Isolde tidied up her apothecary in the stone enclave inside the castle walls. While her soul was centuries old, her body was youthful and lithe. Practicing her craft of light magic was becoming increasingly difficult as the Dark Ones plyed their craft so diligently. Isolde's slender white hand tied the string around the hemlock root and hung the bundle to dry. The green velvet sleeve of her dress slid back to reveal blue tattoos lining her wrists like bracelets. Times like these, she regretted the markings that set her aside as a healing wisewoman, witch, many called her.<br/><br/>Business had been slow today but one by one the castle square had filled with people come in the aftermath of the evening slaughter. Some had come to have wounds stitched up, Others for wards to repel the walking dead. Isolde wished she had a true amulet of protection for the mortals. How sad it was especially for a mother to see her children far beyond her reach with nothing but ill will for her. Better she had died with them.<br/><br/>Taking her rusty cloak from the peg by the door, Isolde pulled the hood over her brilliant copper hair. Blowing out the white candles that burned throughout the shop, she slipped out into the night. Clinging to the shadows, she worked her way around to the tavern, hoping for a glimpse of Kell, the carpenter. His cause was just and as such, should endear him to honest and honorable folks, but to Isolde,the man stirred her blood and her heart. He knew nothing of this, because discretion was the one virtue she possessed.