Perhaps it wasn't Murielle's finest moment when accidentally mispronouncing a spell had an unconscious Original landing slap-bang in the middle of her home. Though at first this mistake may have seemed horrible, it leads to a whirlwind of a life tha...
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A refuge was all that Murielle required in life—somewhere to shelter from the hubbub of life that held no place in her heart. And so nature had provided, as usual. For a long time now, she had lived in a secluded cottage in rural England. Her small cottage was picturesquely placed in the centre of a meadow, with a running stream next to the stone building and her small garden behind it. A small path led to the wall of trees that barricaded the outside world from her small bubble, a wall only she could cross. Not that her goat, Horace, hadn't tried.
Life seemed to thrive within her home as bees buzzed about the wild flowers, butterflies floated just above the ground, fish swam just below the surface of the stream water, ducks perched on the serene rapids, birds communicated through song, and Murielle watched all of this from her kitchen window. A soft smile was brought to her face as she used her spatula to pour the batter she was working with into a baking tin. After having just finished making ghee, her stomach had taken a fancy to a Mysore Pak (a fancy which, in truth, she was more than happy to oblige).
She hummed to herself an old, lilting song as she worked, trying to harmonise with the beauty of birdsong, though she feared herself not up to scratch.
With the Renewal just around the corner, all seemed so idyllic as the old crone morphed into the maiden once again—wisdom lost but potential returned. Murielle pondered the spells to start and the seeds to plant for what was to come. In the run-up to Ostara, she would have to be busy in the garden, turning her fingers green for food in the future. Rather annoyingly, her trowel handle had recently snapped off after five years of withstanding all conditions and rigours forced upon it.
She had meant to repair it time and time again but found she could not bring herself to burn down an oak tree merely for the ash required to create glue. Her cupboard had plenty enough sap, but in her forgetfulness yet again, she was out of oak ash. Perhaps in this new start at the Vernal Equinox, she would do away with that cursed laziness that plagued her being.
When the rhubarb pie was placed in the oven, she went about preparing the ritual space for a summoning, for she'd rather summon what she required instead of labouring with an axe and fire.
Her petal-adorned alter was given a fresh lemon, dried lavender flowers, a white candle, and a small dish of water. Murielle sat before the alter and breathed in, then out, and in. Over and over again as she cleared her mind to serenity. The candle was lit with a struck match, and she began to chant thrice over, "Fairies of whispering wind, hear my plea; lemon's zest now calls you with glee. Weave through lavender fields with grace, your airy dance shall take its place. Guides from realms unseen yet dear, your gentle whispers I long to hear. Answer my plea, and bring that sacred white oak ash to me."
When all was done, she thought nothing out of the ordinary with her summoning. It was nothing she hadn't done a thousand times before—not specifically for the white ash of oak but for other requirements that she could not get herself.
