Beneath the fallen twisted branches and dead leaves, deep within the ground there magnificent crystals waiting to be discovered. TiaTia, the other permafrost, is a WITCH who knows exactly where to find them! She uses her powerful intuition to guide her to the most beautiful mines and caves in the weird wilds. She climbs into the dark, cold crevices - fearless and focused, never leaving empty handed. From the dirt and dust, she reveals glimmering stones and minerals… each seemingly more spectacular than the last.

She is a WITCH full of WONDER - a talented gemstore carver! She’s always hunting for new crystals to create with. Tiatia adorns the powerful stones with sigils to manifest her deepest desires. She painstakingly crafts beautiful jewelry and energy-infused amulets for ritual work and altar decoration, known to be the most powerful in the weird wilds. 

She is WITTY, filled with an OCCULTIST’s wisdom! She naturally knows which crystals to choose for spell work - carnelian for creativity, black tourmaline for protection, rose quartz for romance, fluorite for mental clarity. She skillfully blends them with moon water and dried herbs to create magical concoctions. Creating personalized, medicinal potions for other WITCHES brings her joy!

She is WOEFUL, her hands are covered with scratches and scars from her handy work. Every scar marking the memory of a completed ceremony, a manifestation come to fruition. Her magic spawns from the depths of her darkest moments, the shadows of her most painful experiences - but instead of making her callous and cold, she is RUTHLESSLY KIND and compassionate. Tiatia is a generous WITCH, leaving everyone she encounters with a gemstone as a memento.

When Tiatia descends into the caves, sometimes she is gone for days, but she always returns with new gems. No matter how deep, dark and treacherous… she bravely and carefully digs through the rocks to see what hidden treasures await her. 

Folklore says there is a beast living beneath a cenote in one of her favorite caves - a massive creature with more teeth and eyes than one can count. This terrifying beast is believed to protect and guard the precious gems. It lurks beneath shallow, dark waters waiting for the perfect moment to strike. But Tiatia is unbothered, and uses her wit to avoid catastrophe - tiptoeing quietly through the shadows. 

This time something feels off - Tiatia has been gone for quite some time and no WITCHES have seen her since her last trip to the cave. Some of the WITCHES think that Tiatia's scars aren’t from carving gems at all… but from fighting the beast, just barely escaping its clutches! Perhaps she’s just exploring new terrain and it’s taking her a long time to haul the crystals back… or has she fallen into the dangerous lair of the creature? 

Luckily she is a WITCH who always carries her protective crystals and amulets with her, but will they be enough to keep her safe this time?

Have YOU seen Tiatia the other permafrost?


MISSING WITCH in the Crystal Caves

**SNAP!** Her pen’s cap breaks as she slams it down on her desk. She needed a break; too late for coffee, too early for whiskey. It has been two weeks since the mysterious disappearance of Trumpet, the lone pudding. And for Magnesium of the Tower, Captain of the Weird Wilds Detective Agency, the case was personal. 

The evidence had grown beyond the normal file to occupy most of her office. Pictures of suspects began to blur together, re-reading the agent’s reports became impossible. She moved to lay on her office couch. The pipe is packed and she takes a drag, as the fog leaves her brain the smoke fills the office. “I must have missed something” she thinks for the hundredth time. “But what?”

Captain Magnesium decides it’s time to touch grass. She puts on her leather jacket and exits 221 B Weird Wilds street to set off for the park. It’s a dreary night and the sun has already set. The smell of rain in fills the air and the sound of wheels on the cobblestone permeates the night. SPLASH! a puddle is strewn across the sidewalk narrowly missing Captain Magnesium. She utters a curse under her breath but thinks better of it before finishing the incantation. No energy to spare until her friend had been found.

It seemed like just a few seasons ago that Trumpet and Magnesium were classmates. Although, in reality it was more like years ago. They had become fast friends, although they had drifted apart since leaving the academy. When the news of her disappearance arrived at the Agency, Captain Magnesium played it cool so she wouldn’t have to recuse herself from the case. But now, as she walked down the dark alley to the park she couldn’t help but wonder if her affection was beginning to cloud her judgement. No, she just needed to look at the case with fresh eyes. Diving down a detour Captain Magnesium changes her destination. 

Opening the door to The Cauldron, a local hangout for artists, no one batted an eye as Captain Magnesium walked to her usual booth. Not that she would have noticed anyways, but the Captain had always been a welcome member of the collective, despite not having any affinity for the arts. It was a great place to not be bothered and focus on the task at hand; just what the Captain needed. The bartender brings over the usual, the scent of matcha and pepper leaps from the goblet as the potion bubbles. A jazz quartet, The Cat’s Meow, is warming up for nightly session as Captain Magnesium spreads the case notes across her table. She sips the potion, a hint of elderworm, the bartender must have sensed she could use it today. As the potion kicks in she pours herself over the assembled evidence. 

The pages of the case file were beginning to show signs of wear, she’d read them each a dozen times. Captain Magnesium knew the answer was right in front of her, staring back at her from behind the veil. As a headache began to materialize, the Captain shut her eyes and laid back her head. “What am I missing?” 

The Captain drinks the last sip from her goblet. Noticing, the bartender returned with another goblet. Odd, she hadn’t asked for a refill but maybe it was written on her face that it was going to be a long night. The bartender cleared the empty goblet and Captain Magnesium picked up the new potion. It was very light, strangely so… in fact the goblet was empty! In the bottom of the cup was a scrap of parchment paper. “Meet me behind the bar in 30 minutes if you want to see Trumpet alive again. Come alone” it read. The Captains heart began to race and her thoughts grew frantic. She looked at the bartender but their face read to play it cool. Captain Magnesium checked her pockets and now regretted leaving her gun and wand behind. All she had with her was the case file, her pipe and a small utility knife. It was going to have to be enough, she didn’t have time to return to the office.

The Captain gathered herself and her belongings, paid her tab and walked outside to case the area before the meeting. Who could have sent the note? Trumpet did run in an artistic crowd but she wasn’t part of The Cauldron’s collective. Perhaps a former collaborator? Captain Magnesium didn’t have much more time to think about it as the meeting time began to approach. “What if it’s a setup?” she thought as she hides the case files somewhere safe to be retrieved later. Cannot risk the valuable evidence being lost if the meeting goes sideways. Captain Magnesium begins to round the corner to the back of the bar, there doesn’t appear to be anyone there. The sound of her shoes echos off the cobblestone and through the alley. It dawns on her she’s wearing her expensive vintage Mugler skull earrings. Too late now.

As she arrives at the back door of the bar, the scent of the dumpster filling the air, a figure appears from the shadows. Tall and thin, the distance between them begins to close. Captain Magnesium is nervous but does her best to appear strong and unfazed. The shadowy figure finally reaches the light and their face is illuminated to the detective. The Captain gasps as she realizes she knows the figure. “It’s you!” she says but now she is more confused than ever. The person now standing in front of her, tall and as beautiful as ever, is none other than Trumpet, the lone pudding. 

-to be continued 


Captain Magnesium

_Don’t go_, he says. _Please don’t leave me._

_You knew this was never going to last._ 

_I’ll make them see. They have to. _The smell of sickness and sweat, the sheen of clammy skin stretched tight over bone._ I won’t let them hurt you._ 

His lips on hers. The taste of a dead man’s blood, sweeter than anything. Mashu breathes in, gently freeing the last bit of air from his lungs. His disease-blighted heart flutters, beats once, stops._ _In the terrible silence that follows, she gently passes a hand over his face to close his eyes and rests it against his cooling cheek. She does not need her demon’s sight to know that his spirit is drifting towards the open window, where it will be borne away by starlight and towards its final rest. 

_They couldn’t have._ 

Only scant hours later, the WITCH’s slumber is disturbed by the vibrations of songbirds taking flight. She rouses herself from her den and squints through the trees, trepidation trailing icy fingers down her spine and clutching at her heart. There’s the barest hint of something on the breeze. By the time she hears the crackling, it’s already too late. 

A deadly light, sweeping through the hills - her hills. Rough men in hemp, dirt filming their skin, torches and weapons in hand. Hounds bay ahead of them, all slavering fangs and sinewy muscle, bred to catch and destroy any creature too weak or too slow to escape.  

The sight of the fire unlocks a primordial terror in her, beyond all memory or instinct, and Mashu flinches back. She was wrong; there are too many.  The only way out is away, and so she makes herself smaller and faster as she flees, thorns tearing at her fur, river muck miring her paws. 

For a long time afterward, she can still taste the smoke in the air. 

A few days pass before she judges it’s safe enough to turn towards home. The sky is shading into plums and grays when she happens to pass by the outskirts of one of the human villages dotting the wilds. There are voices from the deserted graveyard at its eastern edge, and when she sniffs the air the sweet fumes of pear liquor prick her nose and tug at her heart. When was the last time she tasted it?  

Curious, hoping, past the wooden gate and between feathery cypress trees. From her hiding place she observes two men, their arms and faces streaked with ashes and sweat, laughing carelessly. Just beyond them, another joins in pleasure with his lover.  

Something’s not quite right. Blades pin her bare feet, wet trails shining almost black in the dying light. A short distance away, a limp heap of white fur, tiny paws that will never run again. 

She spies Mashu in the shadows and lets out a cry. _Sister!_ Her voice is the keening of all night creatures, an echo of winter winds through the pines, and Mashu recognizes her as kin.   

Some say OCCULTISTS are bloodthirsty, vindictive, always hunting for human flesh. That night, they’re right. 


Mashu the Bloody

Midnight. The boar drew a last, shuddering breath, and fell silent. Around the forest glade, the watching animals dared to stir and breathe again, and slowly, the sounds of the tree-hidden insects returned.

Calcium's alabaster blade, still warm from the boar's lifeblood, was now sheathed. No creature ever sees the blade, of course. Sharpened under the darkness of the new moon, it is drawn as quickly as a hand opening to offer a gift. She sinks the blade’s point deep into flesh, with deadly accuracy honed by years of the hunt. Its victims, eyes clenched against the pain, open them a moment later with surprise: they have entered another world.

Calcium feeds on the boar's rich meat as any animal might, hunched over the carcass, mouth dark and wet in the night of the glade, her familiar crouched beside her, lapping at the bloody grass. The forest animals look away. But when they dare look again, Calcium stands in the middle of the clearing, face faintly lit by the tree-filtered starlight, gazing through the woods - no - gazing at something far beyond them.

For Calcium never takes a life without visiting it in the next world. When she encounters the beasts she has fed upon - for Calcium is a PREDATOR - she offers them a light caress. A faint smile plays on her pale lips as she watches those animals: free, unencumbered, and unfettered by the cares of survival they had while they were alive. But for the souls here who were once human, she offers no more than a simple, cold gaze. Invariably, they now have a different form. One has been fashioned into a nameless creature, feathered, humpbacked, eyes downcast. Another glints up at her: a garnet-studded stone, firmly encased in the sun-warmed clay of the soil here. But their lives were taken not for sustenance, and not for mercy; they were taken for vengeance. 

Calcium, when her eyes light upon any of these souls, remembers the kill, remembers the reason. Here, a poisoner; there, a betrayer; and there, a coward. She had tracked them with the patience of the eternal, found them, offered them her blade for justice. But her gaze only rests on them for a moment. Then, she is back in the glade, eyes focused, breathing in the night sounds, tasting the wind. Her familiar, in the guise of a housecat, twines around her ankles.

She does not shun the company of her kinfolk, but inevitably finds herself at the edge of their gatherings, ears pricked to the ceaseless, sibilant whisper of the wilds. The other witches whisper that Calcium is seeking HIM: the lord of all those who creep, who lie, who maim. They see her looking under the gravestones of murderers, rocking the bassinets of missing children, tracing the patchwork of vessels in the red eyes of the enraged. _Perhaps he will claim her as his own_, some say. Steeping herself too long in the dark waters of death may leech away her essence until the only thing that remains is the lust for the kill.

But others whisper: _perhaps she will claim him for HER own instead_.


Midnight in the Glade

Three sisters were born under the same sky. A soft, sun-tinged Saturday, early enough in the morning that the stars were still out. Their hair caught the fading glow of the moon, caught the first fingers of dawn’s light, caught the magic held hushed and expectant in that quiet space of creation. Such a moment is sacred, as all witches are sacred, as all things are.

Three sisters were born, created as different from each other as each flicker of a candle’s dance. Saturday’s children—they had far to go. Their paths would diverge. They would not, always, agree. Such is the nature of a witch: to speak; to wander; to create and destroy and question and calm. 

Three sisters were born as one—one set, matched in the ways that were important, connected in the ways that matter. As words shape thought, as thoughts shape actions, as actions shape words, so they shaped each other, and in so doing, shaped the world around them. Such is the power of the witch.

---

You might be forgiven for thinking **Lady Cymbal** the eldest. She walks the world with purpose, with a grace **solemn** and unselfconscious. But it is her **will **alone that **paints** the seaward brick path yellow-bright and stretching before her, for any to follow if they dare. She, born between two sides of the day, between her two sisters, finds her magic in **creation**. 

She is an **Enchantress** who **sings ideas** sweetly into questioning existence, crooning silken susurrations that **warp** and twist and flow like **honey**. Slow like honey, relentless like honey, glittering and smooth and seemingly eternal like honey. Like honey, her songs entrap those who hear. Like honey, her words stick and spread. Like honey, her ideas are coveted and consumed. 

**Lady Cymbal** calls her power what it is: ringing, resonating, sonorous, echoes of it hanging and repeating like waves on a beach. Sweet and clear. Cajoling, calling to others to collaborate in the sugary soundscape of her visions.

---

You might also be forgiven for thinking **Cotopaxi Ash** the first-born. The loudest and boldest and **hungriest **of the sisters. The reckless vivacious **volcano. **Sharp and tangling to name her aloud: a test. A challenge.

She lives as a fire lives. She changes, she burns, she waxes and wanes. Her flame catches ahold wherever she directs it and in countless directions. Her magic is destruction, is consumption, is taking things into herself and loving them unreservedly and proclaiming to all who will listen their worth. 

Her magic is red-hot and devouring, **untameable**. It can swallow the whole of you. To be close to her is to live a hundred lives in a moment.

She claims for herself the title of **Occultist** but will never tell anyone so, for all that she **shares** everything else—her enemies, her **baubles**, her **altars**, her **hats**; her **screaming** songs, her **sleeping breath**. This is the **wisdom** of golden-flame-sister: some things to spread, some things to secret away.

---

But **Mercury** was the first of the sisters to meet that liminal Saturday sky. She, alone for the briefest moment, will never forget the **arcane **arch of the heavens above her, the stretch of the open **plain beneath her feet**. A thousand ways and more to cross it, a thousand thoughts and more to think, and each as precious and unique and connected to each other as the one before. The endless world, spread out just for her. The unfathomable world, hers to discover. 

She finds her magic in the promise of the **sunrise:** her warm glowing heart setting the yellow grasses around her aflame with honey-sweet curiosity. She teaches her sisters her **wonder**, and learns from them in turn.

**Mercury, the bright course**: it is she who guides the way. She is a **Mage** who illuminates the murky gloom of tomorrow with her search. A mage who **pulls** secrets from dark caverns, gleaming and painful and one small bright part of the picture. A mage who finds the folds and seams of the world, her craft and conjurings layered like teasing **tulle** for her fingers to sift through and rearrange. To relentlessly relearn anew.

---

Three sisters, waking and walking under the same brightening sky. Their story has only begun to be told.


Sisters of the silent Saturday

Imagine, for a moment, that you held the fate of a city in the palm of your hand. A beautiful, fragile little thing, teeming with life and vitality. What would you do with that much potential? 

I knew an OCCULTIST who had a choice like that, once. She called herself Kadovar, the Beastly Roast. 

She wasn’t always an OCCULTIST, you know. She wasn’t even a WITCH. In fact, she was once the Queen of a city-state far, far away from the Weird Wilds.  

Don’t believe me? Well, that’s easily rectified - I think that it’ll be easier if I simply _show_ you how she first manifested. Tell me, young one, have you mastered the art of dream-walking yet? 

---

This first one will be unpleasant.

_The Queen had never experienced this kind of pain before. It was deep in her gut, twisting and awfully visceral, and there was blood everywhere, pulsing out from between her legs and soaking through the mattress. She screamed in agony, screamed herself hoarse, screamed until her voice gave out, and yet the pain endured. It lasted for years, or maybe a lifetime. When it finally subsided all was quiet, except for the panicked murmurings of the nurses and handmaidens surrounding her. She looked down, and saw what remained between her thighs..._

---

Don’t turn back now. There’s more to see here.

_She was standing across from a sallow dark-eyed man. His garb was that of an alchemist’s or magician’s, and the angularity of his features were thrown into sharp relief by nearby oil lamps. “The others failed me,” she said. “They tried to tell me that it was a sign of disfavor from the gods, that they could prescribe me herbs for my condition.” Her voice dripped with derision. “I am done with prayers and concoctions. But it’s said that your power is true. Show me what you know and you will be greatly rewarded. Refuse me or cheat me, and I will have you flayed and drowned in seawater before giving what’s left of you to the sharks.”_

_The man, or something very close to it, nodded slowly. When he spoke, his voice was the dry rasp of scorching desert sands and vitrified bones. “The price. Can you pay it?”_

_“Name it. Gold and gems, if that’s what you want. Lands, a title. Anything.”_

_A slow shake of the head. “That is not my price.”_

_She nodded, unsurprised, and at her gesture a slave was pushed forward. His hands and feet were bound, his eyes obscured by a filthy scrap of wool. The sallow man’s nostrils flared, and in the lamp-light his teeth seemed very small and sharp. “Blood for blood,” he said, grinning so widely the skin at the edges of his mouth seemed to crack and show the inky carapace beneath. “I accept your deal.” And when he lunged forward and sank his teeth into the slave’s throat, sucking out the man’s lifeblood in a single voracious instant, she hardly flinched._

---

One more, to finish this tale. And then you will understand. 
	  
_The WITCH, formerly a queen, stood in an underground chamber, gripping a ceremonial obsidian knife in one hand. At her feet blood pooled and trickled from the mutilated bodies arrayed in a certain chaotic pattern on the stone floor; their tongues had been torn out so that they could not sever their own lives, and the incisions in their flesh were deeper and sharper than any knife-wound. These were scions of noble houses, chosen for their vitality and purity of blood; more than one of them had been no older than thirteen._

_“It’s not enough,” she said to the sallow man, who was standing just beyond the light of the braziers. “You told me my spells would be more potent with sacrifice. Well, I’m out of slaves and my dungeons are empty; even these ten are like trying to sate a leviathan with maggots. How many more will it take?”_

_The sallow man was as still as the corpses scattered about the chamber. “Don’t be a fool,” he said at last in his glass-and-sand voice. “There are limits even to blood-magic. There is no amount you can spill that will give you what you want.”_

_She turned on him in an instant. “And how would you know?” she countered. “Tell me, you loathsome demon, why should I take your word for it? You spent your years in the shadows, scavenging scraps of power from the crippled and forsaken, squandering what you had to fuel paltry enchantments and extend your miserable life. Ha! Unworthy sacrifices for a wretched ambition. Do not think that your failings will deter me.”_

_The sallow man’s mouth opened in a soundless snarl, but she threw him a contemptuous glance and he shrank from her; her ability had long since outstripped his. “Leave me,” she said. “Before I decide to carve you next. How valuable is an existence as corrupted as yours, I wonder?”_

_She had scarcely finished speaking before he had gone, slipping out of the ritual chamber and into the warrens beyond._

_In the brazier-light, the blood on the edge of the knife seemed to glow a dull crimson. She flicked it so that a drop flew from its tip and sizzled in the coals, and watched as puffs of steam rose where it landed._

_Somewhere far below her feet in a stone mausoleum lay a tiny coffin, one end adorned with a miniature death-mask inlaid with onyx and jet._

_With the sudden clarity reserved only for those who are madmen or on the brink of death, she began another incantation._

---

I did ask her how she came to be here, and Kadovar told me she had no home to return to. Obliterated by a volcano long thought dormant, she said, and what was left of the city after the magma cooled was pulled down beneath the waves. It was the dead of winter when she shared this with me, but I thought I could feel a burst of dry heat against my leaves, and hear the thin wailing of the dead and dying filling the air.

I did not dare to ask her if she was able to obtain what she sought.


POWER ROOTED IN SACRIFICE

Waking from deep dreams was always the hardest part.

She was known as elasticity, the binary scroll to those in the circle. To the regular townspeople she was known as the menace. Most stories and memories were confined to the borders of her hearing. Even as a small child she had learned to crawl quietly through the shadows, with her vision being the clearest of all the Elders.

She shifted and stretched as she moved from dream to dream. Her mind opened into the forest, the cold breezes kissing her face.

She knew that it was the last of the cycle of dreams; an end to the continuous melody of time. But she could not help but dwell on the memories that she would have to take away. She would soon have to leave her home. A thought that made her feel sad and wistful, as all that she had ever known would soon be gone.

She couldn't help but look ahead on the path that the night was taking before her.

She watched as the people would wake and begin their mornings. A constant hum could be heard in the distance, gently calling to her. It was her own thoughts that she would come to remember, not the faceless terror whispering in her ear.

Wonder drove her to move deeper into the forest. She had been awake long enough for her light to be fading, but she needed to return to the circle for her rest. The light she brought forth was always how she kept others from looking upon her face and invading.

She silently slipped her way through the great tree's center, reaching for the sky. The sky above the world was filled with countless twinkling stars. The moon shone high in the sky, shining a brighter light than any of the stars. In the distance she saw a glow of light, but it felt close to her body. She saw a path that led away from the trail she was on.

The path led into the forest. She followed it, even after she knew that the path would lead her to it. The coldness of the night air made her move quickly through the darkening forest. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but felt it was close.

Night had a way of creeping in and eating away all the warmth the sun provided. It got so cold that no one would want to venture far from the house and the warmth that their fire provided. With each step she took, the winds seemed to push her back into the ever deepening shadows. The winds weren't what frightened her, however.

She made her way over fallen trees and through branches and reached a clearing in the woods. Nestled within the lush greenery like a robin's egg in a nest was a small pond. It was so dark it appeared to be infinitely deep. A pure black blot on bright green canvas. She drew closer and heard a faint calling from within.

She stepped forward carefully and plunged her hands into the waters; gasping at the icy coldness that enveloped her hands. A fear crept in, and she began to pull away. The calling continued and grew louder and defiant. 

Her skin crawled, mind silently howling in terror, and she dove into the black.


The Deep

There is a tale of a sisterhood so frightful it is only told in whispers during the darkness of the new moon. Even other WITCHES cannot fathom the evil deed that cleaved the destiny of these two sisters.

The SEER Lychee was not surprised. She knew this whole tale before it happened, for she knew the future like the creases of her own palm.

Her sister, Zimina, craved power with a desire so sharp that she spent every waking hour seeking magic that she could engorge herself with. She started by extracting magic from plants, but soon began sucking power from the flesh of deer and the fat of bears. She would return at dawn, covered in the blood of beasts, chest heaving and eyes wild. Her power grew, but not quickly enough. Some mornings when Lychee drifted into slumber under the ice of an alpine lake, she felt the ravenous glare of Zimina, watching her through the ice, contemplating her power.

But Lychee felt no fear, just as a WITCH does not fear the words written on a scroll they’ve memorized by heart.

One evening, Lychee began to weave a fine cloth from pressed flowers and parakeet feathers. She worked as the stars rose on the horizon and swirled across the dark sky. She sang with the birds of the night, a woeful song that made the very air quiver with sorrow.

Zimina emerged from the shadows gripping a dagger of obsidian. Her eyes blazed with hunger and envy. She snuck up on her sister, who’s sad song covered the sound of her treacherous footsteps. Zimina uttered a spell in an ancient tongue. She felt its power course through her veins, and its evil bloated her courage. 

Zimina plunged the dagger into her sister’s back. Lychee did not cry out, just looked up at Zimina as if using the last of her energy to admire her sister’s face. Then her eyes closed and her soul dissipated into the night air. The power Zimina had sought was as ethereal and unattainable as the mist.

The cloth Lychee had been weaving fell out of her lifeless hands. Zimina realized that Lychee had just finished the last stitch, right before her final breath.

The cloth was a shroud.

Zimina howled like a wounded beast. She used the blood from her dagger to draw a circle in the dirt around her and her sister’s body. She chanted words older than the stones around them, older even than some of the stars. A shape appeared above her, dark and dancing like black flames.

It was a demon. A demon known unto those who saw the birth of the moon, who understand the old words whispered by the wind. Zimina knew only that this demon had great power, perhaps power enough to undo her betrayal and bring back her sister.

But a betrayal can not be undone. As Lychee’s heart was cleaved by Zimina’s dagger, a betrayal leaves a gaping wound. 

No one knows the deal Zimina made that night, but the demon granted her favor. The demon squeezed Lychee’s soul from the nightingale’s song. He wrung it out of the herbs in her garden. He pummeled the ice where she slept until every secret part of Lychee’s soul splintered out.

At last, a gasp was heard from Lychee’s body. Zimina rushed to her side, apologies falling from her lips like rain. But Lychee did not speak or open her eyes. For although Lychee had returned to life, never again would she open her eyes. Nor would she speak, except for prophecy of the utmost urgency.

But the demon was not done. He seared into Zimina’s forehead one of his own eyes. Long banished from this realm, he would not squander this opportunity. Then he disappeared.

From that day forth, Zimina became a powerful OCCULTIST, more terrible and feared than even she had dreamed. She was sometimes seen muttering angrily in an ancient tongue that made the trees quake with fright. Her enemies were known to spontaneously catch fire. 

As for Lychee, she took to wearing the shroud she wove on that fateful night, and a blindfold to cover her eyes, so weary from seeing. She was sometimes seen on a mountaintop, weaving intricate patterns, but never finishing. She was strange and silent to all those who had known her before the betrayal.

Some say it’s because the demon was never able to return all of her soul to her body. Some say that in her moments of death, she lived a whole life in a parallel realm. Whatever the reason, you won’t hear it from Lychee.

The one thing everyone knows for certain is that if you so much as throw an unkind glance towards Lychee, Zimina will be there, raining rage and fire.



Sisterhood: A tale of Zimina and Lychee the Still

She could not remember when days and nights conglomerated into a painfully long and dull passing of time. The Autumn rain dampened the piles of maple leaves among the roots and sent them into an earthly decay - the smell that she otherwise would not have given a second thought, sent her memories spiraling back to that day that seemed as from another life entirely. 

---

The woods have a certain feel in Autumn when nature picks up her own wand and does her magic. The Enchanted Forest even more so. Its color palette might fool many, as it is not always a safe haven to rely upon. 

In the midst of the rustling leaves, quiet songs of birds and hushing sound of the wind, came a soft laugh, a faint giggle and some whispers. Amongst the golden yellow hues, two slender silhouettes of young women emerged, walking quickly next to each other. Saba whispered in haste, telling a story, but all Meldola could do is stare at her face. Saba’s face was way too ordinary and too simple; in fact so simple it made her unnaturally beautiful. She could not pin down what it was that made her so attractive, but she was absolutely taken aback by her presence. The pale twilight color of her cheeks made her look like a friendly ghost and her whispers, although incomprehensible, could calm nerves of a quarrel perpetrator.
 
“Why are you always so distant?”, she demanded, but Meldola couldn't find the words: “I…  I...”

“May I propose we play a game, a game of your choosing”, she interrupted her stuttering, eyes fixed on Meldola. 

“A game?” she said, bewildered. She turned around to find inspiration, but all she could see were trees like in a golden paradise, glistening in yellow and orange. 

“Well?”, Saba said impatiently, her arms crossed in front of her. 

“We can play hide and seek?” Meldola proposed, as it was the first thing that came to her mind. The instant regret of her proposal made her sigh and frown. 

“I used to be very good at that game as a child. How fun!” Saba exclaimed, bringing her hands to her mouth and announcing she will be the one to hide first. 

“But what happens if I find you?”, Meldola asked. Saba leaned forward so their cheeks were almost touching and she could sense and hear the trembling breathing of Meldola.  She whispered softly : “If you find me, I will be yours.”

Then she slowly stepped back, gave a crooked smile and said: “But I must warn you - I never lose a game. Go on now, turn around and once you name all of the high witches you can start your search.”

Meldola turned around quickly to hide her face blushing. Her heart was racing. Did she hear her right? Once she calmed her breathing, she started naming the high witches. She heard her own voice clearly ringing in her head, the rustling of the leaves in the wind, and she even imagined she heard a distant little giggle. It made her smile, too. By the time she finished, a few minutes had passed and there was no one in sight. She began her search throughout the Enchanted Forest. It was a sublime site. She listened for clues but she could only hear the nature - the wind, the birds and maybe a doe or two. Her heart was beating fast, all she could do was think of Saba, think of what she said, and how obvious she must’ve been herself. But Saba was nowhere to be found. The wind was getting stronger and harsher and she could no longer rely on her hearing. The dusk began to fall on the woods so she started calling out to her: “Saba, Saba!” There was too much at stake for her to give up, so she searched and searched and searched for hours until the rain started to pour.  It was cold and harsh - the forest turned into an earthly trap. The mud filled her boots and decaying leaves soaked her cloak. 

“Saba, I'm done playing, please show yourself! Saba!!!”, she shouted throughout the forest in despair. She was drained out of her clear mind. By the time she could barely still walk, she reached the brim of the Enchanted Forest. She mustered up all the energy she had left to return home - alone, freezing and hurt. Saba played her and she played her hard. She played her heart. 

---

She could barely sleep at night thinking of that perfect face, those navy waves and twilight skin. Years have passed and the emotions got stronger every Autumn. Another sleepless night led her to her garden before dawn, to get some fresh air after heavy rainfall. But when she stepped outside - there she was - standing perfectly still, skin even a little bit paler, although the moonlight was shaded by clouds. 

“Saba?!”, Meldola wept and ran to embrace her, but as she reached for her, felt freezing cold down to the bones, before hitting the muddy ground. She turned her head around to see Saba again and cried with horror: “No, it can't be!!”, shaking her head vigorously. 

“I told you I never lose a game, Meldola. But don't you see? In a way you won, too! Because, my dear necromancer, this ghost is in need of a master.”


The curse of the autumnal rain

Serpens lies wounded in the woods. The nighttime is overclouded, the skies shrouded. Beside her open hand, an amethyst softly glows where it has tumbled out onto the forest floor.

The being that tricked her into accepting the cursed artifact has slipped away. That story is for another branch of the TREE of ECHOES; it is enough to know that the charlatan was someone she delighted in until the moment of betrayal. 

Serpens feels her blood seeping into the mire, her spirit weakening. Her lips move quickly and silently in a desperate attempt to conjure the words that will save her, to curse the one who has deceived her. She will bathe in their tears someday.

And yet … the shadows are so deep, the cold earth so hard beneath her, the pain searing and white-hot: spreading from her fingertips, up her arm, approaching her bosom. A brief quiver of doubt turns gripping as her breath falters and her jaw slows with numbness. The incantation can’t bridge the gap from her mind to her lips. 

As the mists of hope curl out of her, she finds a small token of comfort in her honor, in knowing that she lies here not for a lack of virtue, but because of naïveté in the face of perfidy; she laid her heart open and bare for a demon in disguise (a blunder she won’t make again). She feels a surge in compassion and humility—compassion for all that have felt this agony, humility for all she has yet to learn.

Even in this dark moment, in her desperation, Serpens’ intellectual curiosity rings out with a pragmatism that almost drowns out the swells of emotion and physical pain: How did this cursed artifact hold such power? How many more are out there? She vows to devote herself to documenting and unraveling this corner of the dark arts, should she ever emerge from her suffering.

That’s when Phoenix the Discerning Symbol appears.

Serpens can no longer move her limbs or even turn her head, but her eyes follow Phoenix's movements, wide with a mix of panic and relief. Phoenix’s mage script face markings glow green from deep within her midnight skin as she twirls her hands to lift the amethyst from the earth and confine it within a set of slowly rotating orbs. Next, Phoenix turns and approaches Serpens, whose eyes are still desperate even as the light within dulls and the lids slowly lower. Leaning far over her, Phoenix returns Serpens’ gaze as she places something on her breast - something green, herbaceous, tied with twine, a sharp fragrance emanating. Serpens struggles to keep her eyelids up as Phoenix leans closer, closer. All goes pitch black, but not before Serpens feels Phoenix’s lips touch her own, soft at first, then more urgently. A surge of sweet air originates from deep within Serpens’ gut, and she gasps as if coming to the surface from great water depths. 

Phoenix is gone like an apparition or a memory.

No one knows how long Serpens lies in the woods undergoing her rebirth. The clouds part to reveal stars that guide, distract, and comfort her while her pain surges and recedes, and her strength and power slowly return. She has never beheld beauty like the patterns and runes twinkling in the night skies. Her reverence is all-consuming. Periodically, she explodes in ecstatic mirth for the sheer joy and absurdity of being. Her laughter is heard reverberating from the Swamp to the Tower.

Her fellow mages grin at her transformation when she returns to the Hallowed Halls. She is lighter in places (her hair, her vestments) and darker in others (her skin, her dreams). From that day forward, she is known as Serpens the Virtuous. (Phoenix has another nickname for her, but she only whispers it to Serpens when the moon is full, and they lie entangled in the grass. It elicits the most mirthful laugh of all.)

That night, and every night thereafter, Serpens carries a fresh jar of stars with her, which she places on her nightstand and stares at serenely until her grey eyes softly close.


Serpens the Virtuous

Entry 715, Moon Cycle 6

Imagine: the seam of day and night. It is here, as the sun descends, where I soak my form into dusk’s careful weave, spirit becoming ever slightly threadbare. This is where I feel most at peace, my safeplace, where I am very rarely visited by other mortals (who often know not how to place me, nor my curse).  

Thus, when I heard a voice that was not merely an echo of the living, I admitted surprise— 

Her name was Iron the Elegant, and upon first inspection her aura reminded me of a dying star— on the precipice of brilliance, but also of a goodbye. After a graceful introduction, I asked her purpose. She answered: _I have forgotten_.

Despite my own appearance, I had no interest in malice, and with the nature of my magic, I did not fear deceit — for my magic, born from a bovine’s infantile innocence, weighs mortal spirits against a feather. 

