Nawain/Logs/20240910

Nawain walks through the well-tended grass of the hidden glade near her favorite waterfall, hauling a low applewood table over one shoulder. Her boots are completely soaked from wading through the creek, and she squelches as she goes. Though she sets the table down atop the pink rose petals, she doesn’t fully straighten, and remains bowed, as if under a great burden still for a long moment, listening to the water. 

Drawing a deep, purposeful breath, she lets the worries and fears of the recent events well in her mind for the count of ten and then exhales, sending them away, at least for the moment. They’d be back, but this wasn’t the time for them. This was the time to help the living. 

The wild-haired cleric looked around at the serenity. This was a good place for people to come to, she thought. It was quiet, and out of the way. And might be overlooked by malevolent forces, Gods willing. She runs her fingertips across the golden striations of the table’s applewood of the low table, caressing the simple turinstil she’d carved into it weeks ago. The small encircled butterfly was the only adornment it had needed for its original purpose. Now, though… Now there was a different need.  

She blows some errant hair from her face and opens her journal to the sketch she’d made the night before.  A tiger slinks up one side while a wolf prowls down the other, a long-bladed knife crowning both. The bottom of the design reads “We Remember”. The butterfly is still central, but sheaves of wheat and pine boughs cover the sacred circle that makes a butterfly a turinstil. 

With a sigh, she pulls out a bit of charcoal and adds a volcano to complete the design… for now. Her eyes rise to the date in the corner of their own accord. Day 132 of year 450, 116 days SN. The errant hair is suddenly between her teeth as she shoves the worry back down and gets to work.  Setting chisel to wood, she begins.