3 Searing 721
Yeva opened the window, drew the curtains closed, and brought the flame to the candelabra's wick. Basked in gentle orange light, the Hytori woman illuminated the kitchen table, marked simply by two tired chairs. Waiting for her was a pile of herbs, a roll of twine, a pair of kitchen shears, and a book of forgotten wisdom. Notes to serve her a lifetime.
Lifting the bundle of herbs, Yeva buried her face amidst the leaves and closed her eyes, inhaling the woodsy, astringent scent. For a moment, she stood in the forest, far away from the oil of Zaichaer. Slow, steady breaths.
Sage belongs to the Salvia plant family and is derived from the Vallenor word salvere, which means "to heal."
She opened her eyes and exhaled, taking the leaves and bundling them together. She added dried rose petals and a sprig of pine, coaxing the twine into a knot. Using the scissors, she cut and knotted the bundle. Practiced. Precise.
The journal was filled with her grandmother's wisdom - secrets and rituals - that had been passed on in little lessons for when she would be ready to mark her own path as a mystic. Now it was her turn. Yeva tied back her long, red hair and paused, listening to Zaichaer's change of pace at such a late hour. With any luck, overly curious neighbors would be sleeping.
Yeva turned towards the entrance and unlocked the deadbolt, cracking the door. She did the same for exit; another leading to the alley. There was no promise she would have complete privacy, but it would take a keen eye and intentional peeking to witness the oracle's practice. She moved quickly just in case, placing the prepared smudge stick beside her grandmother's grimoire and began to turn the pages, taking pause to lovingly admire the rituals and wisdom revealed within. Laid out on the table was an unpolished abalone shell, glittering in the candlelight with iridescent brilliance like mother of pearl. Yeva gazed at colors in admiration, running a finger along its edge. It was easy to imagine her hands wrinkled, like her grandmothers. One day, would she make her grandmother proud?
Yeva opened the window, drew the curtains closed, and brought the flame to the candelabra's wick. Basked in gentle orange light, the Hytori woman illuminated the kitchen table, marked simply by two tired chairs. Waiting for her was a pile of herbs, a roll of twine, a pair of kitchen shears, and a book of forgotten wisdom. Notes to serve her a lifetime.
Lifting the bundle of herbs, Yeva buried her face amidst the leaves and closed her eyes, inhaling the woodsy, astringent scent. For a moment, she stood in the forest, far away from the oil of Zaichaer. Slow, steady breaths.
Sage belongs to the Salvia plant family and is derived from the Vallenor word salvere, which means "to heal."
She opened her eyes and exhaled, taking the leaves and bundling them together. She added dried rose petals and a sprig of pine, coaxing the twine into a knot. Using the scissors, she cut and knotted the bundle. Practiced. Precise.
The journal was filled with her grandmother's wisdom - secrets and rituals - that had been passed on in little lessons for when she would be ready to mark her own path as a mystic. Now it was her turn. Yeva tied back her long, red hair and paused, listening to Zaichaer's change of pace at such a late hour. With any luck, overly curious neighbors would be sleeping.
Yeva turned towards the entrance and unlocked the deadbolt, cracking the door. She did the same for exit; another leading to the alley. There was no promise she would have complete privacy, but it would take a keen eye and intentional peeking to witness the oracle's practice. She moved quickly just in case, placing the prepared smudge stick beside her grandmother's grimoire and began to turn the pages, taking pause to lovingly admire the rituals and wisdom revealed within. Laid out on the table was an unpolished abalone shell, glittering in the candlelight with iridescent brilliance like mother of pearl. Yeva gazed at colors in admiration, running a finger along its edge. It was easy to imagine her hands wrinkled, like her grandmothers. One day, would she make her grandmother proud?
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