once upon a time, there was a girl named Jena

Jena the doula fairy stared in disbelief at the empty jar tucked in the back of her overcrowded shelves. She could see from the late afternoon sunlight streaming in that there wasn't even a smidgen of moonflower dust left. She wearily pushed back a strand of hair from her sweaty forehead and set the jar on the work table in the middle of her small cottage. Her potion cauldron bubbled merrily above the fire, and several specific herbs lay drying on the hearth. She had been all set to make another batch of anxiety elixir for her clients--one of them was due any day now and would definitely need some of the elixir.
Outside, the sunlight was dying and the cold, snowy evening approached quickly. Thankfully, the moon was waxing; otherwise, Jena would not have been able to find the delicate flowers from which the moonflower dust was made. They only opened in the moonlight of a waxing moon, releasing small puffs of dust to be collected by the waiting fairy. And of course, only a fairy could collect that dust because humans didn't have the reflexes or the sight necessary to do so. So it was to be a late night again, hunting for patches of ground where the earliest moonflowers would hopefully be blooming despite the chill.
Jena wrapped herself in her bright red shawl that was the signature color of all the doula fairies and pulled a wool cap over her lustrous hair. She stamped her feet into a pair of stout boots and grabbed her collection pouch and the walking staff with the gem at the top that carried a glowspell. Twitching her fingers at the fire until it died down to coals obediently, she opened the door and stepped out into the twilight. Her breath hung in the frosty air as she stood for a moment and greeted the moon.
"Moon mother, bless me tonight with your precious flowers. Help me find them, please." She gazed at the fat gibbous orb in the darkening sky and then set off toward the forest across the field in front of her home. It was hard work tramping through the snow: the wind had come strong the night before and there were drifts and bare ground and treacherous crusts of snow concealing hollows and rocks. She soon found herself huffing and sweating and wishing she had not worn quite so many layers. The moon rose higher as she searched in vain for the moonflowers, and her eyes failed to notice that she had stepped onto the edge of the mountain-fed spring that ran through the woods. With a sudden crack!, she fell through the ice and into the bitterly cold water beneath. She had time only to gasp before the current sucked her under the crust. Her walking staff lay abandoned on the bank.
Not far away, a man turned from ritually burying the inedible entrails of a deer he had killed. The crack of the ice had echoed and he felt in his gut that something was wrong. He got to his feet and ran in the direction of the stream...
to be continued...