Even before the break of dawn, one Shepherd is always awake. On a particular morning, one other joins him in early chores.
"Praytell, Lady Robin: just why did you need to know where this morning's bonfire will be located before I start it?"
"A protection circle. An Ylissean one," the finger of a grimleal marked hand points, "You can read all about it in the tome right there, and you're even welcome to watch to make sure I'm doing just as it says."
Robin already sets out her materials, while Frederick scans the pages (he can't make sense of most of it, but he can verify its origins and intentions and ensure all symbols match, at the very dutiful least). "There's a handful of risen wandering aimlessly through the prairie not too far from here. We shouldn't have to worry about them reaching any towns before we finish our current objective, so for now I'd rather just ward them away from us. We can dispense of them after a few more days and on better terrain."
Smooth pebbles, teaming with the shine spots of reflected moonlight are set a few feet apart at distinct points of the yet invisible circumference.
North. South. East. West.
Air. Water. Fire. Earth.
Robin steps inside to kneel and draw sigils on the inside edge of each. Elements of nature, components of the spell, a quiet incantation as a seal while she carves them into the ground.
Up, down, up down.
But she dare not step out yet. More sigils, more circles come into existence, patterned rings smaller and smaller until they reach the center. Robin walks with intention, pace building with every step. She claims the very plot of land for her own design.
This is the way that mages might pray.
Then, she dances.
Starting with a stretch - arms way over her head and back perfectly straight. A call to attention for the arcane, a focal point. Balls of feet in boots lift to twist in tiny steps; forward, forward though she stays in place. Shoulders loosen to let limbs lower in tempo, fisted hands crossing over her collarbones and elbows held tight to her chest. Every flick of flitting twintails, every twirl of her cloak, every sharp pivot of her ankle building and gathering energy for the ritual. Every few rotations a sudden halt reaches out an arm, pointing at one of the pebbles she's placed, focusing the enchantment, sending it out to the appointed object.
Her moves are not graceful entertainment (though her face might say she enjoys it all the same). Her form is sharp and sturdy, her movements pointed, precise, and powerful. She is a conductor, and they are a directive, as transparent but compelling as any other spoken order she gives.
Skin tingling, veins thrumming, brown eyes glowing gold with power, her final spin ends with palms slamming on the ground! Into the sigils, into the space, into the spell her magic goes. The ward is cast. Her mind is calm, and heart at ease.
Today will happen as she commands.
With careful steps Robin makes her way back to her companion, face still stoic after such a display, "Put the rest of the stones for the pit in line with the others I placed. It'll close the circle and release the spell. The smoke should help carry the magic all throughout camp. ...Oh and Freddy Bear?" she claps a pauldron and grins, watching him try to process what seems so simple and true to her, "try not to be too skeptical while you build the fire, or all those negative vibes will start cancelling out good intentions, yes?"