And her spirit — it could easily float. So, I invited her to accompany me for this journey, thinking perhaps my passage into the dark may bring light to her own.

We entered the river where it was calmest. My canoe rippled into its edges, shifting the water apart like a snake’s old skin. Fog folded as a silver wing over the surface of the river, softening the silken shimmer of souls submerged just below. She hovered her right hand above, and the glowing collected below it, each flicker appearing like hungry fish. 

I said nothing. Or perhaps, I did not know what to say to a mature witch. However, within the day’s time, she told me her story. With it, we shared sustenance and secrets on the winding river.

“Motherhood isn’t easy. Folks talk of it like it is every woman’s inevitable dream. But my very core is cold at the thought of what it means. It means not just making a life, but continually being the source of it.” 

Her left hand was over her stomach, drawing circles in a steady rhythm. 

“—I am exhausted. There is a child that always calls out to me and I am expected to answer. Stealing away my sleep, my shine, my sparkle. Do you know what it is like to have your magic based in mothering? My head hurts. I’m terrified.”

“I do not know what that is like,” I replied, “But what I can say is that since I have been here, things are never born. They are waiting to go elsewhere— somewhere warm again.”

“_I see._ Do you like it here?” She asks.

“It is familiar.”

“Chrysoidine Glaive, you see, familiarity is what many strive for. It mirrors safety, truthfully. But the enemy of familiarity is change. Thusly, motherhood flies in the face of familiarity. I have no idea who I will create. I could name her, I could bathe her, feed her, clothe her, but I could never be able to stop her from growing and changing, taking her own form. Motherhood is dangerous, it is terrifying because it is married to the acceptance of that change.” The canoe banked up to the other side of the river, where we faced a forest devoid of color. The air suddenly crackled with a powerful energy. 

“Change is inevitable. But in many ways, it is cyclical. What we think is changed forever may return in ways we cannot imagine,” I murmured.

“Exactly!” Iron jumped suddenly from the canoe and took off into the forest at breakneck speed. A strange wind cried with the song of birds, and the river began to glow and bubble. I was taken aback, just for a second, until it appeared --

A giant silhouette cut out from the far dark, above the tree line. I made out an outline of a sword in this entity’s grip, chills falling down my spine. My trust in Iron’s action, however, did not waver. As if possessed, my own legs began to move, faster, faster, towards the songs of her magic. I did not sweat, my breath felt oddly at ease despite the distant giant’s miasma.

Through the trees, I saw her, standing above an ancient stone Dias covered in runes. Iron’s jacket was open, stomach tattoo’d with a magic circle. Above it, she dangled a single spirit the color of gold collected from the Styx. 

The giant whose face could not be seen, swung its massive sword towards Iron, and without hesitation, I put up a barrier. In my core there felt an urgency, a need to protect. The blade’s first slam was deflected by my mortal magic, reflecting its blow outward and felling several colorless trees. I could feel the echo of its mass nearly shatter my psyche. My nose bled, my ears rang, I could barely stand. But it felt the right thing to do, and Iron’s ritual, divine and deft, was already complete.

Mud had risen to match Iron’s form, and took the shape of a young woman. Her form began to illuminate, matching the shimmering of Iron’s tattoo, and once the glowing ended, she spoke to Iron:

“Mother?” 

Iron collapsed. The girl turned to see the giant, preparing for its second brutal swing. She looked to me, eyes glimmering with magic, hand gripped on Iron’s shoulder. I could see her mouth words of a language I did not know, and without warning, we were surrounded by the light of a warp.

By the time I had awoken, I was lying on cotton imbued with the scent of lavender. I could see across the room two figures, one seated, the other standing, holding a book. As I opened my mouth to speak, the seated figure bolted to the edge of the bed, the sounds of birds singing with each of her steps.

“You’re alive! Thank you for everything, thank you. I would like you to meet my daughter—”

“Gold. Gold of the Wastes.” She shut her book curtly, stepping carefully towards me, eyes narrowed, “My magic is never wrong. Do you know you were supposed to die?” 

“...Yes. It was told to me by a Seer when I was young, that before my 26th solar cycle, I would perish. I have been looking for a way to find to die honorably.”

“Well, I’ve died once before,” Gold smiled, “So let’s all defy death -- together.” She handed me her book. In it, there were 714 Entries. The ink shimmered as opals on the pages.

“This-- this is the Book of Life,” Iron whispered, rolling a quill into the grip of my hand. “So long as one writes in it, one can live forever. Won’t you join our Coven, brave necromancer?”  


Psychopomp in Love

The ECHO of this young & ambitious WITCH, starts in an unusual place - at death’s doorstep just shy of her 17th birthday. However, being a skilled occultist - She found the task of bartering naught too difficult when it came to the spirits that came to usher her away from life’s breath. 

She used her WIT and WILES to convince the spirits before her; to hear her woeful pleas of distress…

“I’ve made nothing of myself yet…”, “it is too soon”, she uttered in disbelief. “It can’t possibly end this way?” DUBBI screamed, almost as if to own herself.

‘Oh, you think so?” The 3 guardian spirits mused. Smiles crawling over their faces, as they stole glances with each other - almost exchanging a sense of knowing. 

“YES! I know it to be true, the road does not end here - It simply CANNOT”, Dubbi replied, almost exasperated with this place, the in-between - with one foot on earth and another in the ether. 

The spirits answer in eerie unison, “We will grant you more time WITCH… however, No one can know you’ve cheated a timely passing. As such, you must choose a new illusion for your vessel…”

Dubbi thought to herself for what seemed like slow burning hours, but she sensed the task was meaningful … She thoughtfully replied:  

“My face should have CLAWED MARKINGS - to remind me of my Warrior soul, that will always carry the battle scars of the demon’s I’ve bested.
My eyes are to reflect the color of my aura, GOLD. 
My hair is to carry the scent & color of LAVENDER, to soothe my anxious heart
My skin is to match the color of the evening when my power is strongest, DUSK.”

The spirits said in soothing harmonious tones: 

“Dearest DUBBI-
You will forget our brief encounter. Yes - Even you, despite your power!
However, It is our hope child -
That with the delicately chosen composition of your visage —
The mirrors in your life will leave a trail,
An almost invisible, yet shimmering road
Impossible for your curiosity to ignore 

May it guide you back to your cosmic roots- 
for YOU are a seedling of the goddess of the dark; NYX
You will soon find the stars start to speak to you in the dead of night,
Whispering sweet origin memories in your mind and heart. 
Of a time when you made the SACRIFICE many lifetimes ago, to come down to this other Mother; Earth. To embody a soul contract of learning ALL the lessons humankind has to offer.
…
TERRIBLE as it may seem, remember this is But only for a short while- 
in the grand scheme of space & time… 
For you are meant to travel the universe again & again.
And yet… you’ve chosen not to depart these Weird Wilds.
May you continue to bloom where you are rooted”

Dubbi awoke with a start - bolted upright in her bed. The flames of her floating candles flickering in the darkness of her room. She looked around, disoriented - almost dizzy. “What a strange dream”, she thought to herself as she shook the sleep from her mind. . . “It was a dream… wasn’t it?”. She picked up the scrying mirror from her bedside drawer - the same eyes she’d always had staring back at her, shining like gold starlight. Since, that evening Dubbi, has never quite looked at life the same way again… and since she’s made herself known as, DUBBI the TERRIBLE SACRIFICE. 


The Goddess' Rebirth

Somewhere in the Weird Wilds, in a city hidden in the woodlands…a Seer is inspired.

“Mmm…excuse me love…did I just hear you say ‘Hyperwasp’?” Cherry appears at the table, behind the speaker, a witch lounging in leather pants and a jacket. 

Everyone is surprised and a bit charmed at the way Cherry instantly appeared, as if she was there the whole time though she clearly wasn’t

The Leather Witch smirks and chuckles. “Yes, curious Seer. I said Hyperwasp. A magical beast deep in the Wyrdwood Hollows. A powerful, rare, winged, wasp queen…if I were you, I would drop it, she’s—-hm”

As the Leather Witch began to give a warning, she stopped, and shook her head. Cherry The Infinite was long gone. 

2 Days Later,

Deep in the heart of the Wyrdwood. A window blows. The air is filled with static electricity.

KRAKOOM. A blast of thunder pierces the creeping stillness of the Wood. Lightning arcs through the sky. Leaves blow across the wood, passing through the liminal spaces separating the trunks of the trees.

When the wind dies down. The white haired Seer, wrapped in branch and leaf appears from behind a mighty wyrdtree, bearing a giant portal at it’s base. Cherry The Infinite reaches out with her awareness, reaches down into the Hollows, and feels her potent psionic attention reach a powerful energy. Cherry retracts quickly to her body upon making contact, aware of her target’s strength and alertness.

Cherry stumbles briefly as her field of vision fractalizes briefly. She can feel her soul-essence briefly expand and disperse into the Universe. She feels deep into her desire, her breath, the feeling of her bare (perfectly manicured, despite not letting a soul touch them) feet on the woodland ground.

“Wow.” A mad smile appears on her face. This is exactly what she was looking for.

Cherry claps her hands together, clasps her fingers, and moves them through several potent mudras, or hand & finger locks, as she does so, she steps and moves and dances. The wind whirls around her, the charge in the air grows stronger, a subtle boom echoes across the Wood as a lightning bolt cracks and unleashes a quiet, but solid wave of thunder through space.

Cherry throws out her hands and electric currents run out of her fingers, as she weaves a web that catch and trap her desired prize.

Another Day Passes.

The moon is high and full in the sky. Filling the Wyrdwood with it’s light.

Footsteps can be seen, clearly illuminated by the night sky presence, marking the dirt around the Heart of the Wyrdwood that leads down into the hollows.

The hollows are buzzing and alive. Humonoid sized wasps buzz about, doing their duty, while deep in the hollow, the queen, The Grand Hyperwasp, buzzes around her spacious, luxurious chamber, lit with will of the wisps, and tending to her eggs and laying more as she feels compelled. 

At the entrance of the Hyperwasp’s chamber, Cherry The Infinite appears, smiling gently. With a heart full of curiosity and secret knowledge. 

The Hyperwasp, Her Grace, is startled momentarily by the Seer’s appearance. Her stinger flashes, and the space of the chamber ripples as the fractal venom is exposed and temporarily stops time.

“Bold, foolish, smart WITCH. Whose eyes shine with white light, whose hair appears wise though her skin and body young. Barefoot in my hallowed nest…”

The Hyperwasp moves through 5D space and switches positions with the Seer. Now Cherry is exposed in the middle of the chamber, while Her Grace, The Hyperwasp blocks her exist. Cherry finds herself sweating and breathing hard. She had an imagining of how this would go, but it’s already far beyond her wildest conceptions. The mad smile appears across her face again. Her body catches fire and electrifies under the weight of the Hyperwasp’s force of Being.

“Your Grace…” The Seer bows and then drops to her knees. “I have come, in need of your help.”

“What makes you think you’re worth of my help, little WITCH?”

“I am, amongst many other talents, resourceful.”

The Hyperwasp, with prismatic wings and eyes, appears in front of Cheery, stinger to her throat. “The next words out of your mouth, better be truly mind blowing, or I will melt you out of this reality, and it will be as if you never existed.”

Cherry smiles.

Deep in the Wyrdwood. There is a place, where where aphids, resplendent with mana-enhancing nectars, gather in mass, on the night of a full moon.

On this full moon, they came to gather, only to realize they were being gathered.

A giant electromagnetic field, of such incredible weaving holds the swarm of aphids. Squirming, locked in place by nature’s forces.

Under the Web. A white haired Seer, and a VERY large wasp queen appear.

The queen radiates ravenous hunger and joy at her sweettooth’s impending satiation. 

Cherry casts her mad smile on the triple-enchanted jar in her hands, containing the multi-dimensional fractal venom of the Hyperwasp. Sometimes the best way to get what you want, is to give what is wanted.


In a tropical city of the Wilds. Witches strut and mosey through the humidity, in their finest tropical wear. 

A parlor of made of palm trees, leaves, and sand finds itself visited by a white haired Seer. Bearing a jar of fractal venom mixed with squid ink. 

A witch, tattooed in sigils from head to toe looks at her, and the jar. 

“Cherry. Are you sure?”

Cherry and her mad, curious smile shine.

“Ok. One fractal blossom, across the front and back meridians coming right up.”

The tattooed witch dips her pen in the venomous, holographic ink. She takes the pin and starts at Cherry’s heart.

Cherry The Infinite sees the fabric of space, time and intention. One step closer to godhood.


Venom of the Hyperwasp

For as long as the world had turned, war plagued its inhabitants. Whether through the pursuit of greater riches by acquisition or righteous endeavors in the guise of religion, the ultimate menace was the quest for power.

The world had enough and prepared to fight back.

A new holy war was being fought, and the troops found themselves fighting on an unlikely battlefield, in the valley between mountains in the middle of winter. As night closed in, the full moon rose. Bodies littered the ground as the snowfall increased. Most of the soldiers dropped dead from wounds, while others could no longer endure the frigid conditions in which they found themselves and fell of pure exhaustion. The two warring parties retreated into their trenches with their lookouts struggling to see across the field toward their enemies.

The wind picked up, howling through the night, making the visibility even worse, as the snowfall turned swiftly into a blizzard. What the soldiers also didn’t know was that the night brought with it a mystical, momentous phenomenon… the world positioned itself directly between the sun and the full moon. As this magical event commenced, a lithe figure emerged through the sliver of the lunar eclipse.

The preternatural form floated through the blizzard as it softened her descent to the ground. The wind whirled around her long, navy wavy hair. She adjusted her witchy pointed hat. She knew the blizzard wouldn’t dare take it away from her. Her striped shroud provided little cover against the cold, but it didn’t appear to bother her one bit.

A resounding boom sounded in the distance, and a small lead ball grazed next to her and lodged itself in a nearby tree, causing a crack to form. Magic surged within her and she realized that her power spawned from the crack, whether the crack would occur in a road, a sidewalk, a tree, or anything at all. She breathed in the cold air as she made her way through the sea of bodies.

The blizzard roared on and grew stronger. The gunfire stopped. At that moment, the witch knew she would be known as Blizzard Ammunition, as the blizzard itself became her own ammunition.

The lookout soldiers could no longer see anything, so they bunkered down to survive the night.

Blizzard Ammunition surveyed the battlefield with her glowing smudged snake eyes. She had no problem seeing through the blizzard. She witnessed a silver glint through the corner of one of her eyes. It reflected off a medallion warn around a dead soldier’s neck. She bent over and pulled it free from the slain man.

A man whimpered nearby. Blizzard Ammunition leaned over the living man. She could see her reflection in his dark, brown eyes. Her twilight skin tone made her Daedra skin face markings stand out. Between her strong, black eyebrows a dot appeared in the middle, surrounded by four wavy lines.

The man’s eyes widened. “Whhhhooo—” the man tried to speak, but the cold limited the sound.

“Who am I?” Blizzard Ammunition’s black lips parted as she spoke for the first time. She smirked. Her voice echoed in the wind. The soft pitch of her tone made it sound as if she had been singing. “You can’t tell what I am from the way I look?”

“Witch!” The man replied disdainfully with disgust. He spit on the ground by her feet.

Her eyes glowed green with hatred. She knew the man had no respect for the world or his fellow men, let alone for her. His anger and lack of care provided a low vibrational energy that fueled her even more.

The man, with fear in his eyes, reached his shaking hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a vial of liquid. He tried to place it against his lips, but Blizzard Ammunition snatched it from him. The green fluid smelled of rotten eggs. As she put the poison to her lips, the soldier grinned. He thought it would be her demise and he would witness the death of a witch.

Blizzard Ammunition swished it around her teeth and spit in onto the ground. It fizzled as it melted the snow and entered the earth, but it had no effect on her at all. She lay her hand on the man’s chest and willed his heart to slow. His terror grew and panic rose within. He felt the end coming, and instinctively Blizzard Ammunition realized he feared death above all else.

His eyes glossed over as the life drained out of him, and she plucked his medallion from around his neck and placed it with the other dead soldiers around her belt.

The medallion’s clinked together as she wandered through the battlefield collecting from the other slain men, and delighted in the cleanliness of the snow, imagining it washing away the wickedness of the men.

Although her wisdom of the world was low, her wit was high. She knew there would be no winners in this battle tonight, other than her. She would only bring sorrow and distress, and no one can combat those in a blizzard.

The temperature fell to an unbearable degree. The surviving soldiers in the trenches on both sides of the battlefield slowly succumbed one by one, but not merely from the deadly weather but also the woeful presence of Blizzard Ammunition.

She closed her eyes and reveled in the misery of the men from both sides of the field. No matter their reason for war, she knew they not only destroyed one another, but also the world in which they should be protecting and cherishing.

By the morning, Blizzard Ammunition collected every medallion owned by all the soldiers. They all perished through the night, their energy leaving their human vessels and entering the night sky in rings of many different colors, creating the northern lights.

Blizzard Ammunition knew she would encounter more battles, and walked the world in search of where she would be needed most.

There will always be cracks that need corrected.
 


Battlefield Losses

MUCH MAGIC IS IMPOSSIBLE TO DO ALONE. The magic of unity, of charms, of bestowing grace. Of merging with the glowing world, of bewitching baby turtles, of alchemical powders stored in shark teeth. The lasting relics of these collaborative symphonies adorn beautiful WITCHES, aqua gems whispering the sensuous story of a portal hopper entering a sumptuous sea cave to dance with the most precious phosphorescence.

**Ursa, the binary grid** walked under the crack of the waning moon along the rocky edge of the lagoon. Sea winds whipped her long tendrils. Silica blessed strands the color of cinnabar, ochre, and secret fire. Seeing her now so sleek among her precious lilies, these briny tangles are a distant memory of her starlit nights as a salt encrusted young MAGE. This night would soon show itself as a pivotal moment in her quest to know the glowing creatures of the deep.

The Lagoon formed eons ago. A shocking shift from sweet to salt, the underwater vent piped sea water right up next to where the rivulet of spring rushed in to the salty depths. There was no liminal zone in this sacred place of **Ursa, the binary grid**.

GET SEA SALT IN YOUR HAIR!

A flash of shimmering blue in the dark waters began to grow into an incandescent orb. Ursa longed to bask in the secret treasures of this excitable matter. She carefully laid down her knitted ivy sweater. Pausing to connect herself to the center of light in the water, Ursa spoke an incantation in the old MAGE tongue for approaching luminous beings.

Diving with the determination of a seabird and the lithe aquatic ease of a dolphin, **Ursa, the binary grid** descended to merge with this splendor of luminescence.

The second she reached the azure glow, it dispersed. A fractal of whirling stars spinning like fireflies scattering in a gust of wind. The entrancing lights entered a cavern in the rocky slope leaving only a faint illumination at the entrance.

Ursa heard a WITCH’s voice or... was it the MOON CALLING?

FIND US IN THE SEA CAVE!

She swam into the opening. The phosphorescent aqua beacons formed a circle ahead of her in the tunnel. In the center, a mirror portal emerged. Mustering her binary grid hopping inertia, she approached the zero point of the portal to became one with the mercurial disc. Time to traverse into the unknown... yet familiar as the portal smelled of jasmine blended with a pungent oil she could not name...

**Emerald, the sculptural vanity** tended her shell-tiled sea cave with the immaculate intention of an innate ENCHANTRESS. She melted when her soles touched the sumptuous carpet of the softest lavender sand that had been joyfully gathered by her precious turtle familiars. When she strummed her pearl chimes, the water in the shallow pool made the most beautiful patterns. Emerald was most vain about the mirrors she sculpted. Silken mirror portals connected to magical loci across the weird wilds exemplified her talent for enchanting beings through spacetime.

After emerging out of the portal, **Ursa, the binary grid** lifted her head from the shallow pool to scan the majestic cave. She locked eyes with **Emerald, the sculptural vanity** and an instantly they both knew it was time: a most special kind of conjuring between an ENCHANTRESS and MAGE was being called forth into the night.

WHAT TREASURE SHALL BE CONJURED HERE!

Emerging from the incandescent pool, Ursa extracted a vial from her top knot. Carved from a shark tooth with a sun bleached coral bottle stopper and sealed with the skin of sea cucumber, the vial held a precious powder. It was a gift from **rigel abacus,** a MAGE who used it to conjure a glorious mask from the neon of desert scorpions. Ursa placed the vial on a selenite slab next to a vessel made from a giant pearl and marvelled at the ENCHANTRESS weaving across the sands.

Emerald danced around the cave, her feet floating above the iridescent purple sand. Ensorcelled by her enchanting movements, a procession of baby turtles travelled from the the blue glow in the water to the selenite altar. Stabilizing the glow with the special saliva in their tiny turtle mouths, they deposited the light liquid one by one into the pearl bowl.

Emerald shimmied closer, gathering the corner of her gossamer veiled trimmed with pearls. Placing a large pearl from the corner of her veil between her lips, she sucked oil of oyster from the hollow pearl. Her tongue laden with the precious oil, Emerald gracefully bent over. The absolute tip of her tongue traced the faded blue moon on the center of Ursa’s forehead.

GLOW UP, YOU HAVE BEEN ANOINTED BY AN ENCHANTRESS!

With the most direct glance into the depths of Ursa’s squid ink lined eyes, Emerald unleashed her telekinesis. She coaxed the phosphorescence in the pearl bowl into a glowing ball rising up into the space between the WITCHES.

Electrified from oily tongue on her sacred mark, Ursa uncorked the vial and emptied the powder on top of the orb. Spinning and shimmering, one long tendril emerged and latched right to her moon mark. She felt her entire energy field respond with the throbbing pulse of knowledge of how to glow from within. She knew now, what she was never sure of before: her moon mark would never fade.

With a flick of her wrist, Emerald the sculptural vanity sharded the glowing orb of baby turtle lapped phosphorescence mixed with mysterious mage marking dust. Droplets fell to the lilac sand instantly solidifying into the most beautiful teal teardrop gems. Emerald affixed one to her silver circlet. The two WITCHES gathered the rest of the gems in the dark cave lit by the resplendent moon mark of Ursa the binary grid and sang:

WHAT GIFTS FOR THE COVEN THESE WILL BE!
SOLID LIGHT BEAUTY FROM THE DEEP!
YOU ARE GLOWING WITH THE SAME MAGIC!


Moon Mark GLOW UP! in the Lavender Sea Cave

VEXED. WILTED. LOVESTRUCK!

Why do you curse me, Pollux? Spare me your haunt. Leave me here in the mire to rot. Or thrust me back to a life untouched by your charms. Whatever your choice, come one last time, so I may break our contract with my own blood. 

Forgive me, my love. We were young. You, lips dripping with woe, hair twisted in shadow. And I, chasing conquest. On and off the battlefield.  How could I have known our kiss was binding? Or the consequences of touching another?

Oh, what a ragged trail I’ve left behind. All in the chance that I might forget you. Yet, here I lay, in the gnarled vines of the living forest. An old wolf, driven from its pack, with strength only for a single curdled howl. My claws, cracked. My coat, greyed. But my heart, squeezing memories of you with every strained, uncontrollable beat. 

Damn you, Pollux! How many moons? Years? Eons have I waited to kiss you again?

Just one more. So that the curse of unrequited love be lifted, and I may die with your breath still in my lungs. Give me this, Pollux, and I vow to cross backwards into Hell -- with your silhouette being the last thing I hold, as I fade into eternity. 

\- Final words of The Somber Knight Godrick, echoed from a flask of tears.


Sharpened Clause 

Deep within the hidden mountains, lying swathed in mauve intoxicating mists, Mimosa the Esoteric’s hut lay enfolded by the velvet mantle of a wintery night. Inside, tucked up amongst her intricately catalogued collections of feathers, palest bone fragments, insect wings, colourful dried fungi and ripe, sweet-smelling berries, she sat, watching the firelight leap upon the walls.

Mimosa’s dark eyelashes were just beginning to drop against her tawny skin, as a butterfly might kiss the most delicate of gentian flowers, when flames leapt suddenly, dancing and spitting green sparks across the tiny room. A thread like voice, not much more than a strangled whisper, escaped into the air, settling with icy menace on twisted root, opalescent shell and Mimosa’s delicately shaped ear. “Help Mimosa, for he has come!”. Then silence and the peaceful crackle of the hearth fire returned. Pale with worry, and trembling from a fear born of bad omen, Mimosa darted from her cozy chair, worn to the perfect imprint of her slender form, she dashed to pull on a finely spun shawl, deep blue with the iridescent carapaces of dead-nettle beetles woven with glistening spiders web into the fabric. With fumbling hands, she opened the door and stepped into the eerie, mauve draped, starless night. With a soft whistle Mimosa summoned her familiar, a silver furred and amber eyed fox. With legs swift and sure, between the fern fronds and the ghostly trunks of ash and elm, the duo ran, at one with the forest and the swift, shadowy form of their companion. The moon peeked out from behind cirrus clouds and lit the scene ahead. A strange sight indeed, large sickly coloured toadstools, the cloying mauve mist that bewildered unsuspecting travellers with its intoxicating vapours, the darting shadows of wraith and gwyllion. A loud crash made Mimosa the mage and her fox companion, Eldric, start and pause in their headlong rush. Moving again, with more haste, the pair crossed a small creek and stumbled up the loamy bank beyond. They had arrived in a beautiful, yet eerie, clearing. Looking around Mimosa saw the large stone statues of the whispering elders staring vacantly back at her, perpetual sentinels in this forbidden dell. They stood, majestic against the dark forest behind them, barely visible amongst the mistletoe creepers, albino ferns, and the strangulating embrace of morning glory, these ancient monuments stood guard around the well of lost souls. A small cry brought Mimosa and Eldric to the side of the glimmering pool. Lettuce the plain bramble lay barely conscious next to the waters edge. With shaking hands and a tear-stained face she pointed to the black, glimmering water of the pool. One deep sob fled from her shivering lips as if it were being expelled with a bitter and poisonous aftertaste “He has escaped!” Mimosa went pale and dropped to the ground, this news was more than she could accept. The weird wilds would echo to the cruelty of Shiriyr once more. Gathering herself together, Mimosa took comfort in the familiar warmth of her glittering, bejewelled shawl, before she squared her shoulders, whistled gently to Eldric, and sped off with determination into the night. Her mission to seek help before a catastrophe unfolded so devastating the weird wilds would bear the scars for eons to come. Lettuce, still lying in a heap on the mossy turf of the clearing, lifted herself gingerly from the ground. She felt her smooth head, her hair shaved closely to her finely shaped skull denoting her recent initiation into the order of the lost soul guardians. A terrible bruise began spreading its deep purple filigrees across the left side of her face, near the temple, woozy but recovering swiftly, Lettuce collected the few belongings she had with her, a leather journal, a jar of salvaged stars, her scythe and a small lump of beeswax. She tucked these into her satchel and tentatively followed after the departing figure of Mimosa. Eldric, sensing her weakness, waited for her to catch up before leading her through the dark forest after his devoted companion. An eerie quiet had settled over the forest, broken only by the occasion shriek from a hunting owl, almost as if the rowan tree, foxglove and chestnut-coloured squirrels were all holding their breath. The last time Shiriyr had roamed this realm the forest had burnt; the weird wilds had been destroyed. Perhaps the wise conifer, majestic oak and gnarled old birch tree remembered and hastened the witches’ journey that night. Perhaps something else took interest in their plight. Perhaps, an older, more benevolent force sped their sure-footed journey to alert the elder mages and bring forth the power of the coven to recapture that which would threaten the weird wilds to its very core. Shiriyr the reaper, the defiler, the father of nightmares, he must be captured once more, before heaven and earth itself was laid bare by the scorching destruction of his unstoppable fury.  

By Jasmine la Fleur


The Well of Lost Souls

**Ursa the Well-read** swore **Oizys **and** Teak Poison** friendship and allegiance until death.

It wasn't just a cunning witch hiding her dreams on her bedside chest. She was a warrior at heart. She searched for justice and poured her heart with the petals of thousands of tears.

And now she found a way to help **Oizys**.

The friendship of Oizys, Ursa the Well-read and Teak Poison is kept by the ECHO tree.
The branches protect the thin silhouettes of witches.
So different, they found each other and fell in love**.** They reached out to each other like the branches of the ECHO tree towards a stream.

**The soul of Oizys was pale and empty.** She was forced to feed on someone else's grief. Every day she had to look for pain and unhappiness in others. Night hunting filled and exhausted her at the same time.
 
Teak Poison and Ursa loved her and would not let her suffer alone. They gave her their love and warmth.

**Teak Poison** filled Oizys with energy. 
Unlike Oizys, she **was made of sunlight**. And generously shared it with friends. She wrote poems full of charm. Her magic was born from spring leaves.

**Ursa read fairy tales. **She would find the kindest stories and shared them with her friends. These were stories of love and fidelity, happiness and disappointment. Ursa knew that the happy end is not on the fairytale only.

In the evenings, under the canopy of the ECHO tree, the friends sang songs, listened to fairy tales and made up their own story.

One day, Ursa found the most ancient book of Knowledge. That day the sun rose lazily over the forest. It was cold and foggy. The book attracted Ursa. It was a book with recipes from their ancestors, witches of the elder blood.
The recipe for a magical drink captivated Ursa.
She learned that the drink can change the strength and characteristics of the one who takes one sip at midnight of the third month.

Ursa told her friends about the drink. **They swore to keep silent. **
Their goal was to create the magical elixir. 

They wanted to make the world better. They dreamed to become better themselves.

Oizys kept telling that she no longer wanted to feed on the misfortunes of others. She wanted to come alive. Breathe in fresh air, smell the leaves.
She envied her friends.
She no longer wanted to be a necromancer...

The recipe for the drink consisted of** the feathers of rare Aigun birds**, which the Witches exchanged with each other.
Feathers had magical properties.

Hand in hand, Oizys, Ursa the Well-read and Teak Poison prayed to the ECHO tree every night. 
They urged the birds to descend on the branches of the tree.
The world needs an elixir. The witches did not give up and believed in their powers.

On the day when Aigun flew to the ECHO tree, and the sun rose as high as ever in the sky, the noise of the wind was heard.
The witches caught the tune.

Teak Poison composed their lines. Her friends picked up her words. On that day, the spell was created.

_«Under the shadow of the ECHO tree, arms folded, we collect our blood drop by drop. I will add joy, will sing poems about love, my happiness is to get up with the first rays of the sun»_,- **Teak Poison** sang.

_«I will add sadness. Let sorrow and sadness burn in the cauldron. May those who shed tears forever forget the pain! My eyes are open. I see everything. I feed on despair, but I need love»,_- **Oizys** sang.

_«I will add wisdom and knowledge of Ancient books - and the elixir will be filled with the magic of the Sisters of the elder blood, which healed travelers and illuminated the world. There is power in our knowledge»,_- **Ursa the Well-read** sang.

The voices of the witches scattered through the Branches of the Echo Tree.
The sisters heard their voices and began to repeat the words of the spell.
This is what the Crypto Covens sang.

The Magic Bird Aigun heard their song. Tears appeared in her eyes — those were tears of happiness. Aigun flapped her wings, rose to the sky for a moment and exploded with magical flames. Hundreds of feathers rained down on the Echo Tree.

That Day, the Covens received all the Aigun feathers at once.

From the tears of Aigun, the words of three friends and the strength of all the Witches of the Coven, an Elixir was obtained. It was the most powerful potion on the planet.
The ECHO tree remembered the power of the older sisters' witches. History repeated itself and Magic was created.

Oizys no longer wanted to feed on gloom. The elixir was in her hands. She could take a sip and change her essence...

But that is another story.


The magical elixir

The night was warm and dry. Summer had just started and young people were flooding the city looking for fun.

He had parked the car near the club. I remember listening to the song on the radio and thinking how appropriate it was for that setting. _All around me are familiar faces_, it said. _Worn out places, worn out faces._

He opened the car door for me before I could even think, and kept talking about some boring subject I couldn’t care less about.

It was the second time we’d met and I was already tired of it all. He, apparently, was not, and was thrilled that I would meet his friends that night. 

It all seemed so pointless… 
 
The dance floor was crowded , people were dancing with the urgency of youth and I managed to escape our group to get another drink at the bar. Or maybe just to breathe, among strangers.

_And their tears are filling up their glasses,_
_No expression, no expression._
_Hide my head, I want to drown my sorrow_
_No tomorrow, no tomorrow._

As I finally got to the front of the bar, I saw her. She was a vision of beauty.

She had all the confidence the rest of us lacked and she owned that room, wearing that structured black top like a model. Her dark hair passed her chiseled chin and skull earrings peeked out of the dreamy large waves. 

I looked away in a self-conscious reflex as she looked towards me, trying to hide my reaction by pretending to ask for a drink. 

Out of nowhere, in a split second, she appeared just at my side, and called the barman.

As she did this, her hand slowly touched the back of mine, and lingered for what it seemed to be an eternity, without either of us acknowledging it.

I remember thinking our nails matched, coated with dark grey matte nailpolish, just like our souls.

I had no alternative but to follow her, through all the bodies traveling with music on the dance floor trying to find some connection.

Her zesty perfume was leading me through the confusion, as I was following that overwhelming feeling that drawns innocents into the most delightful dangers.

As she crossed the glass doors that lead to the club’s balcony, she looked back at me with her smudged eyes (after all, she always knew I was there) and smirked.

Her face was beautiful and mesmorizing. One of the most vivid memories I have of that night was that moment when our eyes crossed.

There was no return. My heart raced, my soul shivered and my legs kept on going, without any hesitation.

I remember recognising her freckles somehow, discreet but making a bold statement of distinction. “They’re just like mine”, I thought. 

I can’t recall what happened next with detail. 

Suddenly all the plants that were on the balcony merged into a dense forest and I came into that space like entering a new world. Others welcomed me without saying a word and I remember feeling unexpectedly safe.

She kept going, slowly, into the woods. As I followed her, two other girls followed as well. One of them, a beautiful girl with a delicate crown of spring flowers in her pink hair, smiled at me and said:

“Hi! My name is Lentil, the tangled, welcome to the Weird Wilds.”

My mind was overwhelmed at this time, but I didn’t dare to ask questions. I nodded and kept going.

