Moonlight filtered in serene beams through the canopy of the wood, creating pillars of soft light in the misty forest. The eerie glow of mushrooms below revealed the structure of this shadowy cathedral: walls of plants, statue-like stones, and logs like pews were interspersed among the luminous columns. Through this natural sanctuary a small Fae flitted, her grey and purple coloration not at all out of place. This grove, these woods, the moonlight and mist and tangles of nature and shadow, were sacred to her.

She, Bramble, a witch and herbalist, a healer and conjurer, went out every full moon to gather what she needed. Each turn of the celestial body brought about a time for particular harvests and ingredients, as the earth marched on through its cycles and seasons... It was a lot to remember, and books, while useful, took up precious room for herbs and fungi in her satchels. Though singing was not exactly the Fae's specialty, she had a little set of verses she recited when she went out, one for each moon. It was passed down to her from other Knowing Ones, and it was what she had her own students learn from the moment she took them under her wing. It left her lips like scripture, carrying throughout the glade. It echoed in some places, was muddled by leaves and mist in others, but Bramble's voice did not waver, nor did her cadence pause or falter. So often had she recited these little poems that they were almost muscle memory, but that didn't mean that their content was lost or forgotten.

As she approached the section of the woods that she knew had the best offerings (though she always kept an eye out on her way there for anything she needed), she glanced skyward. The cool, clear night revealed a halo around the April moon, diffusing the light ever so slightly. It was impossibly beautiful. Sighing, satisfied, Bramble flew on.



The April Moon grows bright with promised spring
Pink as the phlox now blooming in the field;
Its essence, ease to aging joints will bring.
Best harvest now so others may be healed.

Now search for mallow, take only the leaves,
Which soothe both throat and stomach when in pain.
Find garlic mustard, too, for it relieves
Bruises and sores, to germs it is a bane.

The hearty and astringent bramble leaf,
Though full of thorns, will clean the mouth and throat.
And root of hairy bittercress, in chief,
Is for most headaches the best antidote.

Preserve and dry these for tincture and tea,
And heal ills in your clan most graciously.



In spite of herself, Bramble always flicked her crest fans in amusement when she got to the line that contained her name, likewise when she encountered the prickly plant in question. It was apt, the description and her namesake; while perhaps not the softest and most welcoming dragon in the clan, there was no denying her skill in poultices, teas, and healing. Bramble (both plant and dragon) suffered no fools, and taught important and painful lessons when not respected... though nothing more terrible than a bit of discomfort. Coming to a patch of them now, she carefully plucked leaves from thorny stems, deftly avoiding the tiny spines, and then placed them delicately in her satchel. After she got what she needed, she took a moment to see how many flowers were budding on the canes and vines. Though not ready yet, they would be ripe, delicious berries by summertime.

Fluttering her side-crests in a manner that suggested satisfaction, she moved on into the night, beginning to recite the poem again to the plants, shadows, stones, and thorns. There was still much to gather yet.