There are times when many witches and wizards preferred to concoct their potions. Some seemed of a more potent variety if mixed out beneath a cloudless sky, as if the magic from the stars above lent them a strength that otherwise was missing in the light of day. Some potions glistened in the sunlight, transformed from the silky heat of day into magic. This night she was creating a potion with the use of Nightshade that require infinitesimal care for even the smallest slip of dosages could render a customer inert or worse, dead. Sorcha was not altogether that concerned, however, for she had done this a million times and she found the process relaxing. Besides, she often tested her potions on herself and if she was brave enough to test it on herself and survive, then her customer would be fine as well. Still, it was best done in the starlight with the shadows gently groping her figure.

She walks sedately through the park with her bag slung over her shoulder while humming a lullaby, one that her mother had often hummed to her as a child and one which set her body at ease. It helped render her mind free of careless thought so that she could focus on what she had planned. Soon she skirts the normal walkways, slipping off with a slight rustling into the brush. Sorcha is light on her feet and often consider fleet footed, a by-product of her raising in Scotland by her parents, who considered themselves more Druid than actual Witch or Wizard. While the practice of sorcery, as many called it, was less called upon, it was still virulent and her parents practiced with avid attention, training her in both body and mind all her life.

She finds a spot, a small clearing that is well-kept with large trees surrounding it and settles herself with supreme grace on the ground, a sigh of contentment escaping her lips. The earth, it calls to her, and she sets her bag aside with care before pressing her palms past the slender stalks of grass and to the hard earth, mossy eyes disappearing behind her eyelids as she calls forth the power of the earth. It sinks into her, grounding her, calming her, and her lips pull into an unabashed smile of pleasure for she has missed this, this oneness with the world around her.

But clearly, she is not quite so at one, for she senses in the tree to her left a thing that ought not to be there and her eyes snap open, eerily snapping towards the white Snow Leopard lazing in the tree. Ah, a Were is here to relax herself, and Sorcha eyes her with a calm sort of reserve. "You may watch, if you wish," her lyrical voice calls softly, not in the least worried (even if she should be). Thus she grabs her bag and begins to pull out a pestle and mortar as well as herbs and roots and leaves, pinching some off of each and dropping them into the thing. Then she grabs a vial of liquid, a mix of water and oils, and she pours some over it with intense concentration before beginning to rub and pound at the stuff until it dissolves and flakes, turning a darker color.

One hand presses into the earth, a strength of force and nature itself, and she wills it to fill her up with it's nourishing fullness while her other finger dips into the liquid, lips parting slightly to whisper words. Sometimes, her mother said, words were not needed, but it helped one focus and she found she enjoyed the rhythm of them on her tongue. In a few moments she stopped, pushing the mortar and pestle out so that the starlight could gaze upon it unabashed while she glances up at the leopard with a content smile. "The starlight is good for more than just relaxing."