The day was coming to a dreary close as the woman felt the flakes of snow fall upon her brow. Growling at them, she brushed away the dregs of the heavens with the back of her delicate hand. If only there were an easy and effective way to block off the roof of this square hovel called a ruin to keep out the weather. The weather was one of the reasons the gypsy woman had often chosen buildings with solid roofs. Snow melted in the smoke of her fire pit, hissing as the now water drops hit the sizzling embers. A pot of hot water bubbled ever so gently over it, the steam rising up and mingling with the grey smoke the fire was belching toward the sky. Deftly, she tipped a small glass jar, no more than a bubble of the warped material, into the dark metal pot. Dark green and brown leaves tumbled into the water soundlessly, and the woman gave a light whistle to the man waiting patiently nearby.

The man rushed to her side with thick clothes in his hands to protect the delicate pads. Stepping to the side, Isabella watched as the scarred creature lifted the pot from the fire by the handle and set it on a flat niche in the stone wall. He covered it with the lid and stepped away. "Watch yourself!" she growled out, her normally honeyed voice rough with agitation. Dajirus stumbled slightly, though somehow managed to keep all the water in the pot and his hands free of burns. Breathing heavily, he turned away from the woman to pick up the lid. Gesturing to it silently, the man mimed placing it atop the pot. Isabella nodded absently, almost rolling her eyes at the man's ineptitude to think even a little bit for himself.

His look was almost blank; he was clearly well broken and terribly obedient. Giving him a light, fairly emotionless smile, Isabella nodded in mild recognition. So he could lift the hot pot for her, nothing too special. This one had worked with her before, when she had been expanding the small hole in the ground for a better sleeping quarter. The man was already well experienced with her demands and her dangerous tones of warning. Thus far, she had not had to deal any punishment to the man, for which both were thankful. He for the pain, and she for the risk of overstepping her boundaries. Thankfully, the slave male was a mute and did not utter anything against her wishes. It wasn't as though she were overly demanding of him.

"I think it needs a stir now, esclaves." The entire slave business in this pack was intriguing to the morally loose woman, who watched as the man stirred the pot with an elongated carved wooden spoon. It was darkly stained from the months of use in both oil mixtures, food preparation, and drink concoction. Where it touched the water in the pot, the wood had taken on a darker hue, though not the same stained quality. Pulling out the lavender oil from one of her many hiding places, Isabella set it down beside a long flat wooden bowl from a small storage niche.

With the snap of her fingers, the hybrid woman gestured to Dajirus. "Take the huile essentielle and spread it on that flat bowl. I will bring the sticks." Not deigning to touch him, she handing the slave man the small jar of the essential oil of lavender. He was a man, and a slave at that. He did not deserve the pleasure of feeling her flesh against his, for he had no rights here. His scars and his damage was only because of his own stubbornness and stupidity. Why would she ever allow him an honor such as touching her? With a quick look over her shoulder, she growled out again in warning. "Do not touch that oil! Spread it around the bowl without your fingers, imbécile." The man pursed his lips at her orders, and lifted the bowl to spread the oil over the bowl as one would spread yellow butter over a sizzling skillet.

Brushing aside a small length of red material that served as a small decorative divider between her storage niches and the main room. It felt silky against her padded fingers, and she smiled at the texture. It still smelled lightly of cedarwood incense smoke. That would have to come later, if she could find a way to trade for it. Pulling the unscented wooden sticks from the small box she stored them in, Isabella unwound the twine around the forty or so sticks. The rest of the sticks in the box were either broken or mismatched in scent. These were the only unscented ones she had managed to get her hands on and she was careful with them. Now was the time to make them though, as it would be easy to dry in the cold.

"Put the bowl near the stones. Make sure the oil doesn't congeal." As the slave man set the flat bowl by the warm stones, Isabella crouched before the bowl. The embers reflected in the oil, shining little balls of light on the flat surface that smelt of lavender. Handing the unbound bundle of sticks to Dajirus, who held them rather carefully in his large hands, Isabella pulled one from his grasp. Placing it in the oil, she twirled the thick portion of it, coating it evenly in the oil. She set it to the side of the bowl, and gestured for the man to take her place and continue doing as she did. Moving, Isabella dusted off her skirt and turned her back to Dajirus, who was now on the ground before the bowl. The man's gaze was focused on the task. It was not a very masculine task, though it was made faster with this extra pair of hands. "Try not to let them touch or they might stick together and the oil won't stay in well," she said without glancing back, then smirking as she heard the man adjust the few sticks he had already made.