She continued:

“My sister’s name is Peppermint the buttery, and we are her acolytes”, she said pointing to the one we were all following.

“She’s Sapele, the deathless. She’s a WITCH with kindness for all. She dyes her hair with ash and bone. Her magic spawns from a gecko’s left foot. The winds carry her voice through the gaping maws of spirits.”

And she added:

“You must follow her into her house. She will conduct your initiation.”

I did, without a word.
 
As I entered the darkness, I felt Sapele’s hands touching my arms like soft flames while my heart danced to the sound of an orchestra playing the music of dead composers.

It felt too famiiar, like as if I was embracing myself.
 
The next memory I have is waking up in my bed, the next morning, wondering how I got there. My memories were fuzzy and confused.

I got up and, as I entered the bathroom, I looked into the mirror and Sapele’s face was there for a brief moment.

I recognized the freckles and my eyes still had the remains of the smudged eyeliner.
 
As the image dissolved into the harshness of reality, pieces of the night made their way into my mind like candid Polaroids.

The Weird Wilds, I thought and smirked.
 
Later that week, as I picked up my long jacket to go out, I reached for my left pocket and found my pair of skull earings.

I still wear them to this day, every new moon, whenever I initiate a new witch.


Mad World

The line grew impatient, this section of the woods was a place to be seen. 

The aroma of oat milk fluttered the atmosphere, memories warped the wooden walls. 

Mira hops the counter as if it was entry to her forge, hastily moves into the backroom, it has the same footage as the shop, "B" says its her sanctuary. 

Mira appears, noticing her employer with a fake smile managing a rush meant for more than two. Apologizing as she takes over meets eyes with a demanding Fluorine. 

Fluorine asks for a brew at such a temperature mortals cannot imagine. 

Exhausted from being alone, B sets the rotor incorrectly, the machines mist violently sprays on her finger.

Usually one to laugh at her own jokes, B is filled with rage. 

Mira incants a cup of water into a ice slurry and brings it as a peace offering encroaching her space.

B looks up with her piecing blue eyes. "Don't." and exits to her refuge

Mira wasn't like B, She was uncomfortable with being seen. This exchange had played out in front of a packed house, eyes normally glued to books are squarely observing her. 

\*Ding\*

Florence rang the attentive bell that was meant for décor. 

Mira not known for ability to use her wiles abandons her post and decides to capture Bs attention.

She expels she studies star signs only to have a common interest.

\*Ding\* 

Mira moves closer and takes Bs braids in her hand. Removing her moth-gauzed glasses is alerted by a final sound 

\*Ding\*

---

Mira awoken by her cat ringing a bell. Groggy, unsure what she dreamt. Stretches until heart chakra, now notices her clock.


Nocturnal Mindset

She was but a babe, fresh with wonder of the weird wilds, the night the wind churned howls of beasts into an eldritch hymn. Pine needles, sap and dirt levitated in perfumed clouds. Decaying tombstones stood like soldiers caressed by the glow of the full moon. A mausoleum, shimmering in the light of tallow candles, beguiled with fragrant elderberries and black narcissus. Afzelia would never quite remember how she had wandered there, but she had the strangest feeling of being home. She sat on marble steps, soaking in secrets whispered on the wind, when it manifested; a shimmering ectoplasm dancing like woodsmoke, twisting its form into curious shapes before her eyes.

It was that night, when forgotten spirits were nigh, that she was proclaimed a WITCH of rarest gifts. A communicator to the dead, diviner of their arcane knowledge. Spectres once resigned to loom in hidden darkness now felt her steady gaze. The patter of her heart steered them like the compass, her warmth guided like torchlight blazing in castle halls. For centuries the withered and wretched had watched the sands of time trickle on, turning flesh to bone and bone to dust. Souls stolen by the bitter kiss of death wandered realms beyond, abandoned and alone. All hope had been forgotten.

But by sheer luck, or some unknown merciful force, they had crossed paths with Afzelia the NECROMANCER: speaker to what lurks among shadows, voice for those beyond the veil. She was their sacred master, a WITCH with the power to remedy their loneliness and despair. Although their woe was vast and heavy, these spirits were gentle toward Afzelia. They perched in corners like sleeping owls. They crept forth in the orange glow of tombs, croaking dust into tales as ancient as history itself. They materialized with the caw of ravens and emerged between the fickle flicker of flames.

It took Afzelia months to get used to the phenomenon. Apparitions would appear like lightning, one after another, eager for her counsel. In time she learned to hone her peculiar abilities, but it wasn't without trial. Buzzing bees quickly became her familiars. She would prick herself with stingers, shield her magic with sigils inscribed upon her flesh. As venom and ink ran like a babbling brook in her veins, her confidence began to grow. Then one day she had the revelation: seeing figures wasn't just some random gift, it was a gateway. Soon, she began to willfully convene with the ghosts and ghouls. In the stillness of a cold, dark night she'd walk the hallowed grounds of those departed. Between knotty trees Afzelia would dance, moving her body in languid waves, hands twisting toward a celestial mother. She called forth wraiths with incantation and ritual. She invoked the presence of spirits with the rattling of bones. She conjured portals to the other side and shepherded souls with lanterns floating above graves. There, in the cemetery, they gathered. And there, wielding knobbly needles, she stitched together threads of words whispered in tongues. With their insight, her craft took on new purpose.

Afzelia, ambassador to the afterlife, a WITCH of wit and wiles aplenty! In joining the worlds of living and dead she carves her story upon the TREE of ECHOES. To all that know her one thing is certain: knowledge is the feral creature lurking quietly beneath her skin. Across the land of the weird wilds she gnaws at the marrow of the unknown, devours grimoires scribbled with ancestral wisdom. She fills her chalice and drinks from the well of eternal consciousness. Every encountered being aids her in unraveling a new mystery of the universe. She considers the dead her most trusted acolytes, helpers and friends who guide her in uncovering answers to things of which we know not. There isn't a riddle, puzzle, or question this omniscient WITCH cannot solve. She'll never tell you what, exactly, she knows, and she'll never let you see what lies beneath her pointed hat.

Do not even dare to ask. 


The Harbinger of Hope

"Let's get it out of the way," MELDOLA said, setting down her glass. Before settling, the emerald liquid spun as if pulled to the edges of the shallow glass. 

"Pardon?"

"You've been staring at them. I know you're curious, so why don't I tell you?"

"Oh." The eyes. Of course. I had been staring, and it shouldn't have surprised me that she called it out. "I'm sorry, it's just-"

"You're curious," she laughed. "I don't blame you. It's natural, they are remarkable, and I fear sometimes they want to be seen as they truly are."

The WITCH herself is very pleasing to the eye. She moves with an effortless grace as if the world itself is her dance partner and she is leading. Her features, in the main, touch the edge of perfect; her demeanor is somber yet somehow approachable. In some ways, she is the picture of a true NECROMANCER, but in others, she is…something else. She balances youth with an ageless quality that draws you. But as fascinating as MELDOLA is, something incredibly compelling about her eyes, even masked with heavy glamour and expertly applied cosmetics, pulls.

"Would you show me?" I asked, latching on to fear and excitement, riding it upwards. She pulled me down easy, with a sardonic smile and slow shake of her head. 

"You don't want to see. Not like this, and I think it would be a regrettable experience for the both of us. But, I can tell you a story if you're interested. About how they are the way they are."

"Yes, please."

"They appear when unglamoured, with dark sclera; a blackness fills them: edge to edge. Dark as ink. Darker than the darkest night. Dark but for the reflection of the crescent moon at their center. It does not bleed, it does not shine, and we're you to look into them and see it, well… you'll never do that. Best not to speculate."

She settled to both her seat and her story. She changed, as she often does, shifting herself to suit the tale and her role in it. Something about her easy yet oddly formal way of speaking began to fill me with a strange calm. Her voice was soft, almost too quiet, and she spoke slowly, like a matron talking to a young child but without condescension. A teacher. A storyteller.

"These eyes are not my own. I was not born with them. They might not be eyes, not anymore. They are part of me and will be as long as I am. I am their caretaker. Or perhaps their jailer. I will tell you they were gifted to me, though I did not ask for them. Others say I stole them or won them. They are worth much and hold great power, but they are not treasures. I know less about them than they know of me. They are gift and burden, and this is the story of how I came to possess them."

---

I first heard of The Ashen Rift from a story told me by IMPERATRIX STAKE. It was a casual mention, almost as if she'd pulled it out of a travelogue of the Weird Wilds. She described two ghostly, snow-covered mountains, rising from a stormy sea and set against a giant rift, darker than the darkest night, torn in an almost perfect circle from the sky. She said she had seen it once and had forgotten about it until we spoke. She described it in great detail, conjuring a fantastic, haunting and beautiful image into my mind.

The image stuck with me. I thought about it when awake. I dreamed about it and conjured the presence of The Ashen Rift to my mind night after night for weeks. It felt more akin to a person than a place. It's hard to describe, even thinking of it now, but it was like I /knew/ them as a friend or a lover. I knew them, and they, somehow, knew me. They were both a location and something else; perhaps a goddess, spirit, or lost soul? These terms are too small for what they felt like to me and would further prove inadequate as I began to seek them out.

I will not bore you with the details of my search except to say that it was tedious and took many months before I came upon the smallest of leads. I spoke with WITCHES, wizards, sages, historians, and many others, from all over the Weird Wilds and beyond. I found not one person who had heard of The Ashen Rift. I got my first clue when I finally decided to speak again with STAKE about it and was confronted and confounded that she had no recollection of ever mentioning it to me. To her credit, and later my benefit, she believed me, speculating the influence of some dark and strange magic, and joined me in my search.

In the end, it was my faithful familiar, Tilde, who provided us with the trail that led me to find The Ashen Rift. With the help of STAKE and the SEER JUJUBE, we leveraged my necromantic link with Tilde to impress my image of The Rift into her little bird brain. It was an unpleasant experience with JUJUBE, and I'm amazed she remained my friend after.

We didn't know it when we began, but there is a connection between The Ashen Rift and the dead. In hindsight, this makes too much sense, and both STAKE and I hold a fair amount of shame for not coming to it sooner. I have learned next to nothing more about that connection, but I still see it in Tilde. She becomes energized by it and almost enthralled. Singleminded was how she was when she led us towards The Ashen Rift.

The three of us, WITCHES and friends, followed Tilde as she led us into and through the Weird Wilds, acting as a bloodhound would, tracing a scent. There were times when, through my bond with her, I could see what she saw—a trail of dark shadow, a weeping miasma that is woven intricately through the Wilds. STAKE suspects, there is a pattern there, but we've not been able to map it and, despite what is now years of research and searching, have not been able to recreate or find even the barest trace of that trail since that hallowed day.

The trail finally led us to a cave. It was not natural but had been primitively carved into the side of a stony, moss-covered hill. I couldn't tell you where, exactly, this cave is now. The nature of the Wilds is shifty at best, and for the most part, we were following Tilde blindly as she flew and flittered her way, following a shadow that disappeared as we dove in further and further.

What happened next, I experienced much as one would a dream. We four—myself, JUJUBE, STAKE, and Tilde—entered the cave. But it was mere seconds beyond the threshold where I found myself alone. The others have no recollection of even making it that far; they all came back to themselves outside, and to them, it was as if they were barred entrance. They say it wasn't too long when I returned from…well, I'm not sure where I went, but I came back forever changed.

Realizing I was now alone, I first attempted to turn back, only to find that that way was no longer available to me. I was still inside the cave, with its roughly carved walls, dripping with both moss and the slow trickle of some water source above, but it had changed. Quickly realizing I had no other option, I gathered myself and walked further into the cave. It wasn't too long before I emerged and found myself on the edge of a high mountain. The cave had opened to a large stone landing, surrounded by a low parapet carved from the mountainside. Indeed designed, but as with the cave, primitive in its shaping.

The view was unlike anything I've seen and is beyond challenging to describe. It was unreal, beautiful, and constantly shifting, as if the whole of the Weird Wilds spread out before me and floated by…or perhaps it was I who was in motion, or maybe it was the mountain that moved. I watched in awe, my mind struggling to grasp it all, trying to hold on and capture the vision…when it stopped. And changed.

Everything went dark as if suddenly cast in shadow. It was then I saw The Ashen Rift. There, spread out across the horizon, was the vision I'd seen in my dreams. I saw the ivory mountains, covered not in snow, as STAKE had described, but ash. Below was the raging sea, the mountains, and foothills that surrounded the twin spires—and over everything, was a coat of white ash. The sky above was cloudless and clear, but for what looked, to me, like a giant moon. This moon, this circle of night STAKE had described to me so many months ago, was unlike any semblance of the moon I'd ever seen.  

For one thing, it was massive, a giant orb of obsidian, set behind the mountains and dominating the horizon. I don't think I've ever seen anything quite so large. It was enormous both in sheer size but also in presence. I could see it but also feel its weight upon me. The sky behind it was as in twilight. Swirls of pale blue and purple mixed with a hint of gold helped define the edges of everything, adding a soft halo to the golden crescent that rose, slim and perfectly symmetrical, along either side of the orb just as the twin mountains framed it along either side.

I knew then that this was a gate or some eldritch hole punched through multiple realities. But it was also a presence. And that presence had a voice or many voices. They were singular and legion, and they were calling to me. They sang my name, and they whispered it. They thundered both in my mind and across the horizon, "MELDOLA! MELDOLA!" 

I raised my arms toward them and took them in…or let them take me. I suffered an eternity of ecstasy in that one moment. I felt their intelligence and heard them speak to me, though I cannot recall what they told me. I was one with them, and through them, I saw worlds beyond time and felt a power so raw it transcended what we think of as life and death. I felt the pull of the grave, the blessing of sunlight on the green earth, and so much more, all at once.

And then everything went completely dark until I woke to the sounds of Tilde twittering. She perched on my chest, and I found myself—shockingly—nestled comfortably in my bed. I came to myself slowly, and for a while, several hours at least, I thought the whole thing had been a dream. Tilde was acting somewhat agitated, but otherwise, it was as if nothing had changed. I didn't feel any different.

Until I left my room and saw my sisters and friends waiting for me, it wasn't only STAKE and JUJUBE, many from the Coven had come out, and they all now stared at me with expressions ranging from relief to abject shock and horror. Every WITCH in that room got an unfiltered look at and through my eyes. They all saw the entity beyond and behind them. The Ashen Rift had become a part of me, and they were—and are—terrible to behold.

STAKE told me that she and JUJUBE had been forbidden entry to the cave and so had waited for me to come out. Of Tilde, they couldn't say, but I suspect she managed to come with me, even though I hadn't known it at the time. 

I hadn't been long in the cave, only a few hours, and I'd emerged dazed but appearing unchanged except for the darkness that filled my eyes. I collapsed, though, and remained that way for several days. My sisters got me home and called on others within the Coven to come and look in on me. Not a one, then or since, has shed any light on what happened to me, and I've come to accept that I may never know.

I can always feel the presence of The Ashen Rift within me, but they are now the sleeper, the dreamer, not I. They are not an active presence in my life; I consider them even less so than I consider my ghostly passenger, or my connection to Tilde, though the power they hold is far, far more significant. So far as I know, that power is inaccessible to me, but I fear—yes, fear—that the power, and The Ashen Rift itself, will someday wake. And I fear for much more than myself.

For now, I wear a glamour and do what I can to mask their presence. And I wait and search, both the waking worlds and the world of dreams, for some sign or signal, some pattern or trail that will lead me toward answers. Mostly I watch Tilde, for she was the soul who led me to the dream that now lives inside of me, and she of all spirits, I know can feel The Ashen Rift's presence, perhaps even more so than I can.

---
MELDOLA became silent, closing her eyes for a long moment at last. And then, perhaps signaling the end of the story, she picked up her glass and sipped, letting her lips curve upward as she savored the absinthe. 

"Is that all true?" I asked after a time.

She laughed. It was a genuine and pleasing sound. "What is true when dealing with stories, dreams, and memories? I'm not sure I know myself, but I hope to learn."


Meldola and The Eyes of The Ashen Rift

In the far north of the Weird Wilds, lies an undulating tundra, eerily silent but for the loud cracks that reverberate through the ground as the ice expands and contracts. Frosty streams carrying snowflakes and starlight trickle above the permafrost, the lifeblood flowing through the beating heart of the north. It was from this heart that The Realm appeared, intangible to corporeal within a breath of a moment. 

And from the moment the North spat The Realm from their depths, the moment her feet touched frost, and the ice clawed its way up her legs, she felt a tiny trill of her dormant magick shiver through her icy veins. As the wind, howling from the west, began to weave the secrets of her fate into each strand of her hair, she turned to face it, closed her eyes and listened with her heart. Wisps of purple whipped at her delicate skin, snowflakes clung to each long lash and the wind began to guide her footsteps. The elements spoke - she was to traverse the tundra, due west, to the Mountains of Metallurgy. For there, lay a wind battered forgery nestled between its twin peaks. And it was here, under the tutelage of the mages of metals and minerals, that she would learn to harness and channel the fullness of her magick. And so she began to run across the plains and toward that which called to her. 

The Realm had spent but a moment on this plane of existence, and yet as days passed, she learned to listen to the silence between sounds. To harness the power of a single thought and the intertwined connection between fauna and flora. So on the sixth night of her existence, as the sun kissed the earth and the lights began to dance overhead, when a presence appeared within her mind, she took heed. It was a pressing, squeezing and persistent force that took the form of small leathery creature hovering in the air before her, and it took not but a moment to grasp the gravity of the encounter. The Realm had found herself in the presence of her familiar. He became her closest companion, and as days bled into nights, the two hastened forth. Their journey was periless, the tundra brutal in its onslaught of the elements. Regularly finding herself on the precipice of death and life she trudged forth when she could no longer run. And though the icy cold of death mauled at her, it was never more than a pestiferous irritation. She was a necromancer after all - fated to forever travel where others could not. Death may not have had his hold, but the elements took their pound of flesh. One footstep at a time. One breath, one moment, one rock and one mountain at a time, she clambered, clawed and crawled her way forth, until weather worn, limbs shaking and lips and skin cracked and flaking, she collapsed at the enormous wooden doors of the forgery.

The real test of her endurance was yet to begin. She was granted but a moment’s rest within the walls of the forgery. Before the sky had even begun to shift from dark to the dusty pink of morn, she was woken and put to the task. For months on end, The Realm gave every part of herself to her instruction. Days of fire and sweat, and restless nights filled with torturous dreams, harvested and woven into the very fabric of the molten metal that was poured the morning that followed. Skin peeled, blisters bubbled and blood flowed; parts of her very essence infused into each talisman and trinket she crafted. Repeat, recapitulate, reiterate, the endless echoes of each secret, until the truth of her sorcery emerged with every curio she concocted.
 
Shrouded in secrecy, not much is known about the final ritual each witch partakes in before their time within the forgery concludes. For each is unique to the witch and their will to survive the gruesome rite. When The Realm emerged, freckles adorned her face, not marks of beauty, but granules of salt embedded in her flesh. Her brow white with spikes of starlight, delicately threaded through many the layers of her skin. Each forever acting as a conduit to her magick. And upon her breast, a golden brooch, said to contain the soul of her familiar, entwined with starlight and securely nestled inside a bloodstone. His wings forever adorning her hair in a halo of coriaceous obsidian. Perhaps a brutal sacrifice, or perhaps a gift willingly given.
 
Ah, but that was yesteryear. The Realm now leads a far less dramatic life, as she resides in her simple cottage where the tundra meets the wood. She spends her nights walking barefoot through icy streams and granting favours to those who gift her with elderflower leaves or pebbles of blackest onyx. And she spends her days at her workbench covered in the sparkling dust of precious metal, fingers blackened with greasy polish and grit, surrounded by souls encapsulated in sentimental trinkets that she bestows upon those she deems worthy. She is generous with her craft and curios, but do not anger her, for you may find your dreams plagued by the pleading souls of your loved ones and your days with a grain of salt in your eye.


A Memoir of Metal and Mineral

To most humans, the Weird Wilds were silent, an eerie in-between world, a unity of wet and misty sky and dense foliage. In the shadows, Topaz the Magenta, enthroned by Tree-Ma, heard the chattering, the moaning, the agonies, triumphs and grief as the world around her heaved in its endless cycles. 

It was an irony that Topaz understood all that communication, given that she was mute herself. Her silence had started eons ago when as a mere witchling, her immature chatter landed her in trouble, resulting in a spell from a malevolent hag that stilled her tongue forever.  Now she found herself an enchantress without the gift of gilded words. She had come to understood that the curse was an inverted blessing. Within the quiet, grew the skill of hearing and speaking without words to the thoughts of others, humans and nature itself. Centuries had honed her magick and she was fluent in subliminal conversations. She heard every utterance from the inhabitants of hives, dens, kennels, barns, nests, burrows and human houses.

Word (how ironic that concept) of her gift had spread. Not only did nature come to her for help but humans too, those who knew of her gift, and wanted answers to their tiny, tawdry tragedies. Humans were so tiresome! They only wanted a one-way conversation. When they searched the Weird Wilds and found her in her woody world with Tree-Ma, she would listen, her calm grey eyes absorbing their tsunami of word-emotions. She saw beyond their moving mouths and into their selfish hearts and simple heads. She stirred their sluggish minds with her telepathy, shepherded their thoughts to different places, silently mocking them for their ignorant arrogance. The only outward evidence of her intervention was a glittery, silvery, paint-like snail-trail, spattered on the back of their neck. Sometimes Topaz wordlessly offered honey, a physical sweet salve, which was always grasped as if it were an elixir that could heal. This too was her private joke. Honey could heal, but not what ailed them because the ichor ailment was their hurdle – a leaking toxic poison that ran through their soul-veins and that was incurable for most.

Topaz had another string to her bow of connection. She was moved to mentor misfits. Usually the sisterhood were mean spirited, only willing to help others, if there was advantage for themselves Topaz differed. Maybe it was her early trauma of being struck wordless, or because she understood the innermost secrets of every life form, but she couldn’t help reaching out to those whose lives were arduously grim.  As a result, she had cultivated a small community of Tree-Ma beings: a badger with only one eye who lived in the roots of the great she-oak. A flightless eagle who sat high amongst the mighty branches, keeping a serene lookout. There was a vixen nearby with a den that had raised generations of kits. There was a wraith who came and went to the beat of their own drum and then there were the young ones. Orphans, waifs and foundlings were often to be found in Tree-Ma’s embrace, sustained by Topaz until they were old enough to fend for themselves. She would patiently show them where to find the best berries and mushrooms, how to make themselves clothing from nature itself. She would guide their traumatized thoughts from self-destructive towards hopeful. Over the years many youngsters came, healed, grew and went on their appointed way. They would leave Tree-Ma healthy, emboldened and always with splatter of glittery snail-trail-like pattern on the back of their necks, a symbol of time spent with Topaz.

And then there was beautiful Nature - a whole different force, a balm to Topaz’s own pain. Whilst slaves to their natural rhythms, anything non-human was kind and intuitive and if suddenly unpredictable, the reason could always be traced back to human indiscretions. Topaz reveled in the fluency she had with the natural world, luxuriating in their collective desire for good and self-sacrifice when required.  Avians chattered to her about their view from the sky and furred creatures bustled past on their errands. She watched as insects and reptiles slithered, flew and hopped by companionably. Topaz witnessed foliage live, die and live again. She witnessed mini-beasts busily orchestrating and coordinating their lives, working in collective industry to bring about the best for their kind. She heard all these sweet exchanges as the cycles of life, death and rebirth whirled around her. She watched the heavens wheel above and the seasons patiently turn, each one with unique beauty and harshness. 

This had been the life and purpose of Topaz the Magenta over the centuries, enjoyment of her gifts whilst engaging with the peace of nature. Nonetheless, of late she had been feeling unsettled. She sensed a change of natural rhythm. It seemed as if nature herself was limping, no longer able to breathe, cycle or self-heal. Topaz noticed a tilt in the balance between death and life – more dark and less light. The animals were less robust and joyous, the insect numbers diminishing, the soil lost fertility and the rain tasted mechanical. The sky was curling up like a brown leaf and the rivers foamed in pain. A slow burn of fury grew in her. A rage that was difficult to contain. It was disconcerting to realize that life was changing. Topaz felt as though she too was tilting with the earth, and a desire for revenge on behalf of the innocents ate away at her serenity. Finally in her turmoil, she realized what was necessary. A resistance was necessary, an upheaval for all! Somehow she needed to unite the recalcitrant sisterhood of the Weird Wilds. It was time to call on those who owed her. Life as it was known by nature was ending and pushback was required by the mercenary magicks. 


The Maker of the Magick Mercenaries 

The words rose up loosely, falteringly, and mostly dropping back onto the page before she had the chance to draw them in: _stack your logs in a square with a corner pointing west._ Where had her attention gone to in those first moments? She blinked, hissed _focus_, and tried again. Words, words that trickled through her mind like wind through chimes, and then: _when making fire under the waning moon, stack your logs in a square with a corner pointing west_. What in the windy hell was the context of this spell? She knew no more than when she first set foot in the library.

She drew in a long breath and rolled the text to the end of her desk, ever so carefully. She knew how the prefects would react to her snapping the scroll shut and she was in no mood for it. Suspension or detention spells give awful hangovers.

She swept her books into her bag and exited the library, cutting across the quod to get to her room as quickly as possible. Pushing the door shut with one foot, she dropped her things onto the clothes chair, and sat before her vanity mirror. She looked intently at it. The mirror stared back, unperturbed. Its surface caught various fairy lights and blinked these at her innocently. The overflowing closet peeped over her shoulder and seemed to gesture apologetically at the clothes, shoes and dream-catching paraphernalia rising before it. Phoenix placed a hand on either side of the mirror, like a threat, and gazed deeper into her eyes. The wind ran through the window and made the windchimes sing and her hair rise and tickle, and from the wind’s whisper she now knew exactly what she’d forgotten: the date.

It had to be done today, or else she would need to wait another year.

She spun around and ordered her wardrobe to behave. Duly, it swallowed its contents back up. This left the medley of books, bones, dried flowers, and bottles littered in smaller piles around the room. She went into the kitchen and brought back some oranges. Into her bag, she carefully arranged a bouquet of dried flowers, and added the oranges, as well as some bones for good measure. You can never be sure you won’t need a bone to pick later in the day. Of the bottles, she chose a red wine and a few of her most vivid dreams. As she left the room, she swiped a small mirror and a matchbox into her bag, casting a distancing spell on all the objects within it to ensure their safety from collisions – a spell that is coincidentally very good at keeping broken hearts apart if unsuited to one another.

The joy of various dusk gatherings echoed down from windows. Conversations carried across the alleys and hallways further than their disclosers estimated in their chinwagging. The cobbled streets grew quieter closer to the meadows. The spires spread out and the sky opened across the empty field.

Out of the bag came each item, laid out in a square around the bouquet. Facing west and looking clockwise, these were: the oranges, the dreams uncapped, the wine and the standing mirror. She struck a match and set fire to the flowers. As she praised the fire, it grew, and tickled the four corners of her memorabilia: late-season oranges in early summer; tales of a friendly angel perched on a cushion of clouds, and running through an endless hallway to catch a last goodbye; late evenings en tête-à-tête; and when she looked at the mirror, blinking the blaze out of her eyes, she could just about see the ghost hands rested on her shoulders in an otherwise imperceptible embrace. She looked down, and they were back in their established place. She looked up, and all that was reflected back was her usual dress, a look of longing and the dancing flames. Until next year, she whispered through a half smile.


April 5th, Tomb Sweeping Day

“There are just a few of us”, he said. “We can see both heaven and earth at the same time”.

From inception, they remembered these words.

They had been named “the Cauldron”. The origin of the name was not known nor addressed in conversations. All their life they lived with the unavoidable sentiment of being different.

They were chosen for something great, and the day to understand their calling had finally come.

The Weird Wilds had dawned with the promise of new magic. WITCHES were embellishing the woods for the announcement that everyone was expecting. No-one knew what would come from it, but the HIGH WITCHES were gathered in the Tower for three nights and three days now, and WITCHES and familiars sensed the urgency of the moment.
Fellow hags were brewing rich broths of weird and wild mushrooms, mages were reciting intertwined poems looking for wise words, occultists conversed with monstrous demons searching for the hidden truth, necromancers raised the dead to join the gathering and seers tried to summon visions of things to come.

Once the Cauldron walked out of the house, their ears captured the operatic sounds of enchantresses’ vocal chords, bewildering inhabitants and visitors of the Weird Wilds. 

A soothing voice spoke:

“Attention, WITCHES and wild beings. Behold our fair HIGH WITCH of WIT, Keridwen. She will speak now.”
 
Keridwen spoke to an avid audience. Words of wisdom, thought-provoking, rich with knowledge and effortlessly witty.

“Magic is the architecture of our Lore. We must guide new witches of the mundane world, as they play with words to give birth to the stories from the source. ECHO must be fed. Go forth and whisper into their dreams.”
WITCHES listened with reverence and got to work immediately. The task at hand was complex, potions should be researched and chosen, spells should be worked on. Dreams would be the playground of lore-crafting.

The following weeks saw an unprecedented burst of creativity from earthly witches. 

Alkalines and acids were mixed to neutralize the needless harshness of storytelling, electrons were enticed to leave  atoms to electrify narratives, word crafting was approached like a polymerization reaction that builds from the monomers, causing a backlash explosion of minds.

Stories were told, with wit and wonder, as Keridwen had foreseen. 

Additionally, witches versed in other arts produced masterpieces through drawings, paintings, photography, music, songs, code and poems. Emotions were captured into positively charged flasks and sent to the physical world, touched by magic and caressed by witchcraft.

Never had both worlds been so close, never was art so elevated. A new Renaissance had sprung, as witches conquered their voices and overcame insecurities and fears.
 
That night, under the new moon, the Cauldron knew the time had come. They would finally know the intricacies of their mission.

He came into their dreams like before, sure of his power and unapologetically seductive. Him. Bowie himself. Ziggy Stardust. The King of Goblins. The one whose eyes were theirs.

He explained how the ones that shared their condition were special: 

“Humans call it heterochromia or witch eyes. We have been feared since old Dipsas made her way into Ovid’s love poems and touched mundane poetry. We can see both heaven and earth. And we can see everything that hides between the fringes existing between both. You will need this skill.”, he said.
 
The night was long and, between acts of love and service, the Cauldron learned from the Him how would their path be special. 
They have been named the Cauldron as a tribute to Keridwen’s cauldron, where she forged potions to bestow deserving beings with the gift of wisdom and poetic inspiration.
 
They would be the chalice of artistry within the Weird Wilds, nurturing creative endeavours from witches, familiars, plain humans. These could be transformed into artists, those special beings that walk through the universe to show mortals how to touch the hand of the divine. 

“Magic must be made. Your work is to guide them, to be their safe place to gather and grow, to bring their art into the light of human eye. Bring them together, build from their strengths, get the help of witchcraft to work on their challenges, spark their soul with magic dust.”
 
They woke up into a changed world. From then on, they knew. 
They would be there every time art was budding in the soul of an artist, every time a technique was being perfected, every time a love or a sorrow were trespassing a creator’s soul. 
They would build a treasure from their art, to embellish the Weird Wilds, bring joy to its creatures and keep ECHO happy and fed.
 
One night while playing the lute for a dancing audience of turtles and deer, they felt the need to leave the stage. Strangely enough, their body kept entertaining their friends with poetic notes interlaced with precious breaths of silence. Their spirit travelled lightly, amazed by the absence of gravity, into the arms of ECHO.

They listen careful, as the tree murmured into their soul the details of each story it had harboured and nurtured since the journey had begun.

The Cauldron woke up the next morning below Echo, as the sun warmed their skin and revealed the shapes of familiars, WITCHES and humans that had gathered around ECHO since dawn.

With a sure gesture, they discarded the dust that caressed their body, and spoke.

“I am intimate with the stories of the Wilds.

Now, I know who I am: my name is the Cauldron, Ziggy, ECHO, or, plainly, WITCH.

I am the words, the music, the shapes, the colours, the code. I am the home of Art.

I am you and you are me.

Take my hand and lets build together.”

---
 
\*_THE CAULDRON is an artists’ collective, dreamt by a handful of witches._
_Our intention is to bring this project to life, building from the Lore of the Weird Wilds, making space for artists to get their work seen and appreciated, assuring that they have the necessary conditions to work on their art in a supported way, and crafting a strategy through the WITCHCRAFT powers of our marketing and lore-crafting witches._


The Cauldron

The world cracked in two the day they came to be. Not with abject force or thunderous violence, but the heaving expansion of labor. From this tear in the flesh of the earth, a cacophony of delirious shrieks and sardonic laughter echoed from deep within the belly of the universe itself. The chaotic chorus spoke of a legacy, laced with darker magic and bestowed by those who had come before - maidens betrayed, witches maligned, hags misinterpreted and crones dismissed for all eternity - now reborn in two distinct, yet intertwined, souls. The sisters _Capulin_ wore this humor as a mask to disguise an uneasy yet enduring WOE; borne of knowing all the secrets of this world at once, and finding nothing but disappointment in its whispers.

Innocence, naivety and wonder are the stuff of fairytales and the toys of children - instead, these sisters had arrived fully formed into adulthood. How else to face the inner anguish of living in a world that deems your very existence unnatural than to be born with armor intact? To arrive a sage creature with wisdom to share and gifts of perception seeking the tangibility of daylight, only to be vilified for that very inner knowing and banished to the shadows? It is a cross most would not be able to bear, yet these sisters brushed it from their shoulders, as gently as bone dust dancing on whispered air in the wake of its grinding.

Day and night, they roamed the boundary between the WOODS and the WILDS, seeking an open ear for the prophecies they had to share; the secrets of the no-longer living, the messages of the stars and, on occasion, the demonic desires of paranormal creatures not quite belonging this world or the next. Searching for this audience as much to explore and make sense of their own knowing, as to deliver their messages from the edge. 

