Two years of effort sat in the pot in front of her. A twisted and knotted shaft of wood, its tightly clustered root structure just visible from the covering of soil. The shaft of the wand had little gaps and notches in, and it was with those that she bound the length with common nettle. Stalks and stems were tucked in and woven into the piece, the leaves soon curling around to form a protective sheath with space for it to be held in the hand of its owner.
The fire spells were ones she was used to. She always carried around a small handful of dried leaves, the somatic component to the spell. For more rigorous use, fresh cuttings could be used. A wand though? That was so much more practical. By placing it in a mix of water and nutrients, the roots would draw in sustenance, revitalizing the nettle and keeping the whole tool renewable.
Reaching into the pot, it was simplicity to remove the wand. The small top crop of roots formed a natural hilt to the long, slender taproot that would serve as the handle and the drawing point for the wand to feed. It felt warm to the touch, and it felt so natural to be holding it. Pushing the energy from her soul into it, a small orb of orange appeared at the top of the wand. With a slight frown of concentration, the orb floated off and over to the candle sitting by the pot. With a happy little spurt it ignited the wick.
A bright smile crossed her face as her wand, now cloaked in a pattern of green, jagged leaves, hummed with arcane power. And it had all been on her first attempt.