Terribly pleased with herself, Isabella took a large red ceramic mug - fairly large to fit their anatomy - and filled it with the steaming tea. It was a strong brew of chamomile, and the dregs sank to the bottom of the mug. It could be used to read her fortune, though it was not commonly used for such a thing. Regardless, the woman sipped the warm, calming tea as she heard the man by the fire grunting as he shifted positions. A glance told her he had lined most of the bowl with the sticks, all equidistant from one another. Nodding at the man, Isabella took the moment to ignore him once more. The tea was soothing, and the smell alone had a calming effect. That was definitely something she had to appreciate.

With a sigh of calm, Isabella stepped away from the ruins and away from the slave finishing fitting another two or three sticks onto the bowl (more than half remained unfinished). Leaning against a nearby tree, still fairly thin and young, Mug in hand, she stared absently at the blanket of snow around the ruins and trees and thistles. Lips a thin line, she absently brushed snow from her legs and ignoring her breath streaming from her nostrils. Safely securing the mug in one hand, Isabella stuck a hand out imperiously, watching small snow flakes tumble onto her fingertips. They melted into small pools against her flesh and rolled off the rough surface. The wind picked at her long multicolored hair, as the smell of lavender and chamomile filled the air, the tendrils of the scent permeating everywhere.

The tea, almost completely drained, was getting cold, even with the woman holding the mug with fingers fully wrapped around it. The steam rising from it slowed, and the vapor from her nose was stronger than the heat of the once boiling tea. Darijus cleared his throat to get the woman's attention. Isabella twisted around to look at him. He was still crouching at the fire pit, blocked off. Even though the plate was full of the sticks, the man still hand a bundle laid out on a cloth. He gestured toward the finished incense sticks and shrugging. Draining the tea cup, Isabella set it down on the stone table she used near the fire pit and against the wall. She pulled out an old, black plastic door screen mesh. It was just the mesh netting and the door, or window, frame was absent. She used stones to create a wavelike pattern and motioned for the man to set the finished sticks onto the mesh carefully. Growling, she stopped them, "No, fool, twirl the stick to rid it of excess. Mon Dieu, I will show you." Pushing him aside with an impatient wave, she lifted a stick vertically and twisted it to let the oil drip off. Satisfied that no more would drip, she set it on the mesh. Waving, impatiently again, she told him to get on with it.

As the man set to his task once more, Isabella moved away from the square ruins, knowing the slave would keep his hands to himself and to his work. She had spied a clump of plants, that seemed rather familiar to her. Crouching and balancing delicately with her skirt, the woman inspected the leaves of the small shrub-like bush. It was almost a weed, really. There were more along the way she gazed, against a two or three stone high wall about ten or so stones wide. Pulling a leaf, she inspected the stalk. It had to be more chamomile, though the woman could hardly know in the middle of winter without the flowers. The flowers would tell all, though the leaves looked like it. Her mother had been a lover of this plant, and she had taught its details to her daughter and sons and how to brew it into a tea as well as extract the essence for calming scent baubles.

Hopefully it would be one of two breeds of chamomile used in the process and not one of the false types. If it was false, then Isabella would be angry. Chamomile was hardy, especially one its varieties. With a single blooming shrub, she could make tea and oil, and start a tiny garden of the stuff. Isabella dropped the leaf and brushed off her hands of any dirt. Returning to the open air ruin, the woman inhaled the scent of the tea, oil, and smoke. It was glorious to feel as free as she did, slave at call. The man had finished half the tray and was twirling another stick. Sitting beside the slave on a rougher wool blanket, Isabella helped him twirl sticks and when he walked to set down about six or seven sticks, she started to finish the rest. In a small matter of time, the two finished and the sticks dried. In this weather, they might dry by tonight or sooner. The smoke would give it a more smokey lavender scent, though at least it would speed up the drying process.

The slave straightened and Isabella rose up from her seat by the fire. The blanket was folded and the oil poured back into the small jar after being picked clean of any remnants of sticks. Darijus stored it in her back room, which was starting to come together. She would need to get a roof built, preferably one that would let out candle smoke and keep out the rain and shown. Pouring some of the slightly cooler tea in to a tin cup, the woman handed it to the slave as he returned, as a thanking gift. The tin cup was his, which he had brought at her request. He gave her the tiniest of smiles, though the woman did not share his happiness. It was the most payment she could muster for his work, for he was a slave and deserved very little. At least the higher ups would note that she did not abuse the communal slaves and ensured they were treated well enough.

Perhaps anyone in need of these incense sticks would come to her, though naturally, at least half would remain hers. Maybe she ought to offer them to Sirius; he had rather enjoyed the smell about her before. Grinning softly, the woman poured herself another cup of the tea and let the slave pour himself another cup of the calming tea. He had done good work and she waved him off lightly. "Go about your way, I don't need any more of your help," she ordered. The slave nodded at her and left with his full cup of tea, sipping away happily. Naturally, he would be eager to finish the tea before anyone could take it from him.