#the spell is a little extreme but artair figures it's worth it if it keeps them from deep fried xD

[townofcadence]

At least Butch doesn't seem too bothered by his awkward verbal stumble. He focuses on what he needs, and feels it tickle the edges of his fingertips. His tongue poked out in focus, before he pulled his hand free of his bag with a rolled up pouch that smelled herbaceous. A second bag rattled as it was set beside the first. Next with a grunt he pulled a small stone molcajete with its tejolote from its depths, setting it in front of him on the ground. The third dive is for a knife, charcoal sticks, a few scraps of what looked like a textured parchment, and a pair of leather pouches.

"Stay low, I just need a minute." Without Artair's flurry of movement to collect what he needed, Butch could easily see what was in the bag: a pair of what appeared to be books, bound by spirals of metal through the pages. It looked like there might be a few smaller things at the base of the bag, but certainly the depth Artair's arm had sunk to did not match with the volume inside.

Artair unrolled the pouch first. Inside was a collection of dried plants, each in it's own pocket. What jutted from the each pouch consisted of different parts. There were stems, roots, flowers, and leaves, tied separate from one another with small, colorful threads. Artair's gaze flicked over the whole of what he saw, before pulling from a few pockets.

Dried mums. Sweet Pea petals. Snapdragon buds. A few foxgloves blooms. A sprig of mint. a Cinquefoil flower. A cutting of rosemary. Some winterberries. A patch of white heather. All of it went into the molcajete, and Artair was fast to grind it together into a floral-scented, coarse amalgam of plant matter. He split it down the middle, holding half of it in place while pouring into one leather pouch, and then doing the same with what remained for the other.

He rolled up the herbs and opened the rattling pouch. He pulled two black stones from inside, smooth and reflective. Each one was placed in a pouch as well. Then he took a charcoal stick, and marked a symbol on the small papers he had left. Once that was finished, everything but the pouches, papers, and knife were put back into the bag. They weren't visible when his hand retracted.

He'd wasted a good minute or two despite the haste he worked with. but while he could hear the roar of the dragon, they still had cover for now. It seemed he was right, hopefully, and she was either distracted by any fleeing animals, or was preparing for another pass. He took the knife and pricked his thumb with the tip, before smearing a shimmery red fingerprint against the symbol he'd drawn.

When both were ready. He took a deep breath, and his mouth started to move.

The language that slipped from his lips was old. He spoke the Scots tongue, keeping his voice low as he dared. A buzz began to permeate the air, static and tingling with the flow of weaving energy that left his hand atremble. The words flowed in a steady stream around him, knitting into a tightening pressure. His mouth was tacky with magic, as his lungs fought to push the air to and from themselves under the vice to his ribs. Cold sweat beads at his body as the incantation flows, as he threads the magic and conforms its essence into what he needs by channeling it through himself. The plants he'd used glimmer, a visible light in their bags as he whispers each line. Each ingredient is vital, and he influences their properties to augment his own energy and enhance the intent.

Green-gold patterns his skin, runes that shimmer as he speaks. They flutter like mirages against his arm, his face, even the dark material of his prosthetic and along the coppery edges. They encircle him where he crouches with the faintest light. The grass at his feet grows and flowers bloom like pops of colors between the blades. There's a rumble somewhere in the far distance. He continues to braid threads of magic into a shroud for them both, his eyes aglow now, with tears of similar-hued lights streaking his cheeks. They streamed more like water, rippling with their own runes that dripped to the ground and collected on the thick grass like dew. Specks of light like fireflies floated in the gossamer of magic he'd spun around them, as hard to see in the daylight as the glimmer of golden thread layered around them and tied together in silken strands. His hair moved and shifted at the ends like it was underwater, unbeholden to gravity.

All at once, the spell finished. The pressure of magic bursts with the end of the spell. Something snapped in his chest. It was a familiar ache, one simple enough to conceal. He catches his breath in a few controlled inhalations, trying not to pant or wheeze. They rattle with what feels like glass shards, but he ignores it, passing silent exhales. The papers in his hands began to glimmer with gold light at the edges, almost with the appearance of burning, but without any heat to the touch. He leans a shoulder against the tree that served as their cover. His skin still shimmered like a prism in dim light, distorting and shifting with tattooed patterns. As they gradually fade, he slips the papers into each pouch.

Artair wiped at his face, clearing it of tears and a thin trickle of something else. "O-okay. Sorry for the theatrics. But these-- these should keep us from getting spotted. For the next hour, until those papers burn away. Just keep it on you and it'll function as a glamour. Unless she's looking at-- at you directly, and really focuses on what she's seeing, you won't be visible, even if we're not in cover. We kinda just.....blend into the background." Hopefully it would be enough to get them to the cave without her seeing them at all, especially since she would likely be scanning the area, not putting extra focus on any one place.

Butch seems unbothered by the fact that the other had nearly tripped, all too used to rough rides when it came to bulls and horses. If they did happen to tumble over, losing his grip certainly wouldn’t be an issue!

When they come to a stop, Butch moves to get off of him as he crouches down to allow, stepping back and watching curiously as Artair reaches into his bag for something. “Now, don’ apologize. You were just tryna keep things movin, heh!” The cowboy assures him with a small chuckle and a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Tch,” he can’t help but scoff when Artair mentions whatever it is in there being weird, all too accustomed to the abnormal. “I seen plenty’a weird in my life so this better impress me!” He jokes, stepping a bit closer to look down into the bag himself as if that would give him a better view. What all was this guy lugging around anyway? And what could possibly help them in this situation aside from some sort of magic sword?

A sudden mighty draconic roar rings out throughout the forest, no doubt the pirate queen’s temper getting the best of her. Butch turns to peer around, peeking out from behind some brush hiding their forms to make sure she wasn’t too close.

“A-Alright, I trust ya…. But we oughta get a move on, buster!”