The two companions journeyed together (as is the way of OCCULTIST siblings), wary of trickery from all whose paths they crossed, and armed with a hex to weave on any who tried it (for they were too familiar with the traps of the ignorant and deaf, who wished to silence them forever). While the _Charred Commotion_ approached these disturbances with a grave disposition, for Hullabaloo it was something of a sport. After all, she was a witch of WILES and WISDOM, and in games of intellect and deception she was undefeated (except, of course, by her equally wily older sister, also a true master of WOE, who knew how to inflict additional misery if a victory was less than decisive). Still, Hullabaloo took satisfaction in having secrets of her own and an extra card up her sleeve, should she decide to play it.

Every so often, the two would take refuge in the WILDS to restore and reconnect with their strange and wonderful strength. They would rest in temporary shelters constructed with cunning and instinct, wandering the WILDS in their version of contentment, before traveling on in search of a place not wholly in existence, like an answer not quite fully formed. A destination at the fringes of meaning and knowledge that would attract and yet elude them forever. 

The younger of the two, _Hullabaloo_’s doe-eyed gaze starred in an otherwise impenetrable countenance. But rumor has it she would drop her guard momentarily in these times of pause on their pilgrimage. She could often be found at ease by the river at the WOODS’ end - eyes closed as she faced into the dappled sunlight, drawing nourishment from its gentle rays. 

Here, _Hullabaloo_ would absently watch the drip-drip-drip of blood escaping from a collection of entrails that wound around the thorny scrub lining the riverbank on the WILDS side. Previously belonging to predators who had crossed their path and found themselves wanting, these organs now found purpose in a simple vanity. Hullabaloo would stir their contents gently with a blade fashioned from bone, watching with each rotation as a dusting of black henna absorbed into the bloody pool of dye destined to replenish the lustre of her angular bangs - she wasn’t a natural navy, you know. 

_Commotion_, on the other hand, could never be so at ease - blessed with an extra eye so that one always remain open, alert, awake. Eternally on guard for trespassers armed with alliums and malice, she was caught between the tension of seeking solitude and the fact her gifts were derived from its very interruption. For upon sensing a threat, a chorus of one thousand chickadees would band together in song, the vibration of ‘dee-dee-dee’ echoing through the WILDS to penetrate her very core and fill her with power anew. With each replenishing intrusion, an invitation was carried from the universe to accept nothing and question everything.

For this was the curse of the sisters _Capulin_ - _Charred Commotion_ and _Hullabaloo_ - to seek truth and yet never be satisfied. To be a gift of laughter and sunlight, but to inhabit the shadows of WISDOM and WOE. Both possessed of a lifetime of understanding and with the secrets of generations inscribed on their souls, as raw as a flesh wound that will never heal. Seeking a brave audience in a universe of weak and wretched souls. But still they walk onward, leaving behind dispatches of truth and meaning - a legacy only fully grasped by the time they are long gone.


Seek Truth and Never Be Satisfied

To begin with, banana the pastel fountain did not really understand what had brought them to the orrery. They had felt a summoning that had manifested itself across several nights of fevered dreams and that the leaves in their morning tea were suggesting they heed. And so, one crisp misty evening banana did just that, following the forest trail round past the lake and up the pine-lined track into this curious place.

“What is it all about?”, they wondered as they stepped through the archway into the orrery. Drawing closer to the room’s astronomical centrepiece, banana admired the mechanical precision of planets in motion around a metallic sun.

Just then, the Seer felt a cool breeze and slightly startled as they realised that vector fraction was standing, all of a sudden and with very little warning, right by their side. Vector turned to look at banana through snake-like aqua eyes, but spoke not a word. Banana’s single unpatched eye fell to where vector was winding silky strands of cosmic thread between and through their fingers. They had come here no doubt in search of dropped stitches.  

Banana gazed back up at vector in recognition, their lips parted in quiet awe. They had learned from an early age to read peoples’ pasts in the curl of their fingers and in vector’s fingers they saw a WITCH who throws wonder into the wind to spin webs out of the invisible; but they also saw how and why they had come to bear the mark of the Hierophant and how that had come to shape them and their purpose in the weird wilds. 

In that moment, banana understood why it was destined that the WITCHES would meet at this precise intersection of time and space.

To be in the company of a WITCH could be ontologically demanding for some, even for other WITCHES. But anyone who could follow the trail each one offered into the depths of the unknown would be surely rewarded with more complex ingredients, richer palettes and greater insight into their arts than they could have ever imagined. 

So here it was. A beautiful but silent invitation from vector to banana to embark upon a new initiation; a deep remembering and a fresh interpretation that gave coherence to what, until just a second ago, had felt fragmented and meaningless.

Banana recalled that fateful night, when they had first heard the fading light of the final quarter moon in the pitter-patter of a kitten’s first steps. The sound, inaudible to all but those whose hearts are most hardened against wonder, had awoken banana to their magic and their identity as a seer-poet. As the moon set and the sun began to rise, banana had sat at their mahogany desk writing line after line of delicious, rainbow-like poetry. As exhausted as they were, they recited each poem out loud that morning and noticed, with shock and then with glee, that they had charmed their way into a different timeline. For the most part, things looked the same. But there were subtle differences, like the fresh fruit that appeared on the table that hadn’t been there before or the way the colours of the hearth grew brighter.

Banana’s joy at these newfound powers was both exhilarating and intoxicating. There was so much fun to be had! Centuries rolled by as banana poured their magic out into the world, whispering poems, that opened portals and licked at the edges of time, to anyone who would pull up a chair and listen. Banana’s poetry provoked such delight that word soon spread of their talent. They became a beloved and much-in-demand fixture in the clandestine nightclubs and bars that popped up at the edges of the wastes, only to disappear again just as quickly as they had arrived. 

Banana spoke their poems to piano music, by candlelight, on stage, or into their gin. They revelled in the adulation they received and barely thought of the implications of their charms; signs of a misspent age. 

Rumour has it that their power had grown such that their moon-soaked verses had lit fires in the hearts of the usually timid. Their poetry had begun issuing unrest so widespread that it had sparked the collapse of dynasties in distant dimensions, blossoming forth rebellious reclamations. Once banana grasped the full extent of what they were capable of, they recoiled. The responsibility was overwhelming and they were far too radiant of face and chiselled of body to take on such endeavours.

Banana realised that a threshold had been crossed from which there would be no return. There was to be no more entertaining in the wastes. In a panic, the WITCH rapidly packed their mockskin suitcase, wrote their lovers goodbye on the dressing-table mirror in their favourite beige lipstick and abandoned the whirlwind of cabarets, alehouses and speakeasies that had long-since been their domain. They were to confine themselves to the turquoise walls of the asylum to ensure that they would never inspire such chaos in the souls of the unfortunate again.

And so, while mountains in faraway galaxies sprung forth and were worn away to dust, banana holed themselves away in a seldom-visited corner of the asylum. As the equinox processed through the skies, they scribbled out poetry that was instantly set on the fire to keep them warm and so they could do no harm. As time went on, they had felt a growing gnawing in their bones that there had to be more to all of this than hiding away. But they felt safe in the asylum, among the other seers and the, largely misunderstood, occultists; away from the prying eyes of the nearly-deceased.

Then the dreams had started. Now they were here, in the orrery, face to face with vector fraction. It was the first time that they had left the refuge of the asylum in aeons and it showed in their eyes.

Banana felt a silent knowing, like that of the rosebud as it begins to unfold in the first promise of dawn. A smile splashed across their entire face; even the eye painted upon their patch briefly sparkled with joy. In their wisdom, they could see, in an instant, how the stars rhyme with the oceans and how there is alliteration in each delicate drop of dew that hangs from the weavings of the spider’s web. As a mage well knows, everything truly has its place in the universe, including banana. The oppressions of the hierophant had left their scars, but it was time now to put a stop to them. It was time to write new verses, create new chapters and bring in fresh winds. It was time for banana the pastel fountain to ascend.


Is there a world that rhymes with banana the pastel fountain? 

Sonata woke to her sister’s screams echoing through the dark halls of the tower.

The enchantress leapt out of bed, illuminating her chambers with a gesture. Sonata extended her hand towards a wardrobe, and a robe leapt through the wooden doors and swung itself over her shoulders.

Her sister’s screams got louder as Sonata flew through the cold stone hallways, turning downward toward the catacombs.

“I told her to stop…” Sonata thought, gritting her teeth. “These rituals have to stop!”

Sonata turned the final corner and saw blood and steam sputtering through the cracks in the wooden doors of her sister’s chamber. With a push, the doors flew open to reveal a havoc demon partially emerged through a rift in the floor. Blood and fire spewed up around the demon, igniting the walls, and soaking the floor in crimson. The demon writhed in pain as the rift sliced and crushed it’s vulgar form.

Sonata’s sister stood before the beast, blood trailing down her limp right arm, with a crooked kris knife in her left.

”I did it…” Her sister uttered in a low voice.

”What… what did you do?…” Sonata asked, feeling sickness rising.

Her sister approached the havoc demon, and sunk the knife into the decaying flesh. A deafening, unholy screech bellowed from the beast as the rift closed in around it, crushing it’s body, and spilling innards across the room.

Her sister turned to face Sonata slowly, eyes glowing red in the dimly lit room, demonic runes burning and scarring her adolescent face.

”I trapped the havoc inside me.” Her sister said, through a blood-speckled smile.

“And I feel… exquisite.”


Demonic ascension

Elasticity held the cat claw carefully between her manicured fingers, nails varnished in deep burgundy and shaped to a sharp point. She held the claw up to the light of the full moon to have a better look. The early morning hours were her favorite time of day - to collect, to dissect. 

Having already managed to regenerate a lizard from just the tip of its tail last year, she was now working on a more ambitious subject - Frank, her erstwhile feline familiar. Prior to Frank, she had never needed a companion. She was comfortable in solitude. Yes, Elasticity occasionally enjoyed the company of other WITCHES, but these dalliances always ended in tears - theirs - as her appetite for love was no match for her appetite for knowledge. There were also the common complaints about the clutter of her living space, pine cones poking from between the pillows, not to mention the smell of the pickled pig feet. But Frank was unbothered by the pig feet and grew fat on the scraps of her experimentation. 

However, Frank was no longer.  

Yesterday, upon returning home from the Demon Market, where she had gone to replenish her supply of poison sumac, she found Frank gone - a hawk feather and this cat claw the only remnants of a scuffle.

And so Elasticity set out to see if what she had learned from her dissertation on lizards could also be applied to cats. While she measured and poured, stirred and muttered in those early morning hours, her mind turned back to the loss that had continued to mark her life. Her mother, dying as she gave her life. The stepmother that followed lived up to tropes in the fairy tales that lined her shelves as a child. By fourteen, she was on her own - finding shelter in the alleyways that surrounded the Tower by night and refuge in its library by day. She turned away from fables, she lived enough of those in her short years, and instead inhaled books on chemistry, biology and calculus. She willed her mind to make sense of the equations and found the threads that knit knowledge together. Everything else was a distraction.

Sometimes, a tutor would come along. Looking to take her under his wing. She would learn, oh yes, but was not one to submit. She acquired knowledge in her own manner. The soul of the departed professor would then etch her skin, adding to the phosphorescent serpent markings that had first bloomed at sixteen. Nine souls by her latest count.

Thus, Elasticity was comfortable in solitude - yet vexingly found herself missing this particular cat who had turned up on her doorstep as soon as she had a doorstep to speak of. 

She paused her incantations to scribble down a set of equations in her notebook. The numbers now firm in her mind, she double checked the levels of the vials - the liquid nearly the same vibrant green of her hair - and dropped in the claw of her departed Frank. 

There was a low hiss and then the vial shattered. Elasticity sputtered as a cloud of fog overtook her workbench. But as the smoke cleared, she heard a pitiful mew and saw the contours of a kitten. She had done it. A tail tip had become a lizard. A claw, a cat. She had mastered regeneration. Next up, transformation. 


elasticity regrows a cat

Poppy torte is a WITCH so entwined with nature, the story has been told that she manifested from the vast power of the earths core. The organic material that forms all life, spontaneously combust into a flash of sunshine and radiant grace, casting its life-giving glow on the tender, treetop leaves that became her home. Of all the dance styles she has mastered over her years in the weird wilds, doing the polka makes her feel most alive. Her steadfast companion, a soft and synchronous fox, taps and twirls by her side as they create a swirl of cascading foliage in their wake. They drift amongst the treetops, effortlessly gliding across the tender leaves in a harmonious, joyous rhythm that makes the earth croon with a jubilant energy.

A WITCH who resides on the fringes of the forest. When she is not laughing at her own jokes and dancing her way across the treetops she calls home, she is thanking the fallen leaves for their contribution to photosynthesis, the cycle that breathes soul into all that is the earth, that which she is so connected. Tucked away in a tree knot high above the ground, her acorn cap alcove is adorned with the beautiful displays of all the life-giving foliage that exist in her woodlands of the wilds. To bathe in the grounding properties of the earth, she embellishes herself with carnelian crystals that her fox friend brings to her from the shadows of the forest, hidden in caves, beyond the treetops and vast expanse of the sky. The carnelian helps her feel the bold, expansive properties of the earth pulse warmly through her body. She loves that her favorite crystal is the same color as her eyes.

From sunrise to sunset, she uses her magic to decorate the forests with beautiful, flowers and fall colored leaves, until the darkness of the night shines its magical phosphorescence. A WITCH so alive in the warm and powerful glow of sunshine, yet her heart also feels tied to the calming radiance of night. So enthralled with the moon; captivated by the shine of the stars, she’s consumed by their glow so that time ceases to exist as she basks in their powerful splendor. Each day, as she dances along with the sun and the moon as they drift across the sky, Poppy dreams of waltzing along with these magical orbs of brilliance across the plain at which they pass and disappears from the sky. The sun is steadfast yet the moon is ever changing, she is so captivated by the beautiful intricacies of their dance across the horizon. Charged by their radiance, there is no rest for Poppy when the sun or the moon are within view. Poppy spends her time dancing with joy to pay homage to the vast sources of energy that provide vitality to her soul, brought to life by the captivating, unwavering incandescence. 

Luckily, she only requires a few hours of sleep to reach her utmost level of power and synchronicity. Sometimes, when she has waltzed in the wind under the moonlit glow to the point of exhaustion, she spends a few enchanting hours sleeping in her cozy acorn abode, dreaming of that which she can accomplish in her quest across the plain. With just a few hours of sleep, she feels enough power pulsing from the earth through her fingertips to ignite the sky with countless rays of sunshine and starlight. She thinks to herself, ‘_imagine what I could do with an entire day of sleep!_’ She is a Virgo, after all, a WITCH always thinking of how to maximize her powers and purpose. 

One day each cycle, when the moon ceases to come across the plain for an entire day and night, she spends her time charging her energies and manifesting her intentions. How she dreams and wishes to run across the plain to the unknown. Where does the sun go each day when it is finished breathing life into the organisms of the earth? Why is the the moon can follow but she cannot? She has danced from treetop to treetop across the fringes of the wilds and has yet to find the edge of the plane. She makes a promise to herself that one day, she will find that which she seeks. She wakes up from her slumber with the fierce energy and power to find that which is beyond the ends of the earth. She may have no idea how to get there, but she will follow her heart and the purity of her voice within until she does.


beyond the wilds, to the ends of the earth

This was not just any night. The full moon heralded the long-awaited “New Age Awakening.” An Age of love, collaboration, and Abundancy. Very different from the Old Age, which was a reality of centralization of power in the hands of a few individuals for thousands of years, which unleashed an Age of scarcity, rivalries, and hatred. As a consequence of these thousands of years, all beings have experienced living life as if they were dead, feeding on envy, anger, apathy, guilt, and shame. The awakening of a New Age was not just a matter of survival but also bringing meaning to life.

And the possibility of the arrival of the New Age was in the hands of Apprentice Hyperplane.

To conjure up the powers that would pave the way for a New Age, Apprentice Hyperplane would need to evoke an extremely high level of consciousness, which went beyond the levels of joy, peace, and love. It was necessary to reach enlightenment and infect all beings on the planet with its light.

No one is quite sure how Apprentice Hyperplane became so powerful at such a young age. However, we know that even without the wisdom accumulated, she has never lost a game in her life. On the contrary, she has extraordinary willpower and wit seen in few living beings. Since she was born, her family and friends have always realized that she was a Witch with differentiated power. And Apprentice Hyperplane never denied how she was seen, as she knew that her life purpose would reveal itself at some point. And she knew it would be something meaningful and huge.

To compensate for her lack of wisdom to reach such a high level of consciousness, she needed help. And so she summoned Cresyl, the Sophisticated Nightmare, one of the wisest witches in history. They vibrated at very high levels of consciousness with joy and love.

Together, they would do the rite of passage.

Cresyl, the Sophisticated Nightmare, was known for her poems laden with ancient and universal wisdom, forever embedded in the timeline of life. And that night, she would be responsible for Opening the "Portal of the All Ages" by writing the New Age poem. Upon opening the portal, they would summon ancestral beings for the Rite of Passage.

Into the woods, Apprentice Hyperplane lay on the lap of Cresyl, the Sophisticated Nightmare, who welcomed her like a mother who takes care of her daughter. Then, eyes closed and her brown face lit by moonlight, Apprentice Hyperplan concentrated. As she delved into the depths of her inner self, moonlight shimmered in her face to reveal pulsing, luminous green patterns.

The tree roots ran along the ground until they hugged them gracefully. Their energies fed everything around them, while nature fed them back. You could see the trees moving in a gentle dance, and intense music began to play. Drums, voices, and sounds of nature deeply enveloped them until they went into a trance. In an exchange of electrifying and mesmerizing energy, anyone would be amazed at the spectacle of this scene. Clearly, they were nature, and nature was them. It was possible to see the Universe.

Upon closer inspection, it was possible to see the sap of the trees running through their roots as if they were human veins carrying human blood. It was possible to see the leaves of the trees fall gracefully around their bodies as if protecting them from any harm. For hours they conjured up the powers of the New Age. Until, at one point, something subtle but highly significant happened.

A ladybug that flew over the witches, as if protecting them, lands on the hand of the Apprentice Hyperplane. From that hand, we see a green light is created. The energy ball starts out the size of a ladybug but grows until it no longer fits in your hand. The light shines brighter and brighter, illuminating everything around it. The tension builds until an explosion happens.

When we see her again, Apprentice Hyperplane is floating in the air with a green aura around her. Her pose reveals her to be a powerful yet graceful witch. Around this aura, we see Ancient scriptures that protect it from evil.

In the Sophisticated Nightmare lying on the ground, Cresyl puts her hands in front of her face to try to see the Apprentice Hyperplane that emanates a lot of light. When the Light touches Cresyl's face, the Sophisticated Nightmare, she is filled with grace, and tears stream down her face. At last, a new era is about to begin. But, this is just the beginning.

To be continued...


The New Age Arrives

Fuji of the Wilds materialized during the witching hour, when the spectral and supernatural cross the veil to seek out that which is unfinished. She came into existence through an act of atonement, giving her powers of unexplainable decree. She exists to weave between the outskirts of the wilds and the shadows of dark and mysterious dreams. The veil between the living and the dead is thin, where she resides. The obscurity, of course, is where she has always felt most alive.

If you happen to allow this WITCH a glimpse of your soul, she can inhabit your dreams for what feels like eternity. She will grip at the fibers of your beings for 4413 days, or 12 years; the length of time it takes Jupiter, her sagittarian ruling planet, to make its triumphant trip around the sun. For some, the rebirth that is their Jupiter return is just taking back control of their delusions from the harrowing grasp of this dream dweller. For she cannot rest, until she finds that which she seeks.

She resides in the far north, the places where one doesn’t dare venture. The lands where the earth is in a constant state of winter and the sky prefers to remain dim and dreary. The closest thing one can find to a living nightmare of gloom and shadows. When she is not weaving through the darkest of dreams searching for that which she seeks, she is dancing atop the shadows of the ocean. She taps and jigs until her golden, glowing eyes and effortless movements combust her entire being into a frolicking of flames, illuminating that which is endlessly devoid of luminosity. Calling the serpents of the sea to do her bidding and execute her will. She finds the immaculacy of light fascinating; but each time, the depths of the ocean return to darkness, as does she.

The far corners of obscurity she calls home are full of demons and deceased alike. She is the mediator of the mortified. They travel from far and wide to seek her skills; for she has a keen sense of understanding ones purpose; almost as keen as her sense of self. She is a keeper of power, that helps those in need through tests of sacrifice. Only after you have lost that which you truly feel you cannot live without, can she give you the power to understand that which you need. _BUT BEWARE!_ once you make a deal with this WITCH, she will dance amongst your dreams forever.

Though her power is exuberant, she can’t help but feel like something is missing. A thread of fate that weaves through her, that she can feel within these dreams, but cannot follow once she returns to her dark corner of the wilds. She explores the nebulous dreams for other WITCHES that serve her master of murkiness. She searches the obscure for the blazing eyes that match her own, or the mark of the damned that she wears as a symbol of her union with the dead of night. The serpents who speak with her in the tongues of darkness have told her the tales of others before her. Those who ignite the shadows within and around them, in search of limitless power. She knows that her skills would be unmatched with other witches of her caliber at her side.

She enters her favorite dream of darkness as she does each night. Searching the unsurpassable winter of eclipsed dreams, as she has done countless times before. But this time feels different. She stumbles across an energy she cannot shake. Walking through a forest so dark the flowers have all fallen and the only thing to illuminate the darkness is the glow of her serpentine eyes. She watches as the leaves tightly begin curling in response to the chilling cold. An act of protection; but it’s unclear if they are protecting themselves from the cold of endless night, or from this chilling WITCH herself. It is in that moment, she sees the glowing eyes in the distance. She feels the pulse of potential. 

In an instant, she is overcome with a paralyzing percussion of power. At first it thrums within her chilled bones; but within seconds, it bursts from every pore of her skin, in a glowing supernova of radiance and light. She illuminates that which has been dark around her for as long as she can remember. From within the illumination of her dynamism, she tears through the thin veil that separates the mortal world from the dream world and finally sees that which she has been searching for. A pack of WITCHES, basking in the moonlight, charging her soul and the souls of one another, as if they are interconnected through a web of undead and unceasing energy. She knows in this moment, that she has found the source of her power, and the souls she has always yearned to wander the weird wilds alongside.


searching for sparks

Porcini was called. The throbbing of the universe was felt by all and many felt their way through the void, as she had, to gather. To dance. They all moved with their own unique rhythms to the beat of existence. Swayed with creation. Turned and  flailed, arms raised above heads. Sometimes compelled to greater euphoria by the dark tones of death and destruction that flowed through the music.

The Fae and kinder spirits were discomforted by it, but as with life, Destruction always gave way to greater things. A new order, stronger systems rose up. Some felt this. Felt the joy in the whole of it. The Demons and vampires who could not, found themselves unable to keep time and soon wandered off to pursue things more interesting to Demons and Vampires. Tempting others. Escorting them away to individual pursuits that diverted their attention from the music. Porcini had dealt with demons before but this time was no time for their games and deals. They tapped her on the shoulder, offered gifts and compliments. She thanked them, but ignored their attempts to hold her attention, kept her rhythm and continued to dance, harder, more focused with each passing beat. She summoned the wonder of the wilds within her, to keep her moving the way that the music willed it. giving her soul to the universe.  

As anyone who is familiar with Demons will tell you, giving one's soul to the will of the universe makes Demons uneasy. But few demons are so brave as to cross Nataraja. And all could sense that as this night went on, Porcini had the blessings of Shiva upon her. 

Time passed quickly. There came a moment that only those beings remained who could translate the music into movement. Neon souls in communion together under a dark moonlight. They bonded together without words or touch. Only the community of being together on this night, feeling the same feelings, hearing the same music, smiling together - brightly burning souls lit the night. 

But as the moon moved out of the house of Aquarius, Porcini reminded herself that a witch could not go on dancing forever.. The universe's music will never stop and that would have to be enough. Enough to know that she could return whenever she wished. Enough to know that the Gods and Spirits and yes, even Demons could always be found to be dancing under the moon in the dark places where the music of the universe can be heard in the company of those who listen. 




The Dancers 

The song sung by the windchime is calming and uplifting at the same time. The starlight of the cosmos weaves threads of beautiful vibration, creating a frequency that sets the tone for melodic magic. Though the motions of the chimes seem purposeless, passively going whichever way the wind passes, the song that is manifested is anything but arbitrary. This universal windchime gives rise to a WITCH with a curious sense of discombobulation, Jupiter the brilliant.

Like the endless, wild universe in which she inhabits, Jupiter is young at heart. Her knowledge and power are as fresh as a cosmic baby neutron star. She is a WITCH so enthralled in her esoteric and theoretical studies, she cannot seem to make up her mind in any definitive way. She sees a multitude of outcomes for each possible choice. Opportunities present endless confusion and once she has selected a path, she immediately wishes for what could have been. She answers the questions on her exams correctly, then immediately changes her mind to an answer she all but knows is wrong. Though she has good intentions, her mind is overflowing with self-sabotage and doubts. During times of tension, her emotions take over the logical part of her brain and all reasoning goes out the window. She truly is is a cancer sun- emotional at her core.

She believes herself to be quite cunning and charming; easily the funniest person in all the realms she chooses to frequent. Yet she often enters into entanglements where she cannot seem to find her sovereignty. With a sweet naivety, she has been tricked one too many times by trickster gods and trolls that travel the wilds looking to outwit gullible victims. Sometimes, Jupiter wonders who she really is and why she appeared in the weird wilds in the first place. _Do I have a higher purpose after all? _She hopes that one day her truest principles will unravel through the threads of time.

The animals she spends her life studying are her greatest companions, an extension of her soul. She spends countless hours on the internet, researching the magical possibilities that are personified through the cross breeding of these powerful creatures. This is her PhD thesis and she’s the leading expert on the subject for a reason. The fire of her Aries moon guiding her on a constant pursuit of philosophy and wisdom. Jupiter understands these beings to be the parapsychological expansion of our time, generating new and wonderful powers through collaborative expansion. Allowing us to access other realms with other magical beings yet to be discovered.

One night, after a semi-productive all-nighter diving deep into her studies on the weird wide web, she walks out of the library to a hazy, eerie mist. Particles of water suspended in the air as if they are waiting for something monumental to happen. At that very moment, the sun begins to shine over the horizon and the morning dew begins to condensate on the soft blades of grass surrounding her. In one instantaneous motion, all of the water rushes up and around her into a powerful vortex that carries her into the vastness of space. All of a sudden, the memories of the astronomical windchime of her origins come flooding back, inscribed into an aura of golden mage script that circles her head and fills her mind with enchantments and visions of precious gems.

In that moment, she understands her connection to the stars, an expansive conglomeration of which she has bottled and kept in her nightstand. Jupiter understands her purpose. She has been so focused on expanding the alchemy of the wilds through her extraordinary research, that she has forgotten how to maintain the magical balance of power within herself. She fills her mind with the visions and understandings of the precious gems that can help balance her anxieties and insecurities. These gems are brought forth by the stars, as they come crashing to the earth in another seemingly random coalescence of forces. Yet nothing in the weird wilds is ever by chance. These are the gems that help each being in the expanse protect their otherworldly energy and tap into their full potential. Jupiter knows now that all the power she seeks, has been within her all along. For the first time, she feels confident and sure of herself. She knows she has the potential to incarnate her wildest wills. After she takes a long nap, of course.


the kind of knowledge that doesn't come from books

Deep in the weird wilds, there lives a WITCH, an ENCHANTRESS to be precise, whom HAGS adore and kings both love to fear and fear to love. She is Indole Chandelier. An ENCHANTRESS made of earth. A knitter of sweaters. A singer of honeyed words. A caster of illusions. A collector of precious jewels. 

Though not a HAG, she is often found in the WOODS and VIVARIUM. She sings sweet lullabies to ivy and vines, coaxing them asleep so she might snip a piece here and there and knit them into sweaters. She knits just one every season.

HAGS beg Indole for her hand-knit, song-coaxed, ivy and vine sweaters. In return, they promise to call her when their garden beds and tree groves prepare to sleep for the winter. For when leaves curl inward and the nights grow long and cold, Indole rejoices. She feels her magic thrum with power and her white gems glow like a crystal chandelier.

On the winter equinox, the WOODS and its HAGS sleep. Leaves fallen and branches barren. But Indole is awake, shaking with excitement and brimming with power. 

She lets loose her hair and wails. She calls upon the earth, of which she is made, to speak, to share, to tell all that it knows. The earth shudders. It whispers of a gathering, a gathering of kings, celebrating a successful alliance and well-fought war. Each has brought a collection of their most prized possessions to show off their worldly wealth.

Indole readies her emerald jeweled turban, adorns her flimy Edwardian blouse, and skips forward. It is time.

At the palace doors, she gently brushes her gleaming emerald, tugs on empty ear lobes, and steps in. She watches the procession, with hooded pink eyes and pursed bow lips, calmly observing each king to pick out the most foolish and vain among them.

One catches her eye. The King of the East whose robes are laden with Ethereum and whose crown shines golden like the sun. He drinks heartily, sloshing wine from his diamond-encrusted goblet, and boasts of his newly found riches and beautiful young bride. 

Bemused, she skips forward, curtsies just so, and offers her song. He waves his jewel-studded hand and beckons her to begin.

Indole sings. Words drizzling from her lips like honey, she sings of his adventures and conquests, his kingdom and wealth. Her voice envelops the room, and she brings forth beautiful illusions of grandeur, showing his knights winning all battles, his coffers multiplying by the minute, his empire expanding from east to west.

Entranced by her song, the king sways to and fro, eyes lit up with greed, and begs for more. Indole smirks and summons one final illusion, skipping forward as she sings.

Her performance over, Indole curtsies once more to thunderous applause and joyous exclamations. The king, drunk on illusions, calls for wine and the festivities continue.

As the night grows cold, the leaves curl inward, and the moon shines bright, Indole returns to the WOODS, caressing Ethereum hoop earrings, wondering which king she might visit next.


indole chandelier, collector of precious jewels

I first met Rosemary when she was leaving her parents’ cottage, tucked in where the fields met the woods in the shadow of the windmill. She balanced a basket in the crook of her elbow, overflowing with her belongings. Paintbrushes, jams, pickled radishes, a loaf of bread. 

She collapsed under the shade of my branches with a deep sigh and dug her toes into the soft moss surrounding my roots. She told me of her family, descended from the Celtic Druids and keepers of those traditions. They were healers. They witnessed births, bound wounds, cooled fevers and helped those near death pass on. They had hoped Rosemary would follow in the family line, but she was one for art.

Her mind was not one for formulas nor for bargaining payment. Instead, she mixed paints from the flowers of the fields and berries of the forest and captured the faces of those who came to her families’ doorstep. Her family scoffed at her artistic talents. Nothing of value compared with the treasures they accumulated from their healing work.

She told me of her desire to see more of the world beyond the familiar fields and forest. In particular, she yearned to make her home alongside the river and paint her canvases to the melodies of the rushing water. 

She then made her way to her feet, shook out her skirts, shouldered her basket and was on her way. 

When Rosemary passed me by next, several seasons later, she was well ensconced in her new home alongside the river. Her cloud of crimson hair was beginning to green from the spray of the rapids. She was on her way to the Demon Market to trade her pickled radishes and strawberry scones for more canvases and paint brushes.

Again, she took rest under my shade and shared with me tales of her adventures. Living alone did not come naturally to the young WITCH. She was prone to trust and those with more guile than she took advantage. There was Zircon, the Alluring Chalice who stumbled upon Rosemary’s home while walking through the rapids. She had offered her crown of pearls in exchange for a bowl of soup - soup being the source of her powers. It struck Rosemary as a fair bargain and she accented, offering Zircon her hospitality and setting her cauldron to boil. Well fed and restored to full power, Zircon was making her way to leave when Rosemary saw the pearl crown, now sitting on her table, shimmer unnaturally. Looking more closely she realized it was a mere illusion, but by then Zircon had run off, leaving a cackle of laughter in her wake. Similar encounters followed, and Rosemary never accumulated the treasure trove common to most hags. 

Yet, Rosemary’s heart never hardened. She kept the sense of wonder that allowed her to capture such arresting portraits on her canvas. Enchantresses began to prowl her river hoping to stumble upon Rosemary to have their beauty immortalized. As she rested, she told me of ethereum jewels, turbans dripping with gems and necklaces of precious metals. She couldn’t bear to take these from their owners in payment, satisfying herself with their likenesses instead. 

It’s now been years since Rosemary last passed this way, however her renown for portraiture has continued to grow. She is the keeper of sideways glances and shy smiles, new mage markings and feathered headdresses. Her portraits tell the story of the WITCHES.


The portraitist

Humming to herself she lifts a fallen leaf out of the rocks and twirls it by the stem between her fingers. The leaf shimmers and a crackle can be heard, seemingly from nowhere. Her back settles into the base of the weeping cedar as she focuses on the shimmer. The shimmer grows from the leaf, expanding outward through the branches, now visible if someone was peering into her hiding place. The **ENCHANTRESS’** orange eyes flash and the slits of their pupils thin to barely a hair’s width. Where the leaf was now sits an oversized bright blue butterfly. Her lips curl into a soft smile.

“Bring them pain.” **CHIFFON** whispers to her new friend.

With that message the butterfly flutters off between the branches, drunk from its recent summoning. The insect disappears into the still woods, off to fulfill its purpose of vengeance. She lets her now empty hand drop to her stomach, feeling the emptiness there as well. Her smile fades. With the enchantment complete she rises and parts the hanging branches around her and begins her next journey. As she walks through the woods, the leaves of nearby trees curl inward and fall around her, transforming into snow before they touch the ground. 

When she reaches a clearing in the woods covered in fresh snow she raises her arms and the snow gathers into pillars before her. Thick icicles branch between the pillars, reaching out to each other. Between the icicles, panes of thin ice fuse, completing the formation of an eerie, icy greenhouse. A greenhouse the enchantress soon fills with lifeless sculpted ice.

A tear falls from her cheek landing on the sculpture of a rose bush, adorning the branch with a frozen thorn. **CHIFFON **reaches out and touches the nascent thorn, a magical thorn manifested by her sadness. She remembers the time before magic, when her life wasn’t so cold. She remembers a love that filled her and kept her warm. She recalls when the magic of ice first called to her. It started as a soft whisper during a fall morning, a tinkle in the wind, but became a roaring storm that followed her into the winter. Unbeknownst to her, she risked everything one morning when she pursued the call, walked into the storm, and answered, “Yes.” The ice gave her the **CROWN OF PEARLS**, that until then, she was unaware she so desired. The arcane ice also took from her. It took the life within her and the ability to create new life again. She didn’t know that was the price. She was never forgiven for the price she paid that day and she may never forgive herself. Is cold magic worth never feeling warm again?

