She stands and walks to the center of the little room where her table is set with the instruments of her birthright: cup,
picking up the glow of moonlight and dripping it onto the cloth beneath; knife with the hilt as black as jet that glints with streaks of silver that have been set into the ancient runes that surround the base,
and with a double-edged blade that flares and tapers finely to its point of power;
pentacle that glows with burnished light, the symbols on its face deep and meaningless to any save its owner;
wand of willow wood, finely carved with her own hand into an intricate set of spirals and swirls,
worn in places where it has been lovingly worked; unlit candles of purest white to compliment the Moon’s glow,
and a heavy silver medallion on a cord, older than even she knows, that has been passed down, along with her knowledge and her sword, the Initiator,
