Lady Carlisle's Dreams

Red.

Orange and yellow.

More orange, I suppose.

Yes, orange. Orange.

The flames licked the side of the fresh log placed recently upon the fire, playfully lighting some protrusion or other for the briefest moment, then retreating only to once again press the attack.

Orange.

Hopefully Jotin will return on the morrow with the elixir.

Focus!

Yes! The elixir!

Lady Carlisle moaned inwardly. Orange. Orange.

Of course Jotin will bring the elixir!

It was no good, she was too tired for the mind-control exercise taught her by Hulfan, the Duke's own mage, to work.

Focus! A chill wisp of mist drifted past her.

No!

No no no!

But her body was no longer hers to command and the vision swept over her.

For a few seconds she could still feel the warmth of the comfortable chair beneath her, but then the mist engulfed her and the damp was quickly absorbed by the cloth-pading underneath her leather armour giving it an almost instant clammy quality.

Please! she cried out desperately to every deity and none as she groped behind her with her hand, to close first upon the leather satchel hanging diagonally from her left shoulder, and then with relief, the hilt of her silvered short sword.

Gazing into the mist, Lady Carlisle drew the sword, feeling her tiredness leave her.

She almost smiled.

This time she was armed.

Thanks always and again to the awesomest talented @ryivhnn for my very own Wombat footer!

Thanks to Pixabay.com for the use of their photo.

May all beings be happy.