Dressed in all black since that day, encasing herself in the mourning of her unborn child and the loss of her lover. She was once called elegant by those close to her, back when there were ones she was close to. The **ENCHANTRESS** shivers as she strides in her long gown between her ice creations in her frozen greenhouse, the only creations she can have now. She spends her time molding and perfecting each sculpture until it is so lifelike they seem to dance with the wind. A gust flows past her and the ice windchimes above her tinkle, resonating like the notes from a marimba. The sound sends involuntary chills down the spine of all who would venture near her unhallowed sanctuary.

“Maybe soon.” the **CHIC MARIMBA** murmurs to herself.

The enchantress creates while she waits for the cries of agony of her former lover. The result of a successful mission of her blue friend, her summon for pain. She spends her time enchanting ice to resemble life, but never able to give life to her creations. Maybe when she hears her former lover’s cries she can stop creating, maybe then the rest of the world will be as empty as she feels.


Her Icy Past

The witch Fluorine Hourglass was not alone the first time. Pitanga was there too—eyes wide with awe, one hand pressed against the window in search of daylight stars. When Fluorine finally tipped her face up towards the sky, she only saw that lone ring of fire, its edges trembling beneath the moon’s dark face. Below it, waves murmured against the shoreline and slivers of light skipped across their foamy tops, leaving the air heavy with salt and magic.  

While Pitanga hurtled over sand, laughing and dancing, Fluorine’s hand stilled at the loom. Distracted, her silk, rayon, and nylon threads found themselves tangled in a mess of rumpled fabric. In those fifty heartbeats, she was _almost _completely transfixed by sky—at least until the ghosts crept in. Fluorine knew what it was like to be in a country of nothing, to be so hollowed out by pain that there was nothing left except white-hot rage. Perhaps that’s why these spirits came for her. In the obscurity of that made-up twilight, they gathered, stretching their hands all around her room until their gossamer forms gave way to charred fingers and lips blue-gray with violence. 

Laughably enough, Fluorine still remembered the view more than that first thrum of magic. The dead knew it too: she was their scourge, an instrument of hope, but always a fool for beauty first. Ever since that eclipse, two thousand and seven hundred fifty-two days ago, they refused to leave. Their magic rattled away at her bones, pressing against flesh as if it were a cage. Lingering souls left her path bare and aching of people and the shadows of ghosts folded themselves between the gaps of her heddle. She would lift up a roll of tulle only to see it marred by pulled teeth, each one a reminder of blood, bone, and a vengeance only exacted by the Wilds. 

Moons later, Pitanga asked her if she still slept at all. The answer, of course, was no. Not even eiderdown feathers could lull Fluorine into a dreamless sleep. Sinking into bed only welcomed more death: a parade of martyrs, their bodies unburied and faces drowned in the sands of time. But when she turned to see the worried look on Pitanga’s face, Fluorine allowed herself to recognize how much she yearned for something other than these moments between the dead and the dying. The necromancer in her almost balked at the thought. After all, a witch’s retribution is lined with teeth and she, unlike others, could not allow herself to forget the whining—the constant staccato throb of funeral hymns, and above it all, the dead’s mangled screams. Even now, they lurked in her shadows, curling around trees and skirting over cobblestone. She could never be apart from them and neither could she divulge their folly. So, instead of saying anything, Fluorine simply tried to keep her face as still as possible. She might have been beholden to the dead but Pitanga, with her riddles and starlight, was the only real thing Fluorine had left to lose. 

It is no wonder then that she simply chose to lie. “It’ll be fine, trust me,” Fluorine cooed, when what she meant to say was: _please, don’t run away without me_. 


A Fool for Beauty

The dew glistens and glides, the thoughts slide, silver strands feed mother Minerva. It begins, as always, with a shake and warm to the sounds. Dreams are collected; strings are spun and worlds are watched. Tripping, skipping, gathering the sighs and grief, transforming the breaths to hope, blowing them back on the wind. It takes some of their own energy, but their purpose is this. Sorrows to song, they move along; pure essence. Worries spiral along up and up. Mingling, adapting, achieving. The floating wisps thread through the foliage, longing for both the flight and the release.

_We listen to the child cry and soak up the tears. The woman gazing out the window, we comfort with reverent silence. Your pain is our pain, but the transformation work is yet to pass. An ENCHANTRESS for the young one who has not yet the time to experience what is needed. A SEER for the woman who has lost her way. Purpose built and destiny-bound. _

To each, their own. A match to bring balance.

Focused, unfocused, pinpointed and vague; they take their stories and put them into motion. Graceful stroke across the page, the request is suggested, the letter sealed; off it flies to be found by its intended and the plan to go into motion. Not achieved alone, all types of WITCHES are part of this, connected, as Minerva intended. While pain is part of life, so is the healing. We work to make the experience of life a fulfilling one. Most never know of our existence.

However.

There are The Days. The Ones who cannot be helped, the ones who have not yet realized their errors and the time for atonement has arrived. Their pain is immutable. Non-negotiable. Fixed. This is the realm of the OCCULTISTS, not of MAGES. Many times this is fate returning that which has been wrought, a reckoning for past wrongs, an end; but also, and always, A Choice. We see, but we do not feel this. This time, the pain has been earned, it is not for those who help to feel. It is the lesson being taught. But will it be sufficiently learned? That is the power of the individual.

Their Choice, their actions shake the web to which we are all connected. 

The day wanes, giving way to the reverent night, they revel in the cloak of safe darkness and the strength of Lune. The sorrows recounted; furiously on the pages, you’ve seen where they’ve not yet gone. The Choice that was made. Pages full of woe and hope. We all must remember in order to learn. The experiences, they are the same, but so many variables. Fascinating. The details…that is where the magic of the situation flares or is extinguished. Does it need to be contained? Rekindled? Harnessed? Bind it together, lest we forget. The tree’s gifts capture the magic; harness the knowledge, remake and restore. It sustains us.

Each has their own strengths to rebuild. Build.

It is time to build.

Home, home, the wee hours, the space between. The dance and the art, the drops and the sparkles that every day we wake to, they create the catching cause. The cycle to start anew. Never ending.

Energy, light, move and dip.
Collect and spin.
Balance.
Pain and healing.
Lessons and redemption.
Study and build. 


Build

_As a somber night lingers, doubt becomes a passenger to the light breeze._

With each breath, a waft of sweetened memories doused the demonic speech seared in her throat. The moonlight painted strokes of waning branches against the sky’s lilac canvas. Only in the deepest groves of the forest does the night sky bear such a fruitfulness of gleaming stars, a sight which pushes and pulls woeful howls across the darkened land. Demonic tongue is harshest at nightfall, when the repercussions of day catch up. However, _Occultist_ Devotee Duststorm, found solace in this pain. As a demonic imbiber, whose pointed horns and guileless gaze pierce the souls of those she crosses, she considers herself an anomaly among Occultists; refusing to serve anyone but the master in herself. Duststorm made a habit of constantly vanishing like an oasis in a sandstorm, providing hope and salvation solely to those she finds worthy.

Taking pause from her bloodied excursion, the occultist slowly slumped to rest her back on the bark of a plum tree. Holding her throat in a peaceful embrace, Duststorm exhaled, watching the warmth of breath roll into a frigid mist of the early spring. The plumage of her **_Curl Cloud_** hair cushioned her head against the base of the tree, propping her eyes towards the all-encompassing sky. Rarely does a wandering witch find a peaceful night that coerces such docile behavior. A wave of guilt passed over her as she slowly closed her eyes and peacefully drifted off in **_the orchard_**.

After what seemed to be seconds, a sudden rustling of leaves awakened the lone-wanderer, as muffled laughter echoed from all directions. “Who goes there?” rasped the occultist. Silence answered her. Engulfing Duststorm’s nose, the wind picked up scents of rotted plum. The laughter emboldened as the rustling gained speed. Before she could blink, a Witch appeared hanging before Duststorm, suspended from an arm of the plum tree with nothing but the crease of her knees. The stranger was one of the most beautiful creatures the Occultist had ever seen. Her porcelain arms and **Lilac** hair dangled like lavender wisteria on castle walls. Her eyes reflected a shimmering light from a **_glowing sigil_** that divided her face. Entranced, Duststorm glanced repeatedly between the stranger’s eyes, noticing each was **_a color of its own_**. The mysterious witch smiled silently with her peachy lips and released her leg’s grasp, landing palm first in the soil surrounding the tree. Her straightened legs began to buckle as gravity pulled her heels towards the ground, spawning a bed of bladed grass and flowers to soften the blow as she fell like a freshly lumbered spruce. With wide eyes and arms, the Witch stared out into the starry abyss, resting an arm’s length away from the Occultist. 

Breaking her silence, the sprawled out stranger teased, “Occultist, Where is your hunting pack? Is there no fawn blood to be harvested tonight?” Devotee Duststorm froze, her **Gold** eyes ablaze with **_Wonder_**. She demanded, “How do you know I am an Occultist?”

Taking pause, the stranger rolled over and positioned herself across from Duststorm. Her wandering eyes slowly trailed from the tips of Duststorm's **_Horns Of Taurus_** down to her stained **_Dark Round_** lips. The witch extended her hand to Duststorm’s ear, caressing the **Mandible Cuff** that she bore. Duststorm further pried, “Who are you and where did you come from?” 

The stranger responded In a motherly tone, “I know of the Occultist ways, so to you I am a Hag. Nothing more, nothing less. If you wish to know my name, know where you rest.” Suddenly, the ground began to shift as the roots of the plum tree slithered beneath the soil they sat on. The earth tore open, as simply as linen caught in a rose bush, and the occultist looked down in awe as the dirt fell into a seemingly endless well of firelight. Duststorm exasperated, “What in coven’s name is this?” 

“Occultist, don’t you know it’s rude to ask questions on someone's doorstep?” 


devotee duststorm and the orchard

白衣女孩正从高空坠落。她努力地张开四肢，抻平自己的身体，希望尽快结束这场折磨。死亡在快速的迫近，她的思维却仿佛慢了下来，又一次回溯了那场刚刚发生的闹剧：在因疫情而陷入的全城封锁中，她被给她父亲送菜的快递小哥深深打动并将这份人世间的温暖与感恩发到了社交媒体上，却因打赏的金额而陷入了网络暴力，成千上万条猜疑、嘲讽、辱骂、威胁从四面八方袭来，把她的心从温暖的心房抛入寒冷的冰窟直至被冻碎。

死亡已无法避免，她也不再惧怕而只剩下未解的疑惑：
感恩怎会遭受如此蹂躏？
媒体怎会变得如此暴力？
世界怎会产生如此荒谬？

女孩眼中的世界变成了红宝石般的深红，她以为是血流了出来，却没有体会到预想的痛苦。甚至，她的心又被重新点燃，还被一层解脱感包裹着，像泡在温泉中，只觉得通体舒畅。恍惚中，一个迷人（enchantress）的声音在她脑中响起：“ruby mirror，欢迎回到奇异荒野（weird wilds）。You are a WITCH known the land over. Your power lies in your gift for telekinesis — the world moves to your will.”

此时，女孩才真正的睁开了眼睛，她看到自己被深红色包围，那是她的魔法领域——一面红宝石做成的镜子。这面镜子映照着世界的一切媒体，信息在这些媒体上光滑的传播。透过镜子，ruby mirror看到很多愤怒而无能的个体将对自己的失望和不满发泄到媒体上，很快形成愤怒的浪潮，暴力地吞没了那些毫无准备的无辜个体。ruby mirror叹了一口气，深沉的念出了她的咒语：“ruby mirror, in charge of all media. My power lies in my gift for telekinesis — the world moves to my will. ASCEND!”咒语结束，ruby mirror伸手抚过镜面，镜中不再有一丝涟漪，网络暴力将永远不再发生。


死亡搁浅

Feijoa’s first memory was that of the sun; it was a blazing orange ball in the sky, an autumnal sunset. It was so beautiful that she wanted to cry. But then she realized that her eyelashes were frozen, and she couldn’t even weep if she wanted to. The cold had taken everything from her - her warmth, her tears, her laughter. Even her memories of before were slowly fading away into the frigid air.

She was born here in the tundra - abandoned by her parents, who left her for dead. Life is harsh in these parts, and only the fittest survive. So she began to wander, searching for something- anything- that could give her hope. And eventually, she found it.

Deep down in the cold nothingness, the darkness of the tundra, where weak creatures are meant to be prey, strong are meant to be predators, and only the strongest will survive. Feijoa was separate from everything, but something lived within, and therefore her soul never parted. 

The first time she encountered it, it was a moment of awe for her. A tiny creature, so vulnerable and small, had made its way into this frozen wasteland. It scampered about for a little while before what seemed like a pack of dire wolves approached Feijoa – a pack she would assuredly not survive once their paths crossed. Then the tiny creature, a small snow fox, made its way over to her. 

The snow fox was no ordinary creature. It was imbued with a special kind of magic, one that would protect it from harm and help it defend its loved ones. And so, even though Feijoa and the small fox seemed like no match for the pack of dire wolves, they survived. Not only that, but this tiny fox offered a swift release from the mortal realm for those dire wolves. The threads of fate had intertwined, and Feijoa and her fox, Rei, together serve as one and both.

As the sun sets in this tundra, the echoes finally reach the tree. The shepherd and the butcher - Feijoa and Rei – are always present, stand and greet Feijoa’s magically infused bow, and her arrows will lay you down swiftly. Refuse her arrows, and Rei will join for his merry hunt, where every chase runs to its brutal end. After which, only the laughter of Feijoa and Rei can be heard. Feijoa is not just a witch of wits and woes but one of nature. Deny Rei’s judgment, and you deny the natural order. Nature is to be allowed, and nothing should interfere with the order of nature. Venture through the snowy fields, the frozen sea, and the tundras with ill intents, and beware of the laughter you may encounter. Feijoa, the Autumnal Sunset of the tundras, may be lurking in the dark.

What may seem like a bed padded down with eiderdown feathers and dreams may well be the swift release releasing you from the horror of the tundras bestowed upon you by the shepherd. She is a witch of laughter, a witch of ice, a friend to all who do not interfere with nature: Feijoa, the Autumnal Sunset.
 


The Eternal Tundra

The weird wilds, as we know, are dark and light, high and low, sky and ground, music and silence. These opposites birth witches whose grips grab one or the other. But, both? Chang’e has, feels, is both. 

Her world is open and closed. Open to share her magic of seeing light and dark  and closed for others to understand her pain of this magic. One must think of how the things of light, of joy, of flowers, of sun, of birth, of candlelight fill up goblets within us. Overflowing even, with the brightness illuminating from us. Chang’e filled with light to join those with full goblets. Yet, the light within her is equally countered with dark. With night, with fear, with predators, with unknown, with sadness, with death. The things that empty our goblets.

In childhood, her movements echoed her magic as she raised herself up, filled with light and fell to the ground, filled with dark. No one could explain the why, the how, the what of Chang’e. She tried to make others see her. See her bothness. None did. All they saw was her as being sick with seizures, as being wounded and weak, as being not one of them.

To escape the questions and ridicule, she read and experimented. She looked for cures for her illness. Mixing taro root, rat whiskers, red clay, nettle leaves, and motherwort to sip, rubbing sheep’s milk, crushed elderberries, and torn cedar needles across her skin. Nothing changed. Nothing helped. She slid deeper and deeper away from those around her until she disappeared.

With her away, the questions, the name-calling, the poking and prodding stopped. She was forgotten. 

But, Chang’e was here. Weaker and sadder, but here. She wandered as far as she could every day. Living off the earth and growing a trail of creatures behind her. A crow with crinkled wings jumped beside and flew above her. Bringing her berries and fruit found along the untrodden path to try to fill her empty belly. A tailless mouse and a snake with crooked tongue skittered and slid next to her. At night, their skittering and sliding brought a pillow of moss for under Chang’e’s head and a blanket of pine boughs to keep her warm. These creatures knew her power even though she did not.

She never spoke to her companions. Just smiled with the light and grimaced with the dark. She did speak to the air, the wind, the sun, the stars. Her quiet words asking what was wrong with her swirled around her and spread in the four directions of a compass.

Her whispers pleading for help reached the Tree of Echoes. The weird wilds answered her call. Saw not a wounded, sick and weak girl, but one built of dark starry nights and bright sunny days, of joy and sorrow, of the highest mountains and deepest seas. One built of bittersweet. 

The bittersweet, this bothness of light and dark, gave a name to Chang’e’s powers. And welcoming light and dark together made her see the past, present and future in ways unknown to any other. Her magic grew as spirits of weird wilds conjured spells, sent signals, danced to bring forth those who felt the bittersweet and needed moon and sunbeams to bring forth their powers. Chang’e knew, as the weird wilds do, some power of bittersweet is in all of us and by welcoming it, we become whole. 




Chang'e the Bittersweet

**ZINNIA, THE DEEP BEACH**, ever a sifter of the sands of time, picked up a prismatic hourglass from among the many glass vessels that lined each surface of the solarium. They turned it over thoughtfully, and the oolitic sand that glistened inside began to tumble inexorably down. Oolite, the smoothest of all sands, is formed on the seafloor. While underwater, the surface of each tiny grain teems with bacteria who have shaped their world for millennia with this limestone substrate. So now does Zinnia shape their little corner of the wilds with the bacteria’s sandy remains: if a storm brews outside, you can be sure they intend to transfigure the oolite gleaming on the beach into precious glass. 

“I feel the onset of a Mood Indigo,” remarked Zinnia as they turned to fix their blindfolded gaze to the east, toward the obsidian clouds which roiled like hot liquid over the sea. Meanwhile, their sistren,** APRICOT THE ABSORBANT **and **PERSIMMON SKY** attended the scrying glass. Every so often, this trinity meets at the intertidal fissure where mountains and sea enmesh. You see, they desired to conjure a bolt of lightning from that foreboding sky. They wished to channel their unified will to direct it precisely where their kiln-fired ooid moulds lay buried beneath the sand.

“Big storm beckoning!” replied Apricot and Persimmon in unison. The three **SEERS** shared the same strange black, sightless eyes, rimmed in glowing white–a mark of their affinity for this kind of alchemical magic. Zinnia joined their sistren at the flat scrying mirror made of highly polished black tourmaline, which balanced at waist height on the point of a three-sided glass pyramid. They laced their hands and voices together and a low, almost visible humming began to vibrate the air around them. When a **WITCH** wants to wield the weird wilds’ dark materials, the wilds require a show of respect—some recognition of their deadly paradox: After Creation, Destruction. After Destruction, Creation. The **SEERS** entwined their minds around a single mantra, repeating:

_No Mud,_
_No Lotus_

Suddenly an earsplitting peal of thunder rang out that shook the glass panels of the solarium. A blinding flash of light and....

They pierced across the moonlit shore, eager to find the spoils of their lightning spell. The sky and sea had grown quiet, and the only sounds were muffled giggles and the soft swish of sand beneath slippers. Zinnia stopped dead when the scent of hot beeswax alerted their nostrils that their prize was close at hand, and Persimmon quickly bent to dig where a thin wisp of smoke streamed from the ground. Apricot unfurled a thick blanket of braided turquoise fibers in the sand beside them, its woven lattice of glass beads each reflecting the full moon like so many tiny eyes. They howled their joy as they uncovered the cache of pearlescent pitchers, pipes and figurines, placing each one gingerly onto the mat. Though some of the pieces emerged from their moulds missing handles or lopsided, Zinnia rejoiced not in their perfection, but in their uniqueness. For a **SEER **does not seek perfection, knowing it is an illusion as fleeting as lightning.


No Mud, No Lotus

to seek my own reflection in the
gaze of a dancing blue flame while i
sit thumbing my chaos on the hollows
covered in darkness, covered in dank moss.

i do my best to only speak truth 
but the future is as fickle as man's heart.
i could only tell what the heart wants to hear.
i could only see what the eyes are prepared to witness.

every time i am summoned by a spirit 
with greater power in order to be tested,
somehow, when i open my mouth,
it begins to speak with her voice.

this is not a curse! just one of those things that can never be undone.

i may be made of paper mache and fragile kindness,
my gemstones carved with runes that age backwards 
into the beginnings of time, but little do they know 
that's how i came to be.

they said they needed someone to help them.
when i said yes, i meant that way not this.
when i put on my armor and dusted off my sword and dagger for
the first time in a century, i knew what was coming but not why.

i didn't know how alone i'd feel surrounded by friends
how easy it would be to lose myself
how quickly my past would come back to me.
now as we sit here quietly, i ponder:

where will all of this go and will it be enough? 

every day is the end of my story and
the beginning of a new one.


sampler of time

Centauri awoke with a panic. She had fallen asleep, yet again, in the old rocking chair on the back porch. The sound of the cicadas had lulled her into the kind of sleep that great potions were made of. She had grown accustomed to this way of life; the simplicity of being nestled in the space beyond the trees. But, even in this woodland oasis, she still found it hard to escape the night terrors of her time before The Wilds. 

She was once a trusted confidant advising royals, celebrated for her magic and prestige. As a Mage, Centauri was an herbalist unmatched and no stranger to the gaze of those entranced by her glowing emerald eyes against her velvety sable skin. Beyond her looks, she betwixt many with her wit and surefire knowledge of Earth’s medicine. This is what plagued her most about the dreams, her magic never stood a chance once Vanity had made up her mind. 

In the physical, Vanity was the personification of her name. By charm, she was an Enchantress. The two were inseparable, each progressing in their magic at speeds that the Elders could not quantify. They would send them together as advisors to the greatest kingdom, well beyond the corners of the humble village that had raised them. Knowing that she would spend her life and mission alongside her sister, was Centauri’s most treasured truth. 

The first few years ran smoothly and were even exciting. But slowly, Vanity began to feel a deep, seething thirst for the power of the king. He was wasted sovereignty and had no respect for her, or her magic. It was one thing for him to ignore a single advisor, but he had been entrusted with two. The man was a fool; one who also mistook her as his muse and it enraged her that he would admonish her skillset in such a way. All it took for him to be king was his blood. The same would ring true in her quest to rule his kingdom.

The thing about her sister was her nobility. She would surely feel a twinge of  betrayal for her role in overthrowing him. Vanity knew that she would have to do this alone. This was the true gift of an Enchantress; her beauty was a single, intrinsic thread interwoven into the entire fabric of her magic. Wherever she aimed her sights, she would get exactly what she wanted - every time. 

When Centauri awoke, the entire kingdom was spellbound. Each person immortalized as a mirror in which Vanity could see herself. Her bright eyes were covered with a shady grey film that cast out her once smoldering warmth. She had gone mad with bloodlust. Hysterical laughter filled the castle as she sat draped in fineries from the previous Queen’s closet. You could feel her imperious spirit.

For weeks, any herb Centauri could gather made its way into an elixir for the self proclaimed “Mademoiselle Vanity”. No matter how tirelessly she worked, she was no match for her sister’s blossoming power. The woman she had once adored, was buried deep beneath a burning desire for indulgence. Regretfully, her magic had failed her when it mattered most. Centauri's only choice now was to flee. This would only be the beginning.



Before The Wilds

It did not happen often, but when it did, it was a circumstance to be marked. Crone Cauldron said the celebration lasted three whole days. I wasn’t present for the festivities, because— Well, you’ll see.

Cauldron was brought the news by an Enchantress.

Enchantresses sometimes pass through the Wastes on their way to other places, though always accompanied—other Enchantresses, valets, equerries, porters, oftentimes Kings themselves, trailing a few feet behind. 

A lone Enchantress is rare. Though stranger things had happened, and would continue to do so, if the All-Mother had anything to say about it—and she often did. 

This was no incidental Enchantress, however. This was Mademoiselle Vivace, cloaked in feathers of whitest white, befitting of the season, even if her strappy footwear was not.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in, Hag?” Vivace said for a greeting, standing outside Cauldron’s stacked-stone fence, half-covered in snow. The fence, not Vivace. Though she did have a dusting of fat flakes crowning her tawny hair, making her look not only cold, but even more regal than usual.

In the midst of stringing up tallow-seed feeders in the branches of her prized apple tree, Cauldron had replied by rote, “Depends. What’ll you give me in return?”

The Witches snickered at themselves and each other and slipped into an embrace as familiar as the wind on their faces. When Vivace clutched her shoulders fast and tight, Cauldron knew the occasion would be a bittersweet one.

And this was her news: Granny Saucer, that stalwart pillar of salt-spray sambas, of collected hearts and iridescent furnishings, had chosen rest and renewal. 

She selected a favorable time for it. Exactly between Samhain and Yule, when there were no more crops to be harvested, and the gathered Witches could dance in the early dark by the warm light of her pyre. She was thoughtful that way.

So it was, though no letters were sent, that Witches drifted together, the report whispered by cunning ravens and the rustling of tree branches, drawn by the polar pull of shared grief and the promise of a legendary celebration.

Given an occasion of sufficient felicity, Witches of all natures have been known to appear in the pockets of the Wastes where Hags have carved their wellsprings. Those in observance of this most auspicious event comprised mostly Hags of Granny’s coven, though Occultists and Mages from the far reaches of the Weird Wilds came to pay their respects in their own ways—and imbibe the boysenberry wine brewed for such times as these. 

Granny was a far flung hag in her youth, even more so than most, bringing tales of the gilded Orrery and the austere Tower back to this oasis of shelter in these often unforgiving lands. And so her homegoing brought vessels for even more tales and knowledge to be shared and shared alike. Crafty too, was Granny Saucer.

Cauldron claims a Seer winked into the stand of sycamores from thin air. They blessed the pyre and clasped Vivace’s arm—Vivace, whom Granny Saucer had plucked from a seed pod and germinated in a mason jar, once upon a time—whispered something in her ear, then disappeared as abruptly as they had come.

She had been forged from fire, and so, passed from hand to hand, Granny Saucer’s earthly vessel, as beautiful and terrible as the day she stepped from the flames, returned to it.

The fire melted the snow in the clearing and mushrooms sprung from the earth, as they do whenever Hags gather. These gifts never burgeon with the obliging pattern of fairy circles; they germinate chaotically, with an order only visible to those who know how to look.

Just as mushrooms propagate where Hags convene, so too does good food appear whenever two Hags are within spitting distance of one another. Buckleberry bread and peachfruit jam and a singular walnut-goat cheese Cauldron had been saving, though she herself had not known why, until then.

As Granny Saucer returned to stardust, the Witches danced to the resonance of lute and harp, well-traveled instruments worked by many hands, for in times of need, many hands make light work and many shoulders bear the greatest burdens. They wove willow-twig crowns for one another, giving thanks for the bounty of a meaningful life, exulting in sorrowful joy and joyous sorrow.

Through one long night and the next, the fire burned, ashes lifting skyward like so many backward snowflakes.

Except not all of them. Some ashes rained back to the earth, between the leafless branches of the asperous apple tree, to where a spider slowly spun her very last web. The wily spider wrapped the ashes as she would a fly—not because she was mistaken, but because she had a purpose. When all her silk was spent, she plucked a string and curled into herself, taking her own rest and renewal. 

After the flames had dimmed to nothing but embers, after the snow had melted and the light grew long once more, after the birds began their spring song again, a Hag stepped from the weatherworn scraps of the cinder-silk cocoon, the Hag who speaks to you now, Cicely of the Wastes, of the Ashes, spun from silken strings and stardust, the circle made whole, danced to life by woe and wonder.


The Consecration of Granny Saucer

During the centuries long Dark Night Sky, it was known that any witch who wandered into the Wilds from dusk to dawn would never again feel the moist soil of the unknown trails compact under their feet, hear the shrill of an owl’s prey as they are whisked away, or see the dewy mist that blankets the early morning of the Wilds.

Arcturus was born into one of these darkest of nights when a warm breeze made the willows dance in the shadows and moan to the pure black sky. From an early age she was known to have wisdom beyond her years and unexplained knowledge of both the past and future. Her studies at the Hallowed Halls were visionary and examined by Witches across the Wilds. She was known as much for her groundbreaking discoveries, as the eggy odor her potions and elixirs invariably carried through the Halls’ dormitories. Her potions, the most complex ever seen, were always scribed across every black board in the laboratories to her classmates’ dismay.

That’s why Arcturus preferred the silence of the catacombs to the chanting and chatter of the mess halls and one night took her evening stew to the catacombs. Finally, peace.

As she opened her canister, warm broth steamed into the chill darkness of the tunnels, dancing into a motion she had never seen. A low murmur of whispers from the catacombs seemed to direct the dance, singing at an ever increasing pitch. The same warm breeze that brought Arcturus into the world bellowed through the tunnels of the catacomb extinguishing every flame as it passed. Until darkness. A step forward and she was whisked into the wind. Like the prey of an owl.

In the years of Arcturus’s disappearance, shooting scriptures began illuminating the night sky in the same hand known by students of the Hallowed Halls as Arcturus’s. Seen and then gone in a flash.

Arcturus floated through the catacombs under Hallowed Halls in lostness for years and as she roamed, the tales of the Coven permeated through her. Every song, potion, and spell of every Witch across all eons was sewn together into a comprehensive web pushing Arcturus faster into the future, running in a trance through the endless darkness.

At last! She saw a light... at last, the end.

As the glow grew closer Arcturus realized that she was not moving forward but up. Her orient was to the sky. She breached the surface of the Wild’s mossy floor and felt the ground at her back. Eyes closed to the brightness they were not accustomed to above, she sniffed. It smelt like Fleshman’s Tonic, a potion she created in which toxins would burn worrywarts off the skin. A favorite among the Seers she thought, Caltha Palustris. Pressing her weight into her palms to sit up, she opened her eyes and looked down at the yellow surrounding her, Marsh Marigold.

Strange, she thought. Never had she been able to discern the yellow of a marigold at night from the darkness which, usually, consumed. Where am I? She brought her gaze back to the sky above and realized for the first time where the light was coming from. The sky was filled with script, her script. Every memory, potion, and enchantment that had filled her mind in the years lost in the catacombs was alive in the cosmos above. Stars, sparkling in pure delight for every witch to see.

The night, once again, was free for all to roam as the sky glistened above illuminating The Way.


The Illumination

The fire burns my skin. I hear it crackle under my feet. I feel the flames spreading around me like a storm over a valley.

I will leave this world in unbearable pain. So many of my kind have perished. Perished from my world. From my home. Witches of wonder and wisdom, of wit and will, of woe and wiles.

The fire burns my skin. Bergamot calls me from the world beyond this void. She reassure me. But I see glimpses of world that is strange. It’s incomprehensible. 

_Don’t be afraid_
_You are safe_
_We will find you_
_Cast the spell_

I have been burning for two hundred years._ _For two hundred years_ _I’ve refused to surrender to these flames. I no longer feel the heat on my skin. My eyes are heavy. When they close I feel afraid. Afraid they may never open again. 

_Don’t be afraid_
_We are here_
_With kinder souls_
_Freer minds_
_They will protect you_

I cast this spell to save my soul
As I will it, so it comes to  pass
I cast this spell to find a home

I give my skin
to free my soul
I give my bones
to be found again
I give my blood
to be woken up
I give my heart
so whoever finds me will know who I am


The world beyond the void

Only those who have seen the true nature of the rainbow know that nothing can escape the eyes of the trickster.

The age-old tale of trickery, deceit, and guile. Only those who have gazed upon her can understand such brilliance exists. Those who remain in the dark know only of her as the unrepentant trickster who glistens in the aura of treasure she so skillfully won.

Acacia Horn. With eyes as red as a ruby, her piercing gaze can spot deceit with ease. She knows it too well. A master of conniving, a devious witch unafraid to embrace her dark side. There is nothing that can slither by her nose as it can observe the faintest of movements. Even death cannot hide from her glow. Just as snakes shed their skin, so does the cunning witch. Replacing old tricks with new. Her name is only to be spoken by the worthy or by those who are unlucky enough to face her wrath.


Acacia Horn. Every resident of this world will hold onto their treasure as tightly as a parent holding onto the love for their newborn infant. Selfish desires illuminate the true colors of those who refuse to overcome their natural sloth and wish to do ill upon this world. The worthy mustn’t fear for their spirits, as the witch will only prey upon the foolish. Unwisely unbridled, the selfish conceal their treasures masked as the orange-faced earth to seek out that which they cannot have. There is only but one place to go.


Acacia Horn. As she gazes upon her beauty in the glow of the yellow plated treasure, she recalls memories of the spoils she so skillfully won. One can only envy her unknown ways. The only truth resides in her unmatched throne of cunning and trickery known to necromancers far and wide. As the light begins to dance alongside descending droplets, an intense shining vision is reflected onto the wild from above. A rainbow. With the path illuminated, who is it that sits atop such a beauty?



Acacia Horn. Ladybugs begin the fill the air. Their wings glide effortlessly through the obstacles below. As ambition leads to greed, the radiant green aura turns dark and pale for those driven by jealousy. The self-seeking take notice and begin to follow the revealed path to what they believe an omen of grace. A sign of good fortune, perhaps? For who?


Acacia Horn. The blessing that appears before those whose gluttony knows no bounds. She is seen as pure in character, a goddess with a smile so vast, that not even the bountiful blue ocean can compare. A master of trickery indeed. Speaking eloquently to those who instantly fall for her guise, “I will grant you treasure beyond belief. Lay down your riches and watch as they multiply before your eyes. You need only to speak my name to receive my gift.”


Acacia Horn. Gaining pride from the tragedy felt by those who know themselves to do no harm, she laughs as justice is as bright as a sun-washed indigo cloak. With vanished tongues, the chumps stripped of their most valuable possessions have no hope except to feast upon their loss. They listen, “I have granted you the favor of speaking my name. A favor that may only happen once. I am a witch made of treasure. Now go, make light where there is none.” The death of selfishness instantly descends. Was this a dream? Who was this legend?

Acacia Horn. The most skillful trickster of them all. Only the worthy who lust for knowledge may find the breadcrumbs hidden within the tree of echoes. A true treasure indeed, left by the noble violet necromancer.

