd never understood much of the ways of the Gardeners, the pomp and ceremony, the sanctimonious need for lineage and order but there was something to the way of seasonal homage that had always spoken to her. The stripping away of material shackles, shedding her clothing, her constrictions - closing her eyes under the summer moon and feeling the hum of the world bare against her skin as if any moment she might feel wings; might become the clever fox hunting in the night; feel the tang of a kill in her throat; teeth sharp and blood stained around the throat of a thrashing deer.
The lines in the earth she draws without opening her eyes. The blade against her palm. The spill of blood down her arm, into the sandy shore. She consecrates the earth with it. It's the oldest magic, this. The pagan pulls the air into her lungs and holds it.
Holds it.
Sees the drawing of the bold lines behind her eyelids. Feels her awareness expanding; the trees, the earth, the chatter of birdsong, the lap of water at the shore. The places the air hits her skin and generates gooseflesh. Kiara breathes out and feels -
connection. Nature's low whisper through the prairies; the shape and form and legacy of the mountains. The evolution of the tiny grains of sand beneath her knees; a grid-work of activity. Her eyes open with a blink, re-focusing and she draws her arm against her chest; cradles it there and draws a blanket around her body and sits.
And listens.
And becomes.
Attuned.
-
Kiara
[Okay so girlfriend wants to start practicing and developing her correspondence. Plus it's nearly Lammas so you know, fitting time is fitting. Anyway - we're going to start working toward being able to fully do the Lay of the Land Rote which requires Life 2, Corr 2 and start with Life 2, Corr 1 and open our senses up a little.
Base diff 5, -1 for foci, -1 for taking her time, may extend]
Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (2, 3, 10) ( success x 2 )
Kiara
[Extending]
Dice: 3 d10 TN4 (1, 4, 5) ( success x 2 )
Kiara
[Once more]
Dice: 3 d10 TN5 (1, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )
Noel
Witnessed!
August 1st, Lammas
Outside Morrison
"Sure you don't want me to come?"
She was mid way through rolling up a sleeping bag and paused to cast a look over her shoulder. Neal had appeared in the doorway, flashlight extracted from a tool kit outside in hand and a look of deep longing transforming his expression as he scanned the camping supplies laid out on the bed. It was mid afternoon and outside long shadows were beginning to draw across the yard. "I'm pretty handy with a tent."
"And leave your wife alone this close to term? She's the only woman in the community who doesn't think I'm sleeping with her husband." Kiara moved across the bedroom and accepted the torch, testing the beam against her palm before clicking it off. "Let's not tempt fate."
Neal's arms crossed, he watched the brunette as she crossed back to the bed and resumed pushing items into a rucksack. She was wearing an over-sized flannel shirt, half buttoned that fell to her knees, giving the impression of vulnerability he knew full well wasn't accurate of Kiara Woolfe. His voice pitched low with mild humor. "Should I be offended or flattered by that?"
"Flattered," Her tone matched his, attention flicking back to him just the once, briefly, to trace his figure with a quick, bright smile. Neal's arms bare to the shoulder in an old wife beater, skin flecked with dust and grease from working under the car in the heat of the afternoon. His eyes were steady on her, his jaw rough with the beginnings of a beard. Somewhere between the smell of grass and oil and summer, the sight of her friend invoked a sense of homesickness she couldn't quite place.
She dropped her eyes away and drew the straps of the bag together, hauling it upright. "I'll be fine, though. It's better that I go alone, anyway."
Neal's arms dropped to his side, "Kiara," he began in low tones, moving across the room and setting a bracing touch to an arm. "Now I know you got your things to do and you know I respect that, but, those woods can get dangerous -"
The tiniest trace of irritation warred with patience on the brunette's fine features. She gently pulled away. "Which is why it's a good thing there's designated camping areas and rangers and - " she slid her hands along both her friend's arms as he looked ready to protest, brows contracting. "- I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself. Thank you for the gear."
Her lips found the edge of a cheek; stubble rough and pressed gratitude there.
It was her way of ending the conversation, swinging the bag over a shoulder and starting past him. The man turned in her wake. "I'm calling you in two hours to make sure you weren't eaten by a bear, you realize."
"Zero cell reception, you realize." She called back, half way down the old, winding staircase. It creaked loudly enough to cover Neal's reply, a faint "most stubborn woman I ever did meet".
-
So the Wise Ones did walk the pathways. Stepping between the worlds, following the descent of the Sun God to the Underworld. The Pathways became ours in turn. The hidden places. The lost. Those veiled in time.
-
She hikes for a good hour to find space from campers. It's the height of the summer season and the traffic rolling in is steady, though quieter before the weekend rush. The trail she takes heads over rolling hills and down into a prairie full of short, prickling grasses. Cottontails dart out of sight and white-tailed deer raise their heads to watch her pass.
There's a tiny cove accessible only by skirting down a sharp incline, an isolated little sandy shore where the lake washes in bracketed on either side by rocky outcroppings; the mountains looming in the distance. The Dreamweaver makes camp in the shadow of towering pines as the sun extinguishes itself in a riot of pinks and golds across the water. Makes camp with the deft working of someone who'd been in the outdoors enough to know how to achieve a rudimentary shielding from the elements.
The night settles in hot and Kiara's skin is flushed with it, sweat beading in the hollow of her throat, between her breasts, the small of her back. She doesn't make a fire but lights candles; but takes a long piece of purple cloth, brilliant with tiny spun flecks of silver out of the rucksack. The velvet whispering as its unraveled, the candlelight shivering as the breeze rolls in from the water.
Summer wind, warm and familiar.
The Verbena settles on her knees - pulls her shirt over her head, shucks her jeans and socks and unpins her hair from her nape so it spills; dark and wild around bare shoulders. She'd never understood much of the ways of the Gardeners, the pomp and ceremony, the sanctimonious need for lineage and order but there was something to the way of seasonal homage that had always spoken to her. The stripping away of material shackles, shedding her clothing, her constrictions - closing her eyes under the summer moon and feeling the hum of the world bare against her skin as if any moment she might feel wings; might become the clever fox hunting in the night; feel the tang of a kill in her throat; teeth sharp and blood stained around the throat of a thrashing deer.
The lines in the earth she draws without opening her eyes. The blade against her palm. The spill of blood down her arm, into the sandy shore. She consecrates the earth with it. It's the oldest magic, this. The pagan pulls the air into her lungs and holds it.
Holds it.
Sees the drawing of the bold lines behind her eyelids. Feels her awareness expanding; the trees, the earth, the chatter of birdsong, the lap of water at the shore. The places the air hits her skin and generates gooseflesh. Kiara breathes out and feels -
connection. Nature's low whisper through the prairies; the shape and form and legacy of the mountains. The evolution of the tiny grains of sand beneath her knees; a grid-work of activity. Her eyes open with a blink, re-focusing and she draws her arm against her chest; cradles it there and draws a blanket around her body and sits.
And listens.
And becomes.
Attuned.
-
Kiara
[Okay so girlfriend wants to start practicing and developing her correspondence. Plus it's nearly Lammas so you know, fitting time is fitting. Anyway - we're going to start working toward being able to fully do the Lay of the Land Rote which requires Life 2, Corr 2 and start with Life 2, Corr 1 and open our senses up a little.
Base diff 5, -1 for foci, -1 for taking her time, may extend]
Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (2, 3, 10) ( success x 2 )
Kiara
[Extending]
Dice: 3 d10 TN4 (1, 4, 5) ( success x 2 )
Kiara
[Once more]
Dice: 3 d10 TN5 (1, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )
Noel
Witnessed!