Acacia Horn.


The Rainbow of Wonder

The child was feverish, her large eyes made glassy by the dancing firelight, her forehead beaded with icy sweat.

Hydrogen placed the back of her hand on the child’s cheek, smiling gently into her frightened face and willing her calm to infect the child, rather than the dread miasma that threatened her life.

“The Tree is our only hope, we must act quickly”, Hydrogen whispered furiously to the child’s father. He merely looked at her, mute and unresponsive.

Turning back to the child, she said “What is your name sweetheart?” in a gentler tone.

“Tabby “whispered the child. “Why does it hurt so?”

Hydrogen replied “I’m going to take you on an adventure. I want you to meet a friend of mine. He is wise and old and kind, and he will make you feel better very soon!”

Tabby’s eyes widened and she said, very faintly, “I believe you,” but Hydrogen could tell it was a lie that children tell their elders, because they have been taught not to trust their own fear.

Hydrogen had been summoned to the child’s bedside because her mother had nowhere else to turn. She had heard whispers about the Witch in the Mahogany Wood who spoke to the dead and shunned the living. Everyone knew the dead had answers that were denied the living – even the essence of the Gods could be divined by those who had the Art. The village elders had decreed that the child’s illness was God’s will, and that it must be some fault of the parent’s that had cursed the girl with this deadly malady.

“Come child”, Hydrogen crooned while lifting the frail child and carrying her out of the modest hut. The child’s father still had not moved, would not offer any resistance. Her mother bent over the hearth, sobbing yet helpless or unwilling to intervene.

It was because they had given up on Tabby that Hydrogen was permitted to ply her supernatural arts, but she knew that if Tabby was not healed that it would be further proof that Hydrogen was a fraud and a danger to the peace and health of the village. Although her successes were many, the mistrust with which she was dealt meant that any misstep would result in her banishment. They would consider it a good riddance and a very useful thing to have such a scapegoat to their dread.

What the villagers didn’t know was that Hydrogen was cursed by the Tree to offer her skills freely, only to have her proffered hand spurned by all.  As a Necromantic witch, in her youthful folly she had raised the dusty hunger of the dead God Odin when she was testing her strength in the Arts. Odin who was hung on Yggdrasill for nine days and nights and was granted the gift of prophecy. Her hubris in raising him in this new Millennium was not to go unpunished, however the Tree was not vicious – it was rather connected by sympathetic magic to those who affect its equilibrium.

As Hydrogen approached the Tree, picking her way through the woods in the waning moonlight, she heard footsteps approach from behind. It was Tabby’s father, who was somehow able to break the spell of his ennui and make one last effort to turn back the inevitability of what was to come.

His face was hard, but he could barely look at Hydrogen for fear of her icy blue eyes and what they could discern in his cold heart.

“What are you going to do with her?” he spat. “You are a demon lover, and I won’t let you take her.”

Hydrogen sighed and turned away, “We don’t have much time, the Tree will help her heal.”

He grasped her shoulder, digging in his fingers under her collarbone. She twisted and spat a curse of acid and brimstone, and he withdrew his hand quickly. “Fuck you bitch!” he muttered, “You’ll pay for that!”

In that moment, in that brief but vicious contact, Hydrogen glimpsed a vision of the child’s past, her father’s cruelty, her mother’s trap of her own making, and she also glimpsed her path to make this right.

Approaching the Tree, she placed the feeble child in the branches embrace and quickly turned with an incantation that blasted the father down the autumn path.

“Let the dead decide the outcome here,” as she wove her hands, and her heart and her breath into words of power that were crafted to awaken the Tree to do her bidding.

The wood came alive and began to weave and weft across the body of the father. He was mute again, but this time it was the spirits of his past, and his dead, and his ancestors that caused him to be silent, the knowledge of his darkness realised across time and space.

When the dead are raised their dusty hunger for lost life knows no bounds and the enchanted wood must keep the peace.


Peace in the Wood

The verdant Swamp is home to many hidden mysteries. In the folds of the hanging vines you may find more questions than answers, and a carpet of moss muffles the footfalls of all manner of creatures, harmless and otherwise. 

But the best-kept secret of the Swamp lives on an island that rises from the murky waters of a wide and shallow bog, like a turtle lounging in the mist.

Since she settled among the skeletal ribs of the monstera leaves, Lily the Pastel Moon has taken to weaving this corner of the Swamp with things as unexpected as she. Threading her voice in the soft trickle of water over stones, braiding her will into tangled branches; those hanging just low enough to brush the heads of passers-by, a quiet caress telegraphed through mangrove roots and translated in the fuzzy nap of cattails Lily peruses as one would the morning newspaper.

You’ll never find her if you’re looking. She must be stumbled upon, a wonderful and unpredictable accident.

It is always twilight when visitors peer through the haze and reach her shores. That in-between time when day holds its breath, waiting for the sigh of night. You'll sigh too, when you cross over the weather-worn runes etched into her stone threshold and feel her magic welcoming you, the scent of oven-fresh fruit and rising dough seeping into your bones like a warm bath after a long, cold day.

Her magic seems boundless to the untrained eye, but even after all this time, she still discovers new recipes to add to her book: in the curve of a patron’s eyebrow she finds the instructions of the lemon curd for which their mother was well-known, in the angle of their chin, the poppyseed bread they once tasted in the Demon’s Market and could never find again.

The abode around her is one vast pantry; jars and vials and decanters of herbs, powders and things you’d do well not to look at too closely.

The truly blessed arrive with a recipe that challenges her; for this, she removes a length of cloth from the folds of her shawl, black as new moon midnight and woven from the unknowable. A veil heavy with secrets whispered only to Lily, the Pastel Moon, she who whispers back. To the depth of the arcane she surrenders, blinded to all but the truth, and with the Eye she Sees the unseeable, the frayed threads of what-ifs and the shards of paths not chosen.

Batter mixes in her bowl, necessary ingredients always at her fingertips, no matter how obscure they may be: dragon scales and star anise and the flower that only blooms on the highest mountain peak under a blood moon. 

The confection that emerges from Lily’s clay oven is always exactly what you needed. With eyes deep as the cosmos and glinting like hot coals, still half inside a vision, Lily watches you take the first bite with a wispy smirk. In the porous loft of sourdough, the soft glide of flan, the meaty flakes of a crust, you may find your future, yes, but which version of it? The Pastel Moon knows better than to reveal everything.

You will never find her again, try as you might. With the taste of blueberry buckle just at the tip of your tongue, you might haunt the bogs and basins of the Swamp like a specter for the rest of your days, the caress of kindly tupelo boughs brushing your shoulders, offering an ephemeral escort, if only you’d stop to listen.


Lily, Secret of the Swamp

Wasabi of the wilds, like most hags, was intimately familiar with the cycles of life and death. The giant log she lived in was a testament to those mysterious dualities, at once rotting into sweet decay while growing lush with weeping moss and lion’s mane. She shared her bed with jewel bright lizards and beetles and woke with cobwebs and snakeskin husks tangled in her hair. Even her dreams held space for both darkness and light, wonder and woe. 

Each morning, under the liminal pre-drawn sky, Wasabi logged her nightly visions by tracing sigils into the bark of the surrounding trees. Her fingers left looping whorls of phosphorescence as graceful as the mating dance of a firefly. The marks were beautiful but cryptic; just like she was. 

_I dreamt of a red-eyed crow who offered me a feather. When I accepted it, the crow plucked out my heart…_

Wasabi was a clever witch but she was no seer. Her dreams remained merely that: stories spun from the candyfloss of her slumbering mind. Her records formed a lovely tapestry of nocturnal musings that perhaps a wandering mage might delight in decoding someday. But Wasabi hadn’t seen another soul in years, mage or otherwise. 

Wasabi lived a simple life. All she craved were the gifts of her carefully tended garden: the spicy herbs she was named for, the crunchy radishes, the snap peas, and peppers. In summertime she harvested berries and tomatoes so dark and sweet they stained her lips crimson. In the fall she used squash, corn, and sage to make hearty soups that almost made her wish she had someone with whom to share. Almost.

In winter her garden lay dormant, the earth dusted with frost. It was during this time that Wasabi foraged for nuts, lichens, and yellowfoot chanterelles. When those were scarce she hunted rabbit and quail, then skinned and plucked them clean so she could eat. Life and death continued on and on, an ouroboros of changing seasons. 

One spring, just as her garden had started to awaken with its first tender shoots and seedlings, Wasabi was surprised to discover sigils carved into the trees that were not of her own making. These unwelcome marks were angular and rough, fraying the edges of the wood. Sap leeched from them like festering wounds. Wasabi tensed, sensing danger, and looked around warily. Morning fog still clung to the junipers and redwoods, obscuring anything that might be lurking about.

Wasabi slowly walked the perimeter of her forest clearing and nearly let out a cry when she saw her beloved garden had turned to a bed of ash. She sank to her knees, combing her fingers through the soot. She was no stranger to death. But this wasn’t death—it was decimation.

Anger flared inside her and she stood up, fist curled around a palmful of charred earth. “Who did this?” she demanded out loud. 

There was a flash of movement at the corner of Wasabi’s eye and she whirled around. She was being watched from a nearby thicket of blackberries and belladonna. Twin embers glowed faintly through the fog; the red eyes of a crow. Or rather, a crow girl.

The stranger had an otherworldly aspect to her, with her smoldering eyes and black feathered cloak. A necklace of pearls hung loosely around her collarbone like teeth. Wasabi could sense dark power emanating from the girl, and she recognized her at once for what she was: a witch. 

“Did you do this, necromancer?” Wasabi demanded. 

The crow-witch did not answer right away. She merely quirked her lips into a playful smile, which made Wasabi feel a wave of unsteadiness. Her heart thudded in her chest but on the outside Wasabi maintained an illusion of cool disdain. She could not let the stranger know how rattled she was to see another human—a witch, no less! 

Finally, the crow girl approached Wasabi and said, “I’ve been watching you for some time. Every day your little routine. It got dull. I craved chaos.”

“By destroying my garden?” Wasabi snapped. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Your new friend,” the witch smiled, snaking one arm around Wasabi’s shoulders. “But you can call me Mistress Realm. I come from a dark place and your light attracted me like a moth to the flame.” 

For an instant Wasabi had an urge to summon the earth powers she so rarely called upon and put her so-called “friend” in her place. But violence was not her way. Cunning and wiles, on the other hand, were her sharpest weapons.

And as much as she hated to admit it, this unexpected shakeup to her solitary routine was in fact rather thrilling. That, and the feel of Realm’s warm skin against her own was a sensation she had missed.

“What do you want?” Wasabi asked coolly.

“A little company. A little fun,” Realm replied. “This is a nice home you have carved out for yourself. Much nicer than the home I left behind. I’d like to stay a while. Perhaps make it my own.”

Wasabi would not give up her sanctuary nor her solitude so easily, but she might as well have some fun of her own.

“If you are to be my guest, allow me to show you a hag’s hospitality,” Wasabi said, beckoning towards her giant log. “Some tea, perhaps?”

Realm followed her into the log, looking as out of place as a viper amongst a bed of daisies. Wasabi caught a brief flash of longing on the necromancer’s face as she touched the moss draped walls but the look was quickly replaced with a canny grin as Realm made herself at home. “I could go for a proper meal, in fact.”

“I would have more to offer you had you not destroyed my garden,” Wasabi said, setting a tin kettle upon a flame. Let the necromancer go on thinking she had the power. Soon she would see the consequences of testing a Scorpio hag.  

Wasabi hummed softly as she prepared the tea, sprinkling dried nettle, chicory, and rosehip into a cheesecloth sachet. Realm watched her intently with her ruby eyes but did not seem to notice as Wasabi slipped in a few extra ingredients from her many jars of herbs and powders.

“You want an apology from me,” Realm said with a playful smirk upon her lips. “But I’m not sorry I indulged in a little chaos. It’s who I am; I like to have fun.”

“I enjoy some fun, myself, from time to time,” Wasabi said, offering Realm the tea in a bone china cup the color of dandelion milk. The teacup was as smooth and delicate as a flower petal, nearly translucent. “Though I don’t find wanton destruction as amusing as you seem to.” 

Realm narrowed her eyes in suspicion, pushing the cup back. “You’re not having any? Then I insist that you take a sip before I do.”

“As your host it would be rude to drink first, but if I must,” Wasabi said, raising the cup to her lips. She drank deeply and smiled. “Delicious.”

Satisfied, Realm accepted the cup and slowly and deliberately touched her lips against the very spot where Wasabi had placed her own. Realm’s smoldering eyes remained fixed upon Wasabi as she took a long sip of tea.  Realm was teasing her, and Wasabi was determined not to react, but a shiver still escaped down her spine. When was the last time her lips had touched another’s?

Thankfully, it did not take long for the tea to take effect, and Realm soon dropped into a deep slumber. Wasabi watched her a while, noticing the way her gentle breathing rustled the feathers of her cloak. She found herself admiring how sweet the necromancer’s face looked when her fiery eyes were closed. Not so dangerous as she seemed. 

Despite her natural tolerance, the tea had affected Wasabi as well. She allowed herself to drift into the fantasy of a life shared with Mistress Realm in her humble forest home—a little combustion and chaos to keep life interesting. But Wasabi knew life and death intimately, and while each had its place in the great cycle, they could not coexist. 

Wasabi shook herself from her reverie and used all her remaining strength to summon a portal. She was almost surprised to see her magic was still so robust, even under the effects of the tea. 

Gently lifting Realm, she placed the necromancer back into the Weird Wilds that yawned on the other side, laying her upon a bed of white clover and liberty caps, still damp with morning dew. 

The portal closed with a whisper of air, like a gasp, leaving Wasabi with an ache in her chest as though her heart had been plucked out. 

She was alone again. 

But tomorrow there was work to be done.

There was a garden to coax back to life. 


Life and Death

On this night dark as ravens, the moon takes her shape of silver sliver known as waxing crescent. She bestows a glimmer of light to the glacial landscape under her gaze. In this form, she emboldens us all to create, sprout and invest - even when the earth is hard, the air sharp with frigidity and the trees barren. Buried deep, an energy pulsates under its fallow facade.

Cresyl Nightmare’s silent footsteps hushed in snow, echo in the desolate winter wood. Skeletal branches reach towards starless skies as a gentle wind nudges her forward. Cresyl searches but does not know her destination. She trusts in the trees and seeks the nooks they create where the lunar light cannot touch.

She yearns for guidance and comfort. Her dreams have become restless and unguarded. Too many departed souls demand answers. Too many who drown in the mud of mourning desperately reach out to find a way out of its rapacious grasp. They all seek peace yet rob Cresyl of hers. 

She moves into a conference of trees whose branches mingle and merge to ostrasize the luminosity of their sister in the sky. Shadows envelop Cresyl like a womb. Her lids soften and her fingers float as the opacity ebbs and flows around her like the tide. The shadows become heavy as her breath thickens and she is beckoned towards snow veiled earth. She melts and her fingers find a fetid gathering of leaves, dead but fecund. They rot and render into one as they deteriorate back to the source from once they came. She plunges her hands into the death and lingers. 

A tiny shadow emerges almost blind against the night, a raindrop of ethereal ink that hovers in the air before it wafts along the breeze. She rises and follows the beacon. Her lids remain lowered, and yet it guides her. Even as she emerges into waxing crescent's kiss of moonlight, her self remains in darkness yet bold in step. Her hands, still damp with decay, float and pirouette in the deep air as she emboldens the wee conjury onward though she knows not where it will lead her. 

Endless steps through shrouded wildwood persevere until stillness stops her. Her eyes flit open to behold a queen of a willow. Her imposing branches reach high into the ether then bend down towards the dirt and sway in the wind like tendrils. Ice shimmers like diamonds in the lunar glow against the rough strong skin that protects the potency and essence - the soul - that flows within her. 

Cresyl moves within her embrace as the tendrils caress her cheek. She kneels and gently bears her weight with her palms atop the trunk and gasps slightly as she melds with the energies within. The wind halts. All is quiet. Time is still. The elders from the other side whisper and murmur and comfort and cajole and advise.

When she has received what she needs, Cresyl releases. She breathes deeply, grateful for the wisdom of the ageless. She rests among the denizens of the trees and allows herself to be nourished by the sweet moon and icy air. She is finally once more at peace. 


A Seeker in Shadows and Ice

europium was pulled into this world in the WITCH’s way: born of wit and woe, bursting forth like the growing fruit of a plant. Like the world had been waiting for a callous poison, to burn through the requests it had waiting with outstretched palms, for her. Oh yes, birth came to her in the usual way, except for the ghosts clotting the room. 

Even other WITCHES may not have seen them, but her eyes were built for measuring the long lengths of years, watching how they fit together. And in this way she knew that the dead were meant to be with her, forevermore. Though she stood singular, though her horns may intimidate, europium was a necromancer whose calling was peace. And she sought to find it.

She walked the worlds and the wilds to where gemstones glittered pretty. Already treasures they may be, she imbued them with even more strength. Some rumored that she was binding souls to them. She was a NECROMANCER after all, fated to the edges of rooms where the forlorn would gather, watch her horns catch the light. Almost afraid to step forward and offer a family heirloom for a favor. (Almost.)

But a NECROMANCER’s call was a temptation too sweet, and they would ask nonetheless where they found her. They came to her at the edges of ballrooms, they invited her to take in treasure rooms if they were kings, or to look upon one fair diamond if their jewelry boxes more modest.

europium held them all in equal measure.

Asked a favor, once, by one who could not return it. But, for once, it was purehearted. 

The human girl who asked it had been pulled from life but come back. She who saw the ghosts haunting around the horned beauty with those compelling eyes. This human girl had faked her way to some fine party to catch court with the WITCH spoken about in only whispers, whose horns pulsed terror into anyone coming with evil intentions.

europium, of course, listened to all tales. Listened to the tears and held them, watched the hours of this girl’s life tick through the eternal future. It was a lonely time as it was, filled with an emptiness. 

The human girl explained her lover, now dead, had pulled her from a fire. Had gone back into save another. Now the ring he had given her on her finger was a cruel reminder that she was fated to walk this world alone. And she asked to give it to the witch, in exchange for forgetting him, forgetting her own death that had loomed.

The WITCH held the pearl ring she was passed like it was precious cargo, the same way she had held a sultan’s crown the week before.

And the girl watched rapt as the NECROMANCER tilted her head. She did not see the spirit of a young man with kind eyes, whose hard work had paid for the ring she had put in europium’s hand. Someone pulled from life eternal, in giving hers back to her. It was some close comfort, but never close enough again.

europium carved two quick sigils into the surface of the gem. She offered it back with a smile, touched the necklace around her own neck quietly. “This will help you. I cannot take it, but it will help you carry him with you.”

And although the human girl never knew exactly what he had been there, when she wore his ring, she found it was as though he was here. His fingers still twined through hers. The warmth of him keeping her strong to march another cold year, and then warmer and warmer ones.

And at the end of them, the human girl closed her eyes for the last time and opened them to europium’s red ones. She found herself in europium’s haunting of spirits, and whispered her own blessings forward to those that deserved it. 

May we all go so kindly. May we all carry them with us.


where we go & who we carry

poppy the lone was a tricky hag; the expressions on her face, alight with a butterfly, could dance between sorrow and wonder in the flap of a wing. she loved nothing more than curling up in a nook to pore away over one of her many books. volumes of all shapes and sizes lined her shelves, many with old, parchment leaves and crackling leather bindings. poppy fretted that the knowledge in these pages would die with her last breath, depriving a new generation of witches from divining their meaning and adapting these stories and spells for their own use -- enriching them with greater power through being passed down.

acacia brimstone was a complex witch in her own right. her hearty laugh and quickness to attune her lithe body's graceful movements to musical rhythms belied the many losses she had borne, her unbreakable tether to that darkness. she, too, valued wisdom, having studied not just the path of no return, but the many foibles of witches and humans alike that lead there. 

from time to time, acacia would call upon poppy, whose vine-covered cottage was a comforting respite. one full moon eve, after sharing elderflower wine made with the bounty from poppy's garden and enjoying each other's silent companionship before the hearth, poppy dared to ask acacia for a favor -- understanding the magnitude of such a request from a necromancer. 

poppy proposed that acacia call upon the fierce wilds of her power, so that the two witches might together bring into magical being a new library. this enchanted library would not be writ upon pages that would eventually crumble to dust, or with pigments that would fade with the sun. rather, the words of their sisters could be written upon stardust, so that they might be everywhere and nowhere, etched in the chain of time for all eternity. so that daughters of alexandria -- witches on their sacred quest for knowledge and a creative outlet -- might build upon each other's words and together also reap the benefits of that collective effort. 

acacia saw the wisdom of this notion, and stepped out into the moonlight to gather the herbs they would need, as well as a single raven's feather, representing a quill. for her part, poppy offered a dream-charged stone and the iridescent dust from a monarch butterfly. and together, these powerful witches created a library in the multiverse, a place of lore, lyricism, legend, and lunacy. 


daughters of alexandria

Had the eyes not warned you off, then the flames within. Had the bones not pressed you away, her fierce dancing would have. 
When she was a younger WITCH, and just sinarka, she roamed the WOODS without her magic. Not a first, but rare. Her sisters did not fault her. Though it is the WITCH’s way to have magic easy under the skin, it boded powerfully for a late development.

But had OCCULTISTS not travelled together, long-limbed and hungry, had she not had her sisters…. well, it was not worth dwelling on. It would have hurt more without her coven to dance with, to scream around the edges of the WOODS, outwitting all who would try to stop her.

Flames made her up. Reddened hair and five dark eyes to tell the tale. And all that looked upon her knew she would rip them out of the woods if they betrayed her. For so long, she had relied only on her WIT and her WILL, stronger even then her sisterhood, than her friends.

They were ripping out of the WOODS into the greater WILDS that night. Their pack was traveling to find some new god or demon to worship, moving swiftly as though what laid behind them could be scarier than they were. 

“Stay back,” they warned her. They made the other OCCULTISTS of sea storm and lost souls and raven bones. Their magic thundered for whatever gods they chewed the bones of. “It could kill a witch like you. We pulled you out of the flames ourselves.”

A sheaf of ice perched against a longer and greater glacier looming. (And why were there glaciers in the WILDS at all, she asked herself?)  

There is something in some WITCHES that calls to us, that says we must attempt our destruction, again and again, to test the weight of our mortality. We know we will be stronger is the problem. But still to attempt - to try - the rush of life. To bend the world under our WILL.

Perhaps that is what brought devotee sinarka to the ice. It sang under the MOONLIGHT to her, like an omen made of a lullaby she could hardly remember. 

“Don’t make us save you!” her sisters said. 

But of course they would. Any of them would throw themselves in for her. She would let herself be crushed under the stuff of life for any of them. It made them belong to each other and better: it made them a COVEN.

And yet, she parted from them to reach one hot hand out to the ice. Too tempting to resist. It hurt for her to be so near it, even if she was not all flames any longer. A good hurt, like running until lungs can hard gasp for more, like pricking a finger to give blood for a spell.

When she touched the ice to her hot palm, her power bloomed ferocious.. A blinding light, a whirl that skimmed off the surface and lit the whole of the clearing. Her sisters screeched with delight.

“A witch of flames. Whose magic is ice?” one exclaimed. 

On that day, she became a DEVOTEE to the only master she would lay claim to: her own magic. Flames and ice. Her fellow occultists whooped around the icy fire she pulled from the world. Oh, but the WILDS would never see one as devotee sinarka.


a magic most contrary

The signs were there from the very beginning. A Small hedgehog foetus, expelled from its mother, lying like a pale pink jewel on her doorstep. Mugwart curling and decaying from an unknown blight. The young deer seen, in the depths of the ancient forest, with a third eye, which sat unblinking on its velvet smooth forehead.

The signs were everywhere, and yet, in the cool mists of the wastelands, nature seemed to vibrate with anticipation whilst the universe had turned its back on the law and the mystery. Unknowing itself into innocence, until that illusion lay shattered into a million, star bejewelled, pieces. Cicely of the Wastes woke early and started a small apple wood fire in her still smouldering hearth. She slipped her feet into worn satin slippers, shrugged on a simple mauve shawl, and stepped out into the early morning enchantment of her garden. The first sense awakened, as she left her warm home, was smell. The sweet subtle aroma of damp leaf litter, and an early awakening hedge of hawthorn flowers. Eerie, yet peaceful, the morning light barely illuminated Cicely’s ramshackle collection of mysterious plants. She brushed a soft and strangely luminous leaf, patted the jet-black trunk of a tree, her fingers wandered along a snake like vine as if greeting much-loved friends. Collecting an old wooden bucket from next to the small meandering creek, that coursed through her garden, Cicely drew up some water and turned to retrace her steps back into the warmth of her house. A breakfast of rustic cob loaf and dollops of cloudberry jam awaited her return. A quick intake of breath escaped Cicely’s dark lips. Standing in the gloom, hidden almost from view by a large purple and silver flowering rhododendron, an eerie figure stood. Clothed completely in crimson, her snow-white hair framing delicate features, the stranger breathed out mystery. Her eyes, as she turned them slowly towards Cicely’s face, were a penetrating golden hue. She had no pupils to mar the intensity of the liquid pools rimmed thickly with luxurious lashes. A seer to be sure. She stepped out from behind the shadows and into the light from the newly risen sun. Her movement faltered slightly as she stepped gingerly on her left foot. She was clearly injured in some way. A vague hint of bruising became evident just below her delicate gold necklace. Perhaps the biggest surprise revealed itself to Cicely as the stranger came still nearer. This gorgeous vision, with her slender figure and exotic colouring, was with child. Judging by her ample belly, which protruded from the folds of her crimson travel cloak, her babe must be due before the moon reached it fullest once more. Cicely cleared her throat and offered the stranger a shy smile. “Welcome sister” she stated in a gesture of goodwill. The stranger seemed pale and close to exhaustion. Without awaiting any response, Cecily guided the young woman deftly through overgrown brambles, past fleshy exotic leaves, and over moss and toadstool strew pathways to the door of her cosy home. She entered quietly and put the water she had collected into a kettle, which she placed on the hearth. Turning, she discovered her strange visitor seated in her comfortable armchair. Her mud splattered riding boots placed neatly by the open door. With ethereal calmness, given her dishevelled appearance, the stranger spoke “My name is Astrea and I thank you for your safe harbour” this came out in a surprisingly gentle voice given her unusual countenance. “Welcome to my home sister” Cicely said. Feeling at a loss, as to what she should say next, she busied herself making breakfast and herb tea for them both. Ginger for steadying the nerves, lemongrass for clear-sightedness and comfrey for the injuries her guest had obviously sustained. After a meal eaten in silence, Astrea seemed to shake herself from a daze, she turned her liquid eyes on Cicely. She spoke “sister I am in need of sanctuary” she then looked down at her Rubenesque belly, one hand placed protectively over her unborn babe. “You are welcome here as long as your needs require’ Cicely stated plainly, and in this way the stranger became her houseguest. They worked quietly alongside one another by day and slept peacefully by the hearth fire together by night. Astrea was a calm and diligent assistant, helping Cicely to harvest plants for tinctures and tonics, tend the garden in sunny weather, and sit amicably weaving and crafting on inclement days. So early in Autumn it was often wet, and the two of them spent many quiet, tranquil, hours listening to the drum of rain on the roof and the crackle of the cosy apple wood fire. A little pile of objects began to appear beside the pallet where Astrea slept. A home spun woollen blanket in a subtle peach colour, some tiny smocks and felt undergarments, and a delicately carved rattle made from fox bones and a walnut shell. A carved oak cradle, shaped like an owl in mid-flight, its wings arching up behind its back, was brought down from the tiny loft and was dusted and polished with wild bee’s wax. It was a strange, yet happy, time for the two young witches. They spoke nothing of their pasts to one another and yet a bond grew between the two as they went about preparing for the arrival of Astrea’s child. It was a bright starry night when Astrea woke suddenly to discover a large wet puddle on the palette she was sleeping on.  Without waking Cicely, she rose and changed her nightdress, before slipping quietly out into the dark glittering night. The moon had not yet risen but the stars gave off an ethereal light. Astrea moved her body slowly under the crystalline heavens. Softly chanting and raising her arms up into the sky. Her voice was strange and beautiful, her body vibrating with a celestial power. She began to sing her child forth from her body, and out into the velvet darkness of the star bejewelled night. Cicely woke some hours later; it was almost dawn and the sky was at its very darkest. She heard an otherworldly chant coming from outside and went quietly to the doorway, left slightly ajar. Looking out into the night clad garden Cicely saw the pale figure of the seer, Astrea, moving in an undulating dance, pale against the inky blackness of the night. She had arrived just as Astrea reached the climax of the communion between her body and the icy, distant, stars. Bending in a smooth, graceful motion she reached down between her parted legs and drew forth a babe. A small cry issued from the child as the stars seemed to amplify their light. The baby’s small body almost as luminous as the stars against the pitch black of the night. Cicely raced forward with the homespun blanket clutched to her breast. She reached for the babe and wrapped it warmly against the chill of the night air. Astrea looked at Cicely with deep, haunted eyes. In a voice barely more than a whisper she said “Her safety is in your hands now Cicely” then in a moment of pure, unspeakable, beauty her body seemed to burst into a million tiny, icy, fireflies and disperse without a whisper up into the sky. The glittering stars seemed to embrace her lovingly once more into their midst. In shock Cicely looked down at the tiny infant in her arms. She noted the tawny skin just like her mothers, a tuft of sandy hair and purple rosebud lips. The most striking aspect of the newly born babe was the five perfect, almond, eyes that radiated out form her tiny button nose. Whilst her mothers’ eyes had been the liquid gold pools of a seer, her daughters’ eyes were a mesmerising pink hue with black rings cut through the iris like the rings of a felled tree stump. Cicely caught her breath remembering, as if from the deepest recesses of her mind, all the omens she had so carelessly brushed aside over the last few months. Looking down at the infant in her arms she felt the pull of foreboding as a name came unbidden into her mind. Asacha the odd gale would be the child’s name, and with certainty, Cicely knew that the weird wilds would be changed forever by the existence of this small and exceptional child she held protectively in her arms.  
 
By Jasmine la Fleur


Brought Froth by Omens and Starlight

You might find her when the air is undisturbed as the frozen riverbed; you need only close your eyes and adopt the same stillness to catch the whisper of quickened footsteps weaving between the slugs and beetles of the understory; and the perfume of ancient frankincense befriending the wild orchids. This is all you may capture of Madam Horn, for she has not been sighted by human eyes in years.

Once revered by nobility and townspeople alike, she has now slipped into the chapters of legend and gossip. Some say she has passed from this mortal world; others claim she eloped with a lover to the high mountains. Both are the tales of fools; she had never been one to yeild to death or love. 

She had the determination of wildfire and an insatiable thirst for equity and justice. She knew the world differently to others; she saw feelings in wrinkles, memories in cloth, soul in breath.. Her quiet observations became her ammunition to cease bloody wars, safeguard resource-rich habitat from the prying eyes of hungry villains, and ensure no citizen was ever left to be forgotten. Though she was a child of nobility, she tasted salt in the tears of the destitute and always sought to make the world better for life in all it's various forms. 

Sadly, only few had come to know of her true spirit and power; for in our fickle world, beauty eclipses all that truly matters. Madam Horn's beguiling almond gaze, iridescent mane and warming skin were her greatest curses; so many drawn only to her alluring outer shell over any form of kindness and accomplishment she tirelessly poured from her soul. Eventually this brought her to the darkest depths of bitter disappointment; so much, that the world around her echoed her burden and was cast into darkness too. With darkness came exponential sorrow. With sorrow came the destructive floods of salted tears, wiping out the infrastructures of peace and prosperity that she alone had once constructed.

This sombre world was not to be her legacy; she was, after all, an enchantress. So one evening as the crickets chatted their daily news, Madam Horn left behind her crown of pearls, finding her life's purpose in the shadows. But though you may no longer see her, she is far from vanished. 

She is the one whispering into your ear while you sleep, so that you arise the next morning with fresh vision to change the world. She is to credit when you sight kindness and remorse in the eyes of your bullies. She is the one who lays breadcrumbs for the lost to find their way home again and sings sweet memories for the envious to find their peace in gratitude. It is she who summons the moon as a beacon of safety in the blackest nights. She is there grinning purest joy from her onyx lips and deeply gratified soul as the sunrise becons each new day, and the burdens of the past no longer matter. 


Beauty in Shadow

Pistachio’s patisserie is famous throughout the weird wilds. Witches travel from far and wide for a seat in her rose garden. Lines snake around her cottage in the WOODS, eager for a taste of her pastries steeped with sunshine and cleansing charms.

Her shop is brimming with all sorts of delectable confections. Pies, tarts, viennoiseries… you name it and she will have it. She is especially proud of her signature pistachio macarons. Every biscuit comes out of the oven with perfect feet. The pistachio cream is expertly balanced so that it is satisfying but not too sweet. There are no simpler pleasures in the weird wilds than having a macaron with a cup of tea in her rose garden on a sunny day.

After a particularly busy day at the patisserie, Pistachio sits down in her garden for a well-deserved break. She bites into her favourite pistachio macaron. The taste brings back the memories of how this all began.

She could never forget when she felt the first spark of magic, it was when she baked with her mother. The chaos of the air bubbles called to her, as the dough rose and cooked in the oven. Bit by bit, she learned how to tame them and bend the complex chains of chemical reactions to her will. She could measure the precise amount of ingredients by touch, she knew exactly when to stop mixing for the perfect texture, and tell by sound when a loaf was done. Her powers grew with every bake and soon she was able to produce the perfect bake, every time.

When she was old enough, her family and friends encouraged her to share her gifts with the world. Under an auspicious new moon, they gave her a jewelled-septum-ring and studded collar infused with protective spells, and Pistachio set off into the wilds.

Pistachio cut her teeth in the DEMON MARKET, where creatures foul and fair roamed. She set up her stall between HAGS selling vegetables and NECROMANCERS peddling lost souls. At first she was afraid, but she soon found herself at home among the hagglers and hustlers. For her magic spawns from the taming of chaos, the pandemonium of the DEMON MARKET only energised her. She was determined to show everyone that you should never underestimate a HAG. So she donned a crown of red roses to stand out among all the vendors and got to work.

The enchanting smell of her delicious baked goods cut through the hustle and bustle. You could close your eyes, follow the smell of pastries, and find her head full of roses bobbing up and down as she laughed and gossiped with customers. Throngs of adoring witches appeared and her business thrived. Her pastries were such a delight that even the most dour of NECROMANCERS could not help but smile.

Her magic protected her from the mischief of the DEMON MARKET, but others were not so fortunate. From time to time, rogue OCCULTISTS would tear through the market, hexing innocent bystanders and forcing them to choose one carb to abandon forever. Would it be bread, rice, or noodles?

Pistachio could not undo the hex, but she could make the choice less painful. For her pastries were so delicious, everyone unanimously chose to keep bread. Then the choice of rice or noodles was left to the flip of a coin.

OCCULTISTS were not the only ones to cause trouble. Other pastry-rolling HAGS in the market grew jealous of Pistachio’s success. They sent minions and familiars to pry secret recipes from Pistachio’s lips. She obligingly bartered away the names of her ingredients and pocketed the gold and treasures that they offered. After all, what didn’t need a bit of flour and butter? But only a wise witch knew how to put them all together.

Besides, Pistachio had bigger ambitions than her humble market stall. She dreamed of having a tea house where customers could savour her pastries in peace. Eventually, she gathered enough gold from the DEMON MARKET to purchase an ivy-covered cottage in the WOODS. She painted the walls pistachio green and planted her lucky red roses in the garden. Satisfied with her handiwork, she took a step back and admired her cottage from a distance. The golden shop sign “THE PISTACHIO” glistened in the sun. She was grateful to have this little sanctuary, so that she could focus on what she loved the most: taming the little chaos of baking.


THE PISTACHIO

I emerged from my mother during the wolf moon near the beguile gardens of the new world. An enchantress, with hair dyed from henna and her betrayers’ blood. The constant current of whispers, running through the vines, once told me she was the most charming witch to bloom out of Weird Wilds. The grey rings around her eyes mimic the moon. Her emotions in constant sway of the waters below. Like her name, Rose was coveted, beautiful, seductive. Her spawns never survived her. Until me, my name is Pitaya.

I was found under a withering fruit, lodged in between the spines of the Cactaceae leaves. The dragon fruit’s carcass dripped onto my forehead, staining my hair strawberry pink. Wizards wandering the labyrinth discovered me, brought me home, and raised me. Later writing in their lore, that my mother abandoned me, left to frolic with another beast. 

I was a lonely foundling, I spent most of my days in silence. Running my toes through the soil, digging, trying to get closer to my roots. My eyes radiated lime green like the bile found on the tongue of the skinks, sunbathing in my garden. I related more to the mushrooms that grew in damp, dark conditions than the clumsy, warlocks. Their young were reckless, I was tumultuous. We were not the same. 

The visions hit me suddenly. Like a tornado engulfing my entire entity. My skin prickling, my bones heavy. At first, I was convinced I was hexed.

A blood-curdling scream, left me dizzy, gasping for air. Nausea bubbled up in my throat. Everything went dark. 

A flash of lightning. 

My eyes hunt for the moonlight. The terror slithers up my arm. I watch as it crawls from my long, boney fingers, to my wrist, constricting, making its way past the mark of the coven and burrows under my skin. Suffocating my thoughts. My vocal cords mute. The vision will not release its grasp on me.

Then I see her. 

She starts to run, I follow. The rain is pouring. A crack of thunder. She suddenly comes to a halt. 

For the first time, I notice she is cradling what looks to be bundles of tulle. I try to move closer. She starts to sing. Her voice is as if she were a fallen angel - light, airy, delicate. A wave of tranquility overpowers me. 

That’s when you found me in my garden. I was shaking, screaming, crying. You brought me back to the hut. You brewed up some stew. Told me it was a recipe passed down from your ancestors. If I wasn’t so fraught from seeing Rose, I would have been able to trace the rotting stench of your lies. 

The visions kept coming back. I was engulfed in them. Desperately trying to piece together my history.

This is what I know thus far.

There was a hunt. Rose miscalculated, we were the last to try to escape. The catacomb witches were to grab me from the cactus. Rose was to meet us in the next realm. She never made it. 

This is a story of your past, your present, and your future. Where our worlds collide. We were once the prey. Now we are the hunters…

RUN.


Fermenting

Melon Shore stepped out into her garden and gazed upon the still lake as the sunlight sparkled and greeted her warmly. Her bare feet softly trampled over the rich soil as the earth supported her. She was grounded. Silently she moved through rows of flourishing luscious greenery as branches bowed towards her and flowers bloomed upon her presence. Each plant was unique and seemed as if they shared their own life and a story to tell. She strolled through patches of Coriander, Amaranth, Oleander, and Acacia. She smiled endearingly at her botanical friends and spoke to them all in a loving manner, whispering her morning visions foretold in the calm waters. She sensed the inevitable and embraced the manifestation of the great unknown.

This was her sanctuary. Within each pedal, every stem, branch, leaf and seed contained miraculous potential. The gift of life. And the gift of death. She was all too aware of this and tended to her mysterious garden with a guarded respect for both the remedial and poisonous properties of these plants. She had lived countless lives through the ages uncovering the profound secrets of mother nature and a true ambassador of the earth. She had studied the healing powers of Mug Wort, Lemongrass and Pennyroyal and knew of the dangers of Mandrake, Lythrum and Poppy. Melon Shore was a witch.

Her skin was dark and lithe. Her frame was slim yet strong and curvaceous. The color of her hair changed with the weather and her wild mane was tinted a subtle shade of cloud that complimented her icy blue iris. She wore a whimsical black gown, and her fingers were careful adorned with silver rings, and ancient amethyst crystals. She was wild and free. She was beautiful. True feminine divinity.

It was only by chance that I stumbled upon her quant cottage by the lake and first glimpsed he magic garden. I had been traveling north through the dark forests of the weird wilds for days and lost my way. Through my travels I had fallen sick and grown quite weary. She took me in and nursed me back the health utilizing incantations and her unparalleled knowledge of sacred plant medicine. I was rejuvenated and felt more alive than I had ever felt before. And I was in love. Or rather enchanted. She spoke of a vision and warned me not to linger or gravitate. Like the many deadly plants that grew in her garden, an intoxicating element coursed through her veins. I was enamored by her beauty, and foolishly did not listen to her warning. I embraced her with a tender kiss. A poisoned kiss from the witch’s lips.

She spoke again and said, “Some curses are meant to be broken. And some last forever”. Suddenly the sky grayed, and the surrounding plants withered and wilted away in the garden. She seemed to have vanished into the dark shadows, leaving me with a diluted impression of an airy and haunting memory echoing in my head. Like a faint whisper carried in a cool summer breeze. A whisper from the tree of echoes. 


The Eternally Ephemeral Garden

For the young witch, TiaTia Floe, growing up with a family full of pranksters and illusionists, was quite embarrassing. Not only because they'd embarrass her in front of her friends, by dressing really eccentrically, and making awkward jokes during sleepovers but also because they'd turn everything into a joke.

Like the time when she was 13 and got her period while out shopping with her mom. She was wearing white pants, so it was obvious what had occurred. Her mother pointed at the stain between her legs and said in a loud voice "Ahh, someone's becoming a lady, ahahahah. Why couldn't you wait till we got home?! ahahah". She stood there completely shocked, by the fact that her mother could make such a horrible joke in front of everyone.

From that day forward, she vowed to be the black sheep of her family. Someone calm, straightforward, and most importantly, not funny.
She craved to be taken seriously by everyone she met. However, due to her family's reputation, she failed to do so, which angered her.

When college applications came around, she decided to apply to The Occult University in Ethertown, which was 3 hours away from her small hometown of Sorcerville, and she got in. Her family was sad to see her move but they were proud of her.

Once she got to Ethertown, she realized that no one knew her or her family and that she could create her own brand new identity.

She started spending a lot of her free time in libraries, and coffee shops, hoping to cross paths with scholarly types of people. After a month of trying, she had only managed to make friends with her obnoxious roommate, Capulin Quarrel. Who would leave her moon rocks, mouse traps, and even marbles all over their dorm. Worst of all, she was always cracking jokes, which painfully reminded her of home.

Desperate for change, she checked out a Glamour Magick book from the library. She wasted no time, flipping through the book, TiaTia came across a spell for "Enticing Others". It called for all things Venus, so she bought pink roses, and pink candles and picked up Capulin's rose quartz that she had lying around in their dorm. As she was studying the spell, she read "Caution: Beware banishing with laughter”, which made her roll her eyes and ignore it. As she never really laughed anyway, so what did she have to worry about, she thought.

 Her ritual began with lighting the candles, casting a circle, and calling in Venus. With her eyes closed and arms wide open, she visualized intelligent colleagues, friends, and even a smart and well-read partner. Further, she visualized all this manifesting and coming towards her path. As the energy became increasingly more and more intense, this flashing bright white light came down over her and her prospects. It was clearing everything out, and due to the overwhelming brightness of the light, it forced TiaTia to open her eyes. 

Doing so, she saw her roommate, no more than a foot away from her, smiling and holding the rose quartz "I just wanted it back" she said.

She jumped backward due to the shock, "AHHH", screamed TiaTia, "Why are you just standing there, that's so weird?!!....", She paused as she tried to recover her breath, grabbed her bag, and said, "Ugh, never mind, I'm going to open-mic at the Library. Be back later. BYE.".

"Be careful, tonight’s the full moon!", Capulin softly said as Tiatia walked past her.

By the time she walked out of her building, it was dark out, but she saw a crowd of people walking towards the library, so she followed them. Toward the front of this crowd was a tall and mysterious guy who was wearing all black. She thought to herself, "He's probably the one from my visualization".

As she entered the dimly lit library, she quickly spotted the mysterious guy and sat down across from him. In a soft voice, she said "Hi, I'm TiaTia, I'm new around here. Do you come often to these events?"

Lifting his head, he looked at her and softly replied, "Something like that".
His nonchalant response excited her, maybe this truly was the guy from her visualizations she thought.

They talked the night away, regularly stepping away from the open mic area and deep into the library to discuss various subjects. Towards the end of the night, he looked at her and asked, "Wanna head over to the Lunar Cauldron?".

"Sure.", she casually replied.

After a few drinks, he started to let loose and crack some jokes which confused TiaTia. Nonetheless, she giggled to go along.

To her surprise, his jokes became funnier and funnier. Completely forgetting about her prejudices against her family's jokes, she full-blown started laughing.

"And then I was like, Professor, no really, my dog ate my homework. I pulled out the chewed-up parchment and threw it on his desk. He freaked out. HAHA,” He was telling her.

"No way! That's gross. Hahahaha" She replied, laughing so hard she tilted her head backward, almost as an explosion hit her in the face, then her hair frizzed up, and her make-up completely smeared off.

This must be what the book cautioned against she thought to herself. With a shocked look on her face, she looked at him, hastily said "Bye" and ran straight to the Cauldron's bathroom.

Looking at herself in the mirror, feelings of disappointment ran through her as she started to cry.

Slowly opening the bathroom stall, her roommate came out and started laughing.

TiaTia, quickly turned to her and yelled "ARE YOU FOLLOWING ME NOW? WHAT THE HELL! Why do you always turn everything into a joke?!".

"Listen, I just wanted to make sure you were safe. Also, I know I joke around too much. However, life can be cruel, so being able to laugh at myself is how I manage. You should try it", Capulin said, as she walked out of the bathroom.

Fixing herself up in the mirror, she gazed into her own eyes and started laughing. "Darn, I guess I did banish with laughter,” She said to herself, and like magick, the glamour magick faded out. This marked a new aeon for her, the one where she learned the beauty of banishing with laughter. 



Banishing with Laughter

Long ago, Tiatia had decided not to intervene in the daily lives of mortals. Sometimes she wondered if that had been the right choice. As insignificant as humans were, their activities were destroying the world around her. She didn’t mind the heat or the storms, in fact, she relished them. But the loss of the bees had made it more difficult for her to collect beeswax–work her magic. There were fewer deer, bears, and creatures of the wild for her to get her power from. All these things might have filled her with sorrow if she were capable of feeling such an emotion. Instead, her rage crackled like a fire.

She knew everything, saw every being, smelled every flower and blade of grass. She knew that a human, a man, was going to come looking for her eons before he arrived. So when he entered the woods, she was not surprised. 

What did surprise her was that he didn’t have the sense to be afraid, although she lived among the most ferocious creatures of the wilderness, and she was quite a ferocious creature herself. She might have let the bears loose upon him, or she could have set him ablaze with a look–but she was bored so she let him approach. It seemed like centuries had passed since the last time a mortal had the courage to seek her out. And that one, well, a story for another day perhaps…

She was hidden from sight amongst the trees, the markings on her face a sort of camouflage, her rose-colored hair blending in with the twilight. She took her time coming forward from the darkness of the forest–staring at him all the while. He smelled lavender before he saw her, then he saw her eyes. Her left eye glowed blue with the light of the moon and her right burned gold with the heat of the sun. 

Tiatia walked right up to this man and stood there, impatient. Sparks flew from the tapping of her foot. “What do you want?” she asked, although she already knew.

He should have been terrified–instead, he smiled and looked her up and down. “I want to live forever.”

Not very smart, this one. In all her time upon the earth, since before the ocean took its first lick of the shore, no one had ever asked her for such a foolish thing. Already she was becoming irritated, wondering why she hadn’t fed him to the bears. “Why should I grant your request? What do you have to offer me?”

He smirked and held out empty hands. This selfish simpleton had nothing to offer her, had brought nothing as a gift, had not considered HER at all. He should have been ashamed, but he was smug, cocky like a rooster that doesn’t realize that it’s destined for the stewpot.

Normally, she might have toyed with him a bit, but her patience was as thin as the tiny bird bones that hung as earrings from her ears. Surely there would be no match of wits with this human. 

She sighed, the sound like an angry autumn wind, and reached into her pocket for a small bottle. Inside it were the screams of her last visitor. “So be it!” she hissed as she uncorked the bottle and threw the contents at his face.

She saw the tiniest bit of fear in his eyes as he breathed in her magic. Was there a scintilla of intelligence in him? Had he even for a mere second considered what it would be like to endure an eternity of rising temperatures and ever-increasing storms? Had he considered what it might feel like to watch the earth dry up around him, to see the last of his kind expire before his eyes? But no, as she watched, the wash of witlessness fell back over his eyes. 

He smiled and laughed, so happy that he had gotten his idiotic wish! He had been so sure that he deserved it… she was sure he did as well.

Tiatia turned away from him–she must tend to the bees. As she walked away, the inferno of her gaze ignited the dry limbs along her path.


Everlasting Life

Many centuries ago, when the silence of the wilds was the music of the passing of days, there were women that enchanted everyone and anything. They were witches, magical creatures that oversaw the creation and union of everyone in the Tree of Echoes. The magic of the crypto coven was affected by an instability that nobody knew how to fix.

One night, in the darkest part of the forest, an opening of time took place without anyone noticing.

Truffle Haystack was a special witch, her heart was guided by the stars and the Moon. Her piercing eyes, ebony skin with black eyebrows and platinum locks made her different. She was a solitary witch, she did everything by herself as she had done most of her life. She had few friends, and the ones she had were wise ones that had lived for centuries before her and advised her well whenever she needed it. 

On a foggy night, Truffle was working on a potion and suddenly a witch crossed her path and entered through her door. Avalanche, the Brittle Contention was just like her, except she had red eyes: the eyes of wisdom. Avalanche stared at her green eyes, smiled and said "I am from the past", she gave her a black flower with drops of blood and walked outside of the door. This odd encounter left Truffle perplexed and as she was trying to explain what had just happened, another witch walks through her door again and tells Truffle Haystack "I am from the future", gives her magic dust and disappears outside of the door. Her name was Columba the Complex and appeared to have Truffle's exact eyes. Her playful hairdo and the crochet hand collar with red nails remained in the witch's head and the thought of this witch gave her something that rarely happened in Truffle: a smile, as it they had known each other in another dimension.

As the days passed, the witch kept thinking about the curious events that happened with the witches from the future and the past and the striking resemblance with them. She thinks about her childhood and how she never knew her mother but how she always felt they were bonded by something greater than life: love.

It is another quiet night and the whispers of the Tree of Echoes get to her ear and she hears the word _potion. _Truffle Haystack takes the magic dust that Columba The Complex gave her and the black flower with drops of blood she received from Avalanche, the Brittle Contention and mixes them into her potion mix. Suddenly the witches from the past and future appear from behind, they look into her eyes and take her hands. Avalanche The Brittle Contention tells her she's her mother and Columba The Complex tells her she is her daughter.

The opening of time had brought them in the same physical plane in order to restore the power of the crypto coven as they were the chosen ones. They must remain together to maintain order in the Tree of Echoes, or else the magic of the witches will forever perish.


The Holy Trinity

On a cold night there fell a single golden ember, taken by the wind. When it fell to the forest floor and was lit by the red rays of moonlight before the Tree of Echoes, in its place arose the glory of the witch Xuannu. She sparked the flames of this universe. The birds of fire bowed down to her as an empress. Yet of the same ember there was another. The first witch of wonder, Aradia. She was like a tame stag, silent, strong and powerful. Xuannu disliked this new challenger in the empire she was trying to establish. She didn't believe the realm had room for another, but she accepted her subtle existence.

As the time crept by like the wind in the old trees, Xuannu grew increasingly bitter of her woodland sister. Aradia was loved by many for her sweet tone and kindness to the forest dwellers. She had the respect of all the calm creatures of the woods, from the most fearsome of wolves, to the tiniest auburn-fur squirrel. Xuannu had studied and fought hard for the power she had. Yet it seemed to her that all Aradia did was keep the young deer company and lounge around in the cozy oak trees.

Xuannu fell asleep on a cold, dry night much like the one where she was born. Her head was resting against an old worn tree, with her beloved phoenix Luaithre by her side. Though asleep, she tossed and turned. The jealousy overwhelmed her. A small ember escaped from the tips of her slender fingertips. Although the spark was no bigger than a beetle, the dark forest was harshly dry in this season.

A draft carried the ember through the old oak trees. It landed on a small, dead leaf. Fiery red flames enveloped it and began to spread like a lethal plague. She had unleashed the ravaging force that had both held together and destroyed the universe many times before. The flames began to devour the forest, tree by tree. Had it not been such a terrible tragedy, the fire could have been admired for its majestic glory. The blaze was glowing with a fierce red hue against the pearly white moonlight. 

Aradia woke up suddenly to the smell of burning wood. Surrounded by a thick ring of flames, she could only make out a sunset-colored glow and the outline of a few burning pines. She quickly realized what was going on. Aradia summoned Sgiathan, a colossal forest-dwelling hawk that she had befriended. Hawks are magnificent creatures, with their long, proud wings and stunning eyes, but there was no time to dwell on these things. The only chance of saving the forest was to make their way to the nearest body of water. Shemounted Sgiathan, and began swerving between the flaming trees. She could see the blazing inferno creeping towards her rapidly. Her only hope was to reach the old creek at the heart of the forest. All though the forest was beyond saving, there was still hope for the creatures of the woods. She led them to the water where she knew they would be safe.

When Aradia and the creatures of the forest made it to the safe place, they all looked back in sadness and grief for the smoldering forest. The animals, too seemed to understand the true impact of what had happened. And even Xuannu realized that her bitter jealousy and envy had created this destruction, and that hatred is just another ember that sets the world aflame.


The embers of hatred

It was so late when she thought of it, a sudden hiccup, but more like a cavity. Something was missing. Macadamia burrowed deeper in her blankets, slubby dust colored silk piled high, little face peeking out from a nest of hair and a magical fur that was a gift from a demon. He had thought she was so beautiful. She was, all witches are, but she had looked like a star maiden to him, the way her platinum hair and big bright tears shined one night under the wolf moon, and by the time he was close enough to see she was only a hag he had already pledged his undying soul to her. Demons liked to do this kind of thing, so did gods. The bed was comfortable, the missing thing was somewhere else. 

She got up and walked three times around her house. It was spring and the tulips were blooming, cupping her up in the velvety depths of the wild. There was no moon tonight. She cut some peach branches and filled her pockets with pebbles, and lit a tiny fire that burned white and made no smoke. She ground salt into pine needles and —

‘Helloooo, I found you so easily tonight.’ 

‘Hello Lime. It is springtime, after all. I thought you might be hungry, come in.’

‘I am!’ The little clearing was a flutter of pink and the sound of tiny bells and she felt the hollow in the back of her throat but Lime’s lips brushed her shoulder. So they sat down at the small round table and ate. They ate until they had tasted everything in the house: strawberries, stewed acorns in broth from the deep swamp where nothing changed, pickled clovers and cream, anxiety, and everything that came from the folds of Lime’s dress: cakes wrapped in paper and leaves filled with moss and mushrooms, tumbling out on the table with snake bones and single earrings and whispers of spells she had forgotten. Macadamia picked up the snatches and held them to her ear and watched her friend twirl her hair around her wrist and talk about the tremors in the earth. So she was looking for it too, she must be. Her words filled in the fragments of the spells to make music so beautiful it felt like the sky was convulsing around them. When it stopped it said ‘Let’s go, it’s time.’ 

‘Go where? I don’t even know what it is.’ 

‘We have to go to see.’ Lime was humming.

‘It’ll come sooner or later. It’s new still. Come be in the blankets with me.’

‘Nonsense, you must meet The Soft. Anyway its not far, don’t you want to know? We have to.’ 

And so they wrapped up the house and stepped into the wilds, found themselves on a spiral path that curved right, and downward. It was very dark. The lilt of Lime’s voice, talking all the time, spun with the stars and the leaves and a little brook that might have been below the path or above it. It smelled like electricity and the hollow beat louder in her palms of her hands. Then they stood before a curved door with no window and nothing beyond it.

‘My dear, we’re here!’ Lime shouted, but the door had already opened and swept them inside.

‘I heard you coming.’ A deep quiet voice was behind them and it opened up the room like lighting a match. It was a round room but cut with a hundred and forty four faces, each holding something small and heavy. They all used to belong to someone else and now they were here. A witch with sharp pink hair and quick bright eyes was behind them and in front of them, everywhere and nowhere. ‘You know everything don’t you,’ teased Lime, and The Soft smiled. Of course. ‘Just what’s mine to know. Who’s on my path. What they’re looking for.’ 

She talked to Lime but looked at Mac and it made her uncomfortable so turned away, only to see everything reflected in the diamond. Seers always spoke in a second frequency, especially when talking to each other, but she knew better than to try and listen. The whispers in her hair hummed. She clicked her teeth together and spun the ring around her finger. She swallowed down the lump in her throat, looked around and as she did the little objects changed, multiplied, obscured themselves, the light of the room bright and pointed in their faces. This wasn’t right, she thought, I don’t even know what I’m looking for. ‘I do. The thing that’s missing, it’s somewhere else,’ The Soft whispered, ‘but I do have something you lost.’ Mac closed her face and stomped her foot and felt the room shake, then did it again harder. ‘I didn’t lose anything.’ The Soft laughed like a bell but a warning one, and the room darkened, the items disappeared, the room felt huge. ‘I don’t even know what I’m looking for, how could you.’ ‘You’re looking for The Void.’ Mac trembled, mad, felt tricked. She rolled her eyes defensively, dismissively, and scoffed. ‘Isn’t everyone.’ ‘They most certainly are not.’ Their eyes met and it felt like a fire. The secret was right before them.

The Soft put a little piece of fabric in Mac's hand, on it. ‘Here, yours.’ ‘I’m not missing a glove,’ but it looked like hers and fit perfectly. ‘No? Maybe from the past. Or future. Here, Lime, this is for you.’ A small piece of paper with illegible handwriting. Lime looked thrilled. Their bodies made a triangle in the room. ‘You’ll need it where you’re going.’ ‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ ‘Not right now, but I’ll see you again soon, goodbye.’ And then the room refracted into a million rays of light and when they could open their eyes again, The Soft was gone and Lime and Mac were holding hands on a bare hilltop. The wind howled.


The Hollow, Part 1

She had died bringing me into this world. And while I screamed in lively agony, she, beautiful and sickly, bled to pale death under the pale moonlight. She was my father’s only love. Only one. And once I'd stolen it from him I had no place there, in his heart that harbored towards me nothing but black hate. 

He couldn’t bare look at me without a flash of disgust, couldn’t touch me without a shudder of repulsion, couldn’t smell my scent without being reminded of his love's expiring moments, couldn’t hear my cries without crying himself. His loveless sorrow had mounted my guilt to such unbearable heights that upon entering adulthood I left my father and the place he called home, for it was never mine. 

I wandered deep into the woods, roamed long through leafy mazes and twisted trails, sought something I could not pinpoint. Then I stumbled upon a tree and halted, stunned by its intimidating size. It was so enormous I thought it were a gate between heaven and hell, roots digging deep to devil, branches stretching high up to god. By then the sky had shifted and full sun turned to full moon. The night was deathly-still and quiet. And I was lost. So I sat under that tree, scorching my cheeks with hot tears, when I heard a voice. 
“You grieve over the wound that isn’t yours,” it echoed. A man stood before me, bathing in ghostly moonlight, casting inhuman shadow. “Not many possess such a gift.”
“Who is speaking?” I demanded. 
“The one who transforms.” He replied.
“What it is you transform?”  
“Weakness to power. Tears to mirth.”
“Pain to peace?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Hate to love?” 
“All of that.”
"And love to hate?"
"I can." The man's gaze flickered strangely. 

I stood up and approached him, stared at his beautiful, smiling expression, glared right into his two mesmerizing, black mirrors of eyes in which floated my weeping reflection. “Then you must know better what I need. Transform me into what you see fit.” 

His embrace was exactly what I could not pinpoint but craved so much. _Comfort._ It was a dream in which I swam so wonderfully. Then somewhere in this painless, soundless, serene dream his musical voice disturbed me. “It is done, child. Open your eyes.”

I woke up alone under the rich foliage, leaning against the tree trunk. My limbs were so light I felt weightless, as if I was still swimming in the blissful oceans of that dream. But I was awake and for the first time felt good. The remnants of his dreamy voice only echoed in my mind. 

“You shall be mine, the bride of darkness. Veiled by the satin of nightly shadows. Shackled by the thorns of my promise. Crowned with the horns of my glory. Adorned by the pearls of men's tears. I shall give you eyes to see the faintest sorrows. Ears to hear the quietest cries. Heart to feel the slightest worries. Magic to heal the impossible woes, or, if your heart desires, to multiply them all a thousandfold. The choice is yours alone. Just remember, child, as above – so below."
 
The stars glimmered brightly above me, and the moon bathed in their endless shine while I reflected on his words. I realized then that I was reborn, under that tree of heaven and hell where good harmonized with bad, and it was up to me to choose which path to take. _As above, so below_, the words sang. My fingers electric. My eyes burning with dazzling light. My veins filled with unimaginable power. And in my chest beat an emphatic heart, each pulse – an echo of sympathy. It knew what grief felt like, what pain it caused.

"What a good heart you gave me..." I whispered, and chose to follow its kind beating. I chose good. I chose to be a healer, not a destroyer. And I knew exactly where I would go. Back home. To my poor father. In the line of millions of wretched souls, I had decided, his broken heart deserved to be healed first. After all, his wife birthed her death. She birthed me, _Oizys_, the Goddess of Misery and Grief. 


Peace Over War

As his last breath met hers, she knew she would be changed forever.

She could feel the wrenching pain of knowing she would have to give him up, to let him cross the threshold.

She felt every molecule of water in her body wanting to become a tear, every inch of her skin yearning to be caressed again, every cell longing to be oxygenated by the last sweet breath of her lover. And, yet, as her body exalted that guttural scream, her soul was soothed by an overwhelming sense of self.

She had finally found her purpose. In that breath, in that moment, watching his corporeal existence being transformed into a spectral presence, she knew. That was the pivotal moment of her existence, the bridge between before and after, between randomness and direction, between woman and WITCH.

She had been a quiet child. Contemplative, attentive, curious. Nevertheless, her questions lived inside her mind and urged her into her quests. Books were her best friends, she sat quietly in the middle of adult conversations, she ventured into every possible chance of finding knowledge and her mind was never satisfied.

One day, she found that magical place, the Weird Wilds, as she later came to know. Her mind was drawn by the shapes of eccentric beings suggested by the foliage interspersed by sunlight. Her footsteps guided her towards a welcoming glade, unaware of possible dangers or perils.

As she approached the clearing, a muffled sound attracted her attention. She kneeled, unafraid, with a sense of urgency, and saw a cat under the fallen leaves. He was weak, wounded and barely breathing, looking at her with the gentle gaze of the most bluest eyes.

Her first reaction was to cuddle him and somehow ease his suffering. He was dying.

Suddenly, a strong cold breeze swept the trees into a turmoil and the woods whistled in a lo-fi sound that screamed departure.

She looked up for a moment and the cat was completely gone.

With the innocence of a child and the intuition of a WITCH, she left the woods promptly and came back to the outside world, where she had her birth family.

After that episode, she came to the Weird Wilds regularly. She would meet the Cat in the clearage, he would greet her with a soft cuddle and they would walk together through the forest. She had questions, but somehow knew this was meant to be.

Years passed by and the little girl grew into her woman shape. She met wizards of both human and animal appearances, she became aware of the existence of demons and she fervently admired WITCHES.

After a while, she embraced her intuition and stepped into the path of becoming a WITCH herself.

She met her mentor, Centauri, the angular triangle, whose knowledge was as deep and wide as the Weird Wilds. They showed her how to make her own incantations, pointed her way to recipes for special potions, and taught her how to develop her own spellwork.

Centauri knew of her disconnection to the outside world but also sensed her restlessness inside her WITCH skin. They waited, patiently, until she could be ready to retrieve her mission from the depths of her intuition. They named her Antimony, the mahogany vigil, for her crescent knowledge of alchemy and her sharp inspection of souls.

By day, she returned to the mundane world, but as time went by, her displacement was more and more evident. She began to cope by secretly embracing magic, and mimicking Centauri’s markings, by tattooing her arms with wasps dripped in squid ink.

One day, she met him.

He was an artist, a musician, and meeting him opened her soul to the power of human creation. She understood how mortals could be closer to eternity through art.

Soon they became lovers and, although she was happier than ever, the sense of longing was never eased. Her studies to become a WITCH progressed, under the guidance of Centauri, but there was a part of her that did not fit. Was she meant to be a Mage or was it just her Aquarius moon that pushed towards that incessant thirst for knowledge?

That fatidic day, when life was being ripped off her lover’s body, the violence of separation stroke her like the gutted sound of her own flesh being torn from her bones.

But, then, she finally knew.

She was a necromancer. Her mission was to see him through his crossing, softly, gently, as she did with Cat.

Centauri had always told her that her purpose would come to her.

From then forward, she’d learn her craft from Marzanna, the gentle WITCH that masters the art of necromancy.

Antimony bestowed upon herself the mission of guiding artists through the dark. Such special beings struggle with the need of leaving a legacy and catching a glimpse of eternity.

Still, she missed him terribly. He’d resisted taking the journey with her succour, not wanting to part ways forever.

She kept learning and practicing, focusing on the craft, helping artists tell their last stories and perpetuate their body of work.

Over time, Antimony surrendered to pleasure with a few other deceased: a painter that masterfully drew bewitching portraits, a young woman that wrote mesmerizing fantasy tales of dystopian worlds, a songwriter that dedicated their last songs to her beauty.

And, yet, her every dream was his. There, they lived happily together. While sleeping, she could feel his fingers stroking her naked arm like if he was gently pressing the strings of a violin, just like before.

One night, she woke up abruptly as if a lightening had trespassed her heart. And, then, she finally saw the truth. He had always been there, with her, just like Cat. Both of them had been gifted to her after death, by the higher powers of the Weird Wilds.

She nested in his arms, grateful and mindful of her place in the world, and rested. She was finally home.



In Between

The moon was high, the sun was low. The crickets were loud, the frogs were louder. The stars reflected off the lake. 

Geng was ringing the bell on the back door to go outside; Magnesium puts down her pipe and moves to open the door. Geng loved to sit and listen to the silence of The Tower’s courtyard at night and Magnesium couldn’t deny her familiar a chance to recharge in the moonlight. 

It had been a long day at the Detective Agency and the serenity was exactly what Captain Magnesium needed. As Geng is relieving themself, Magnesium decides to stroll through the potion garden. Waxstems and gobtumbles, purkleys and Vinderworm’s Best, all collected from the finest arborists in the Weird Wilds. But tonight the Captain clips a few leaves of Winterellos and rolls them between her fingers. As she returns to find Geng laying in the grass by the water, a snap of her fingers and the leaves are alight. \*inhale\*…\*exhale\*

The sky really is beautiful tonight. Moonbeams giving light to the darkness, the night is heavenly. Captain Magnesium lays down in the grass next to Geng, she begins to close her eyes and would probably drift off; if not for those damned frogs.

Just then, a cool wind picked up. Geng seems to notice this too. Geng gallops to gain speed and with a great flap they take to the skies. Geng always loved to float on a gentle breeze. It was then that she noticed the light. Dim and across the water, the light definitely wasn’t there before but here now it was clear as day, something was out there. Magnesium calls a signal to get Gengs attention, who would be all the way past The Tower this late?

Magnesium utters a quick spell and her buoyancy is increased. Geng drops down a line and with their speed the pair are off across the lake. As the light begins to get closer Magnesium let’s go of the line and walks the rest of the distance. The light gets brighter and the duo arrives at its source. A bioluminescent frog! Interesting, there are many creatures in the weird wilds but never a glowing frog.

\*Ribbit\* 

Captain magnesium picks up the strange frog and signals for Geng to drop their line again. The pair are off back across the lake, the moonlight as their guide. Moments later they have returned to the shore. Magnesium steps back onto the land and decides to bring the strange creature to the Mages despite the late hours. Turns out Magnesium wouldn’t be having the relaxing night she had hoped. As she sets off at a brisk pace she gazes across the courtyard of The Tower… except, huh where is The Tower? Geng senses the confusion in the witches aura and takes off to investigate. In the space where moments ago was The Tower was now a great, old tree 5000 hands tall and at least that across. Curious. Captain Magnesium strolls quickly across the lawn to the tree. She really wishes she had brought her wand with her, now she didn’t even know where her home had gone at all. The trio approach the trunk of the great tree and Magnesium sets down the curious glowing frog. That’s when she noticed it, on the backside of the great tree, a small wooden door. Her detective senses began to kick in. Geng lands next to The Captain just as she reaches out her hand to the doorknob. With one quick motion she turns the handle and swings open the door. A spiral staircase leading down into the roots of the tree! Magnesium and Geng share a look, they both knew this was the path they must follow and begin to decend below the tree. The light from the moon is just beginning to disappear when from the lawn above they hear

\*ribbit\*
\*ribbit\*

\*take me with you\*
-to be continued


A frog’s croak

Today would have been a Friday like any other. It was-- in every way but one-- just like any Friday of recent! But Ylang-Ylang forgot...

Since the Great Hunt, those who remained in the town stayed to themselves. When the world outside was so cold and colorless, what motivation did anyone have to pull back their shades? Open their doors and windows? Venture beyond the solace (and silence) of the walls around them? At least they were used to the monotony of their own spaces by now, reminding themselves how truly everything outside had changed would reopen their wounds. However soul-crushing, certainly chosen shades of grey were safer than the shock of bloody black depths. The collective mourning of, well, the collective could be felt in the fog that settled permanently in the valley. Had nobody noticed that fog before? Or was it the one new guest, attracted by despair and fed by fear, here to underscore all that had faded?

Ylang-Ylang awoke to find herself white-knuckled, gripping the rose quartz her grandmother had given her 22 years before. The people she’d grown up around felt so distant. The lights had been out for months, and with each evening Ylang-Ylang felt the people she loved and knew so well shrink further. In the dead of winter, without 

There’d been a beacon in the center of town, in her attic. For awhile after the violence ended and before everyone was too tired to hope, everyone swore now and again they could see the shine sometimes. Or Ylang-Ylang would walk past and someone would catch an eyeful of gold glimmer as she turned her head. Even as the fruits and vegetables dwindled in saturation and nourishment, even as the flowers died and refused to return, Ylang-Ylang remained a light lilac reminder that brilliance was once, and could be again. 

Lately, though, Ylang-Ylang too had become too tired and afraid to reach out to those who she had needed in the past, and those who needed her. She spent her evenings focusing her energy on recovering the love and the dreams and the hope that had been lost, stitching shimmering promise and recovery into strawberries and bananas with tinsel and tall grass, practicing with deep focus... she was exhausted. 

Today would have been a Friday like any other. But Ylang-Ylang forgot what limited her. As she fumbled her way to her library, her fingertips guiding her through the dark, her body remembered! And everything changed. 

The starshine from Ylang-Ylang’s attic flickered like a bear awakening from hibernation. It glowed quietly at first, and then burned brighter than ever. She sheilded her eyes, tears streaming, and remembered the warmth of the future. She crawled to her bed and, with the first smile in so long, dreamed of how different and familiar her beloved town would feel in the morning.


Forget

“Like this!” Fennel grabbed the matchbox from her sister’s small hands, withdrew a single match, and quickly ran it along the side of the box. A flame was born. The two, Fennel and her little sister Imperatrix, looked at it, seeing dashes of reds, oranges, and yellows. What astounded Imperatrix most was the hints of blue dancing at the tips.

“I’m scared,” said Imperatrix, with the same concerned look on her face she had whenever Fennel was plotting to do something their mother had admonished them about. Fennel had a habit of finding those things which should not be found. About this, their mother had always told Fennel, “Be careful what you go looking for” – their mother knew of the secrets hidden in the Weird Wilds.

This particular morning, Fennel was out gathering berries with her little sister, when they ran across a large stone, covered in beautiful symbols. Fennel remembered learning about the mages hidden in the stones, the memories of the stories her mom would use to scare her - the Mage Summons. Very, very long ago, mages had been entrapped in these stones with runes etched upon them, and dropping a lit match into the hollowed stone could awaken them, forcing them to grant you a wish. Fennel took a match between her fingers, and she slowly let the match fall into the hollowed stone.

“NAY!” They heard someone shriek. Soon, a cloud of blue smoke started coming up the stone, pushing Fennel and Imperatrix to move back. There were pops and sparks of glittering light and dark blues coming from the cloud. Fennel always had a fascination for colors, precious stones, and ornamented treasures. The train of a blue dress with black undertones slithered out of from underneath the stone. “Is the mage wearing a dress?” Imperatrix whispered to Fennel. “And is she rising out from the stone backwards?” Fennel half watched what was before them and half thought about how she was going to phrase her wish. “She must be breech, like I was,” Fennel said to herself excitedly, though she didn’t fully grasp what the word meant. She did, however, understand that it had something to do with being backwards. Minutes went by but the flowy train of the dress took its time and continued to come out, until finally, floating before them was a figure of a woman. Her hair was navy blue with shades of white and black, strands falling all over – some curly, some straight.

“Reverse Witches reverse wishes,” the mage replied, her words slithering along the trees of the forest until they moved in, wrapping up their arms and ringing in their ears. “My name is Pollux.”

“What does that mean, Reverse Witches reverse wishes?” said Fennel, indignantly.

“See for yourself,” hissed Pollux. Fennel and Imperatrix jumped ever so slightly.

Slightly suspicious, “Well, I wish for the most beautiful jewel the world has ever seen,” Fennel went on, saying, “I wish for a jewel as beautiful as me, and I wish for only myself to be able to be adorned in it.” Fennel was defiant by the end of this utterance.

“Sweet Fennel,” Pollux’s shrouded form inched closer to Fennel. “That was a self-centered wish, especially the last part, ‘I wish for only myself to be adorned in it.’” Pollux mimicked Fennel’s defiance.

“Yet, your wish is my command.” Pollux looked down, beneath the earth, then at Fennel, pointed her outstretched finger at the girl and ... turned her into the most beautiful emerald ring.


Imperatrix’s Emerald

Even in ancient times, we have always been creators. Builders. Inventors. We strove to understand the world around us and shape it to our will. It wasn't magic, at least not most of the time - but as the modern saying goes, “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” 

We were feared, persecuted - necessity taught us to live in the shadows. But we couldn't cut ourselves off from mortals entirely - we traded with them, helped them, fought them. In the olden times, I only aimed to survive. But then I discovered fire. My magic drew strength from fire - it sustained me and gave me life enough to last through the ages. It was I who gave the first man bronze tools and taught them to shape them with fire.

I could feel each fire they made, each new creation an offering to me. But I lived in the shadows, always behind the curtain. I learned to deal in information - influencing events and technology, shaping the world to work for me. It didn't take long for the humans to enhance my abilities. When they discovered and started harnessing electricity, it was as if a new raging fire burned through my soul. 

This was so much more powerful, a much stronger offering to me. The dawn of the machinery age expanded my reach - each machine driven by fire became an extension of myself. It gave me unbounded strength and abilities. I adopted many identities throughout the ages - I was an inventor, an engineer, a titan of industry. But it was the dawn of the information age that changed everything. 

What were computers but machines that run on fire and magic? Scientists and engineers thought they understood how it all works - but magic that is understood by mortals just gets termed technology. The electricity that ran through the microchips and transistors was a still a form of magic, an offering to me. With computers and the internet, I was no longer bound by physical form. I could be anywhere, everywhere, consuming information and power. I was behind many of the great leaps in technology, computer algorithms came naturally to me. 

The internet age gave me many possibilities. No one knows who you are online. I no longer had to deal with the hassles of my immortal, physical life - changing identities, nationalities, currencies. I no longer had to constantly move and hide, I was now formless, at once everywhere and nowhere. I lived in the cloud - I could access anywhere there was technology. I have lived many lives. I have gone by many names - Ada Lovelace, Satoshi Nakamoto, and many more that the world knows.


Machines that run on fire and magic

Pearl walked briskly. A sack, lightweight yet bulky slung around her shoulder. She knew what she was about to do could never be undone. It was a decision only someone consumed by grief could find peace with. It would be difficult to execute; only a select few may style an Enchantress’s crown. Especially in the way she desired.

Pearl reached the cabin, its door slightly ajar. She took in the scent, a sweet mix of floras and chemicals. Upon entering she couldn’t help but notice the walls covered in hands. Hands in fists, hands open, hand held firm together. 

"Enjoying the view?"

Pearl’s head turned to the hairdresser standing near the sink. She had deep brown skin with yellow eyes glancing slyly in her direction. For a hairdresser her hair was unremarkable, blonde and held together with a tie. Fixated on hands, Pearl’s eyes rested on the gentle, nearly translucent hands on the hairdresser’s neck, gently holding together a bow at her collar.

"You may call me Indium. You are welcomed with open hands, as you can see." 

Pearl had believed the hands to be artifacts or trophies of some kind, yet just above the sink a stationary pair clasped together came to life, turning downwards with fingers slightly curled as if preparing to work.

"Sit, I insist."

Indium gestured toward a chair in front of the sink. Above the sink were a few rows of shelves with colorful concoctions. All around the rest of the wall space were more hands. Unlike hands in other parts of the cabin, the ones nearest to the sink were holding a variety of tools relevant to hair styling. Eying the sharpest tools warily, Pearl turned and gingerly took a seat facing towards the opposite wall, clutching the sack in her lap. She was startled by a pull at the back of her head as Indium switched on the faucet and gently pushed her backwards into the sink bowl. The hands above now busied themselves with raking through and de-tangling her mane while water ran through it.

Indium reached out along the wall searching among the hands holding various hair tools. She touched one with a brush. It loosened its grip on the handle and she took it to start working on Pearl’s hair.

Pearl relaxed into the hands’ mechanical and thorough touch, into the brush running through the length of her strands. She couldn’t help being transported back to when she last felt hands at work like this, realizing no one other than \*her\* had ever styled her hair. She remembered deft fingers braiding ancient patterns upon her scalp. The creativity is unmatched, no matter how many millennia it has been done. 

"Lower, dear."

She tilted her head down so her mother could complete the braid. She reveled in the safety she felt, sitting firm between her mother’s legs. Her genesis. Where she felt at home, beautiful, lov-

"What do you need from me?"

Sighing softly, Pearl lifted the bag out of her lap. Indium took it, letting out a shaky breath when she recognized the contents. She brought the bag’s opening to her face and inhaled, then hummed deeply.

"She loved you so much."

Pearl’s shut eyes tightened, tears blending seamlessly with the cleansing cascade. 

"How did you know?"

"Death’s smell can’t be mistaken with anything living."

"Will you use it on me?"

"Of course, such magic is always a blessing to perform when the occasion presents itself."

"How long will it take?" Pearl asked, not referring to the styling.

"The most well known mystery of life is its length."

Indium stopped brushing and pulled up her hair at the base of her neck, raising her neck gently to get her seated upright. 

"Will the answer change your mind?"

Pearl’s gaze remained resolutely ahead. Upon her silence, Indium moved the bag to the wall near a grouping of hands. They began to pull out long black strands of hair, separating them into small sections ready to be weaved into braids.

Indium was not only a hairdresser but also a necromancer with the power to call upon Pearl's mother’s spirit in every strand as she wove them meticulously into each plait. She stood behind Pearl, elongating her hair with her hands and breathing hot air into her scalp. Water trickled down into the sink until Pearl felt no more moisture. She ran a hand through her hair and it was soft, dry and stretched, as if it had been combed through with heat.

"The only dead thing on our bodies is hair. As such it is my specialty."

Indium retrieved a comb with a sharp tail end from a nearby hand and began parting her hair for the braids. 

"She’s pleased with you."

Unable to move her head, Pearl clenched her fists in her lap.

"Can you hear her?"

"Nothing concrete; hair is closest to our inner consciousness. I feel her emotions and hear distant layered whispers of thought."

"Not many daughters are willing to take on such a legacy."

Legacy wasn’t the word Pearl would have chosen to describe this act. She felt her power, her life would be nothing without the presence of her mother. Of all the poisons to pick, the one from the person who birthed her seemed the most benign.

"Return to me when the power fades."

"When will that be?"

"You will feel it. And I’ll take your hands and lead you to the gates at the end."

Frightened by that particular phrasing, Pearl winced. Indium smiled.

"It won’t hurt."

After some time Indium put together the final braid then ran her fingers through the hairstyle, whispering under her breath. Pearl leaned into her touch, eyes closed trying to make out the spell. Instead another phrase piqued her ears.

She swore she could hear it, as her twists swished about her shoulders, the remnants of a warm embrace she never thought she would feel again. 

"_Thank you, my Pearl._"


Legacy

She is a WITCH who, in the pages of history, is named by any other name except her own. Those who know her true form — and the number is increasingly few — know she is in the business of disappearing, living fractions of different lives until she can claim answers for the one she lost.

The day her sister WITCHES vanished, The Decanter left her town and never returned again. She shifted into a hawk and hurtled away, fast as her wings could carry her. Land after land, the scorch of a powerful curse, charred and bitter and rank, clung to the cobblestones and spires. Hundreds of WITCHES were lost to the Vanishing that day. The sound of her sisters’ laughter — sundered into silence. She had left the room for only a moment. It took only a moment.

The Decanter flew until she could not hold this shape any longer and finally crumpled into a heap in the woods. Too late, she realized she lay atop the grounds of another WITCH, an ancient HAG who rose up from the dirt and caught the girl by the ankle.

This was how Truffle, the Faceted Cup came to know the young ENCHANTRESS, who flung herself back into her hawk form, tearing herself from HAG’s grasp with a cry. Truffle only waited, still half-buried in the soil, until The Decanter sensed no danger from the other WITCH and simply wilted under the weight of her own exhaustion.

So, The Decanter stayed. As the leaves changed up above, the ENCHANTRESS grieved and burned beneath the earth, trudging from room to room bundled in blankets until she grew accustomed to the subterranean cold. In exchange for a bed and broths to warm her belly, The Decanter helped Truffle forage and tend to the land. The HAG’s dwelling was at the heart of the woods. From there, a vast network of mycelium sprawled, their delicate threads a convoy for the whispers of trees. Truffle was always listening when the trees groused they were overfull of sap, exclaimed at the aroma of just-ripe elderberries, or fretted over the comings and goings of unfamiliar creatures.

The Decanter quickly learned that her magic loved the earth. Her power spawned from possibility: the flip of a coin before it lands, the gamble of life in a scattering of seeds, the rot of the earth giving rise to something new. A glamour forged from living things (a sprig of bluebonnet, a drop of hare’s blood) was stronger and more stable than anything she’d ever created — better yet, it could be bottled and stored for months. Her shifts, too, became impenetrable. A visage prepared on parchment, rendered from the pigments of the earth, was a spell made not from words but living lines, a body come to life from a doodle.

> Her power spawned from possibility: the flip of a coin before it lands, the gamble of life in a scattering of seeds, the rot of the earth giving rise to something new.

The ENCHANTRESS honed her craft to a fine and deadly point. For months, she did not think of the world beyond the woods. But eventually, she tired of the routines that once soothed her. She began exploring nearby towns for days and then weeks at a time, never wearing her true face. There she was a nondescript child, swiping trinkets and little cakes from market stalls when nobody was looking. She strolled into parties a blustering nobleman, wined and dined and sauntered out with another guest’s coin purse or cloak.

Soon she was at the demon market, bartering the queen’s jewels away. She wore the visage of an OCCULTIST, spitting menace and glee without any flames to back it up. Mid-squabble with the three-headed demon who’d lost her wager, she felt something pass by: a carrier of enormous power. There was something wrong with it. The shape, it did not match what it held. She edged closer, caught the tail end of a conversation, a whisper of the words —

_Soul vessel._

And that _smell_ — acrid, dark, suffocating. No no no. She was not ready for this horrible, shattering truth. She forgot the jewels, forgot who she was pretending to be, and ran. Flew the long hours back to the woods. The trees rustled as she passed, and she knew Truffle would be waiting for her when she arrived.

One look and The Decanter saw that the ancient HAG had known all along. For a moment, she hated the WITCH for letting her find out in this way.

“The VOID WITCH,” she said.

The HAG nodded. Truffle asked her then, a WITCH waiting on the boundaries all this time:

“Are you ready?”

The Decanter knew. She had been pushed into the arena of fate the day her sisters disappeared and she was left behind, alone and formless and flailing. She could feel her story shifting from one where she split her life into befores and afters, to one where she turned back, reached for that moment of breaking, reformed it in her hands and held it tight. She needed to know what it was all for.

> She could feel her story shifting from one where she split her life into befores and afters, to one where she turned back, reached for that moment of breaking, reformed it in her hands and held it tight.

And she is not alone anymore. Her assignments are carefully planned, interconnected with the workings of Truffle and an entire coven of WITCHES. She fills cities with a hundred shapes of her: little critters to slip in and out of places unnoticed, a traveling WITCH selling glamours to the rich. She has the most fun playing dazzling, high-born women. ENCHANTRESS that she is, The Decanter has a penchant for coaxing confessions from her targets over long, luxurious affairs — transforming indulgences into divulgences of long-forgotten memories and unwelcome truths.

To decant is to pour, but so far she is only a vessel for secrets, a holding station where they may mix and breathe and collide. Soon, she thinks. Soon she will have enough pieces to make clear what is still obscure. In the meantime, she will let these secrets swirl about her, wait for the lies and misdirection to separate from truth and intention. It is only a matter of time. And when the time comes, well, the world will not be ready for the torrent she sets free.


A Time for Invention

Many witches think it’s bitter, lonely work — all bone-foraging and bottling the dark stuff that seeps from caskets. But **MARZANNA** would tell you **NECROMANCY** can be a gentle art.

She’ll admit it does take a particular temperament to sit calmly beside a corpse as it jerks with breath again. Some apprentice **NECROMANCERS** go to pieces their first night at a deathbed, or a seance. But **MARZANNA** would tell you a **NECROMANCER’S** most cherished tool isn’t the coffin nail or the skull preserved in a jar of honey (it still spouts a prophecy every now and then), but the candle that guides a soul safely through the dark.

Mother Death, they call her in certain villages. They say she has a soft touch.

In her autumn-white home, her house of lilies, **MARZANNA** sits souls down to tea. She puts a record on the gramophone, and The Ink Spots fuzz comfortably in the background. She and the souls eat black bread (or she eats on their behalf; the dead don’t know whose mouth is whose, a full stomach from an empty one) and talk memories. The dead can talk for ages when you get them going. The parlor flutters with secrets carried to the grave, now set free. They take the form of moths, lighting on **MARZANNA’S** sleeves and tickling her ears with boneyard gossip.

_Have you heard,_ whisper the dead, _that the king’s second son really killed Emiljia and sank her in the bogs so long ago, because she turned all those emeralds to glass? It’s quite a scandal. If you looked inside of her, you would find the real jewels tucked safe and sound in her belly. Have you heard the oceans will foam red with blood before the century is out?_

**MARZANNA** has lined her parlor with black mirrors, and in them she can see the many shapes of the dead all shimmering at once: youth and crooked age, corpses pearled with maggots, pure mist. She watches the reflections fondly as they chatter. She loves their company, she really does. She’s lonely sometimes with other witches, but never with them.

> Marzanna has lined her parlor with black mirrors, and in them she can see the many shapes of the dead all shimmering at once: youth and crooked age, corpses pearled with maggots, pure mist.

_Biscotti, darling?_ **MARZANNA** offers. _Almond is frosted and anise is the one with dark flecks._ She takes another herself, to be polite, and dusts the crumbs from her lap. Husks of flowers and leaves rustle where they’re strewn at her feet, the outline of a sacred circle. When they begin to stir, she knows it’s almost time for her guests to move on.

Move on — that’s a phrase the dead never like to hear. They try to linger, to hide, to wheedle and ply **MARZANNA** with more stories. But, sooner or later, she always gets to her feet and strikes a match.

_Shall we?_ she says with a smile, lighting her candle, inclining her head to the door. Beyond the house a birch forest sprawls, a place euphemistically called “neither here nor there.” The souls shuffle and sigh, like children being pulled off to bed.

_We shall..._ They know when to give up, mostly. The moths follow the candle, and **MARZANNA** leads them into the not-so-dark.

It isn’t always quite as easy as that. Every once in a while, a soul gives her real trouble. If a spirit sticks around for too long, it becomes a haunting, and **MARZANNA** has had to retire more than one teapot in which a ghost has taken up residence.

There’s a story she could tell you about a young **ENCHANTRESS** whose soul was stuck in a seashell and wouldn’t come out. She had been there for a year, curled in the dark, all alone, growing stranger by the day, ignoring the pleading of her sisters. **MARZANNA** had to spin her candlelight into thread and weave it through the canals of the shell to reach the stubborn thing inside.

Imagine you are that lost soul, clinging to something that isn’t yours any longer. A too-small shell. A poor echo of a body you miss only because you’ve never known anything else. And suddenly there’s this dazzling-bright thing in front of you, making rainbows of the dust — and you can’t think why you were ever so afraid.

This is the gentle part. The soft touch. A good **NECROMANCER** knows that her work isn’t really darkness, manipulating souls into telling their secrets, but making death soft and safe.


The tender vignettes of a NECROMANCER's work in guiding lost souls to the beyond.

Marzanna

Solarflare knelt before her makeshift altar, carefully sewing her offerings into a cohesive whole with threads of iron WILL anchored deep in her gut. 

Two lumps of softly chewed beeswax coaxed to flame, strings of sinew woven with sweetgrass and seeped in WOE, and the mechanical misery of a thousand wasp souls anchored to a parchment thin nest formed the base of her working. 

An agate filched from another under a moonless sky, a bundle of dried thistle brushed by a lost love, a copper bowl containing shreds of mandrake suspended in dark oil, a notebook filled with nightmares. 

She yanked the last knot of her binding to close and with a flick of her wrist and a spark from her nails the lot burst into blinding white and then the deepest blue flames. She waited.

The demon took its time slinking its true engorged form through cracks from a darker and more desperate world. Its black tendrils carved out a void against the star specked sky. It’s many, many, eyes glittered in the flickering light.

> Few mortals, unattuned or WITCH are willing to deal with demons. No matter how hungry for power, desperate for salvation, there’s a line too far, too distant from humanity to cross. They are natural disasters, best let pass by. Occultists tend to view such things inverted and sideways. Boundaries interest them, and seem permeable, like hopping back and forth across a harvest flame. 

The demon breathed deep, sucking the last of the essence of her offering.

“WITCH — WHAT MISCHIEF DO YOU SEEK TO SOW WITH ENOUGH WOE FOR A WAGER?”

Solarflare kept her face impassive, brushing the ashes of the now useless artifacts off of the empty embroidered square placed neatly between herself and the demon’s congealing silhouette.

The demon pulled the whorls and tangles of itself into the shape of a young girl, with long, impossibly long arms. A mask of a rabbit with a blank expression marked its head — and every inch of simulacrum flesh was covered with eyes. Soft brown orbs with luxurious lashes, piercing yellow rounds that tracked her smallest movement, small shiny dots clustered in fours. Solarflare could not spot a single matching pair, nor the hint of blue she was hoping for. 

“Whispers have reached me you’ve been haunting my woods, Dodomeki. Challenging all unfortunate enough to cross your path.” The WOODS murmured with stifled screams and sighs as she named the creature. Solarflare’s dead calm was not broken, no hint of emotion for the demon to latch onto. “While I have no power over your movements, nor you over mine, while we both reside here I’d like to pass the time with my own game of WIT and speed.” 

She pulled a velvet pouch from her waist, and spilled its contents on the altar. Shiny tiles, smooth on one side and marked with a single letter on the other. She began to flip them, smooth side up.

The Dodomeki cackled with glee and took its place opposite. 

“FOOL, THERE IS NO ONE IN THE WILDS QUICKER WITH WIT THAN ME. A TEPID CHALLENGE.” it swept its arms through its long tangled hair, it’s mismatched eyes swiveling all at once to train on Solarflare. “I HAVE BESTED THIS ENTIRE FOREST. AND NOW THAT YOU’VE BEEN SO GRACIOUS TO SUMMON ME TO YOU…WHEN I WIN I WILL CLAIM ONE OF YOUR EYES AS MY OWN”. The demon turned its head ninety degrees and extended its neck like an owl, uncomfortably close to Solarflare’s face. 

“SUNSET ALMOND. I’LL PLACE IT ON MY NEW BROW.” It sat, and began to flip the tiles as well. 

> Of all trials of wit in the wilds, the one of tiles + words demands the most flexibility from its players. Each opponent must use the letters in front of them in full, forming words connected horizontally and vertically. Every intersection comprehensible, each decision potentially invalidating all past. Once all of a player’s letters have given shape to words, a new tile is pulled from the center, forcing their opponent to do the same. The new letters are incorporated until none remain, the loser drowning in words with no shape. 

WITCH and demon selected seven each from the pile, standing them up in a neat row, letters facing their opponent. Solarflare held up three fingers, her other hand hovering over her tiles. 

“Three…Two…” — the demon knocked over its tiles with a rush, spontaneously growing two extra arms to furiously rearrange them.

“…One.” Solarflare rolled her eyes and clattered her own tiles, letters up.

“FOE, OWN, NOT … TILE!”

“wound, dyes … TILE!”

Each shout their hands reached for the pile in the center, snatching a new letter. Forming and reforming their boards.

“FOOL, FAWN, NOTE …. TILE!”

“wither, want, don … TILE!”

Solarflare blazed with concentration, her puzzle blurring and reforming faster than the Dodomeki’s eyes could track. Small towers and minarets of words were raised and destroyed from her board as each new letter was consumed into an intricate whole. 

The center pile dwindled. Extra letters scattered around the edges of their boards, Ns and Es jealously guarded, Sses hopefully moved at the beginning here, the end there.

“Done!!!!”

Solarflare stood triumphant

“wither, when, rodent, toil, cozy, coin, yeti, loe, easy, sake” 

The demon hissed and its flesh boiled, eyes roiling over its form. “NO NO NO NO NO NO NO” It knocked its own board aside to inspect hers. “LOE?!” it screeched “LOE IS NOT A WORD!”. 

Solarflare shrugged. “It’s like ….loe and behold”, she looked quickly around “an alternative … ancient….three letter spelling” 

As the demon poured over the rest of her tiles, pulling up the edge of a wild tile arrogantly forming the last e in sake, “IS THIS BLANK ACTUALLY.......ANOTHER K????”, Solarflare swept a calculating gaze over its long glittering arms. She spotted what she was looking for.

Solarflare’s nails were filed into five perfect points. They were lacquered with a thin layer of cobra venom, a purple coat of basilisk bile, a tincture of twisted rage from the unsatisfying ending of a terrible rom com encased in resin, and sealed with a veneer of crushed flint + pearl.

With a movement like a scorpion’s tail, her arm whipped forward and her nails met the soft edges of a clear blue eye rimmed in white and sunk deep. 

the demon HOWLED.

It jerked backwards dark ichor dissipating from the wound and before it could lunge forward Solarflare popped the eye whole into her mouth. 

She grinned, the eye poised between her teeth. As the demon surged towards her she pressed gently on the eye with her sharp canines. It recoiled in horror, the blank rabbit mask shaking as she took a big step back towards the gloom of the WOODS. 

the demon scrabbled as its form began to dissolve. Tendrils of darkness even blacker than the night smoked off of its flesh. Eyes of forest creatures slowly disappeared from its arms, as the Dodomeki’s hold on this world waned. 

“one step closer and I’ll swallow. That cute rabbit face of yours, how long will it last with it’s tether to this world damaged, or …” she pressed down on the eye further, “completely destroyed? Do you think you can flee back to your realm in time?”

As the demon quivered, torn between lashing out in fury towards her and rending a tear between worlds to preserve its own self, Solarflare turned and booked it. 

…

She raced through the woods, laughter escaping as she breathlessly leaped over logs and churned the earth in her wake. The blue eye tucked safely in the softness of her cheek. 

Nursing a stitch her side, she knelt by the entrance to a small warren. She whistled softly, and when a miserable mass of white fur emerged, she lifted it into her arms and kissed its smooth featureless face, gently pushing the eye back into place with her tongue.

“Consider the debt from our wager repaid, little one”.

The rabbit, enchantment broken, shook itself fiercely. “You are trash at Scrabble Solarflare, consider this a small dent in our books still deeply tilted in my favor. However did you best the beast?”

Solarflare held her arms wide and laughed, the sound tinged withe acidity of lime juice that formed the base of her magic. “The terrors of these woods are mine to reap! However convoluted the path.”


In the deepest depths of a dark wood, a WITCH summons a demon to her altar. A terror waits to be reaped.

Enough Woe for a Wager

THE CORE OF THIS WORLD THRUMS WITH MUSIC. The music of branches, of footsteps, of vibrating stars. Of hiccups, of ripped flesh, of wood crackling to ash. The refrains of the wilds are echoes in caves plunged deep within the earth, ecstasies in chants that shake the very fabric of the sky.

The **WITCH SYLV** was crafted from such things. From wings fluttering against the grip of webs, from water dripping upon sun-beat stones, from hearts pumping blood to dance, to laugh, to spill upon the dirt. His fingers tap arpeggios into the very fabric of the wilds. They say he drapes his eyes in woven cloth to block all unnecessary sense, to tune his ears to each whistle of the woods.

I quite like him. He makes a good dinner guest. When presented with an instrument, he will weigh it between his hands. He will press it to his ear. He will ask, so politely you cannot bear to deny him, to take it with him when he leaves. When he next returns, in days or months or years, he will play the most beautiful melody you have never heard and will never hear again. He will accompany himself, dark and brooding, hands light upon the strings, the brass, the keys. He is remixing himself, always. He captures sounds both yours and his — nails tapping against glass, the crackle of oil in a pan — and replays them from his mouth. Repeats and refurbishes, spins and syncopates. He calls this a new kind of music. I do not understand it, myself.

> When he next returns, in days or months or years, he will play the most beautiful melody you have never heard and will never hear again. He will accompany himself, dark and brooding, hands light upon the strings, the brass, the keys.

When he disappears he is in search of a sound. A hunt that never ends, a pursuit of perfection indiscernible to those without such music in their marrow. He lures ravens with bits of silver and shine then lays in the grass to hear their gossipy caw. He follows in the paths of **WITCHES** to harvest their sounds — a **SYLV** melody may hold an **OCCULTIST**’s rip of gristle from bone, the ring of a **HAG**'s wooden chime, the harmony of an **ENCHANTRESS**’s gilded words. He will follow a **NECROMANCER** to coo gentle lullabies to the dying, claim nothing but the exhale of their ghostly sigh in return. He will watch a **MAGE** scribe his sounds only to collect the scratch of their quill on bark. It is his gift as a **SEER** to hear music in everything, to follow its sumptuous call. He can hear the shifting of fate in birdsong, in new growth, in the grip of your hand in his.

If you’re lucky, the luckiest **WITCH** in all the wilds, you may hear the call of **SYLV**'s most precious sound. A sound he waited lifetimes to fruit, a single note of the utmost joyful sorrow. When **SYLV** awoke to the cacophony of his creation, his first **SEER** vision was of a heron. Neck curved, legs bowed, beak triumphant as it pierced the expanse of the sky. He knew this heron would, at the moment of their meeting, let forth the most harrowing, hopeful sound. A sound that would ripple the stillness of the **WITCH SYLV**'s consciousness forever until heard and clutched to his ever-pumping heart. For decades he pursued this creature, making his home among reeds and wetting his ankles in every pool of water in the wilds. When they met — finally, fastidiously — the whole of this world quaked. I’ve been begging to hear this moment in composition. Perhaps one of you finally will.


Sylv

IT WAS YEARS AGO NOW... as spring sighed and summer stretched its languid limbs, that Mensa became a **MAGE** of the **WOODS**.

Before then, before the deer lowered their heads and the **HAGS** opened their homes, she was a **WITCH** of fact and theory. She pursued knowledge at its most concrete — scrawled in books and runes, woven into tapestries and knit into songs. Her colleagues called her **MENSA THE LITERATE**, Mensa the librarian, Mensa who makes her home among parchment and paper, bookshelves and brass.

That first time began with a stirring. A stirring somewhere deep within her, between the words and lines and pages and bindings, a scratching like hooves into dirt, a knocking like newly-born knees. She told her companions she felt a calling. The wisest among them knew well the feeling. As a parting gift they bestowed a wrap of black satin, a veil of protection — half for her magic, and, though unconfirmed, half for her hair.

She followed the pull of this feeling to a clearing wet with dew. She set up camp, polished and organized as a **MAGE** knows to do, and waited. Waited for inspiration, for the moon to shift or air to thicken. She waited for the universe’s threads and theorems to unravel, to present themselves in patterns and polygons, to manifest in the ways she knew how to study.

> She waited for the universe’s threads and theorems to unravel, to present themselves in patterns and polygons, to manifest in the ways she knew how to study.

Instead, a doe. A doe, with eyes like onyx and a rapidly thrumming heart. A doe swollen and heavy with life. A doe who laid at her feet, with trust innate and tender in Mensa’s bright eyes and thin, calm smile. They became companions. The doe walked and grazed, the rhythm of her unborn young undulating with each hour. Mensa scribbled and drew, scratched runes that she had never seen before, that she had found only by squinting at the patterns in the doe’s patchwork pelt.

In a day they were ready. Mensa pet the doe’s head between her hands as she strained, first hooves then head, the lanky, tawny body of one fawn, then two. The doe shivered with her labor. She licked at her fawns to clean them, nudged them to nurse. The second born was the first to press at the earth, to raise its slender neck, to lift one knee and toddle. Mensa clapped with glee just before her runes exploded with amber light. Runes scrawled on parchment, stones, and tree trunks came alive with light as the fawn, new to the world and trembling, raised its weight upon its limbs. The clearing glowed with heat — the heat of life, of joy, of a **MAGE**’s magic. The light snapped to a ring like a band pulled taut and released. Mensa gathered it between her hands and gave it rest upon her shoulder blades. Her mind hummed with incantations, with spellwork, with connections between studies long abandoned. She lost herself, lying there, in the giddying mass of knowledge. Her doe took a turn to lick her, too.

And so, for a few weeks a year, as fruit ripens and falls and the forest teems with new, uncertain beginnings, Mensa the Literate is absent from her home among books, from the candlelit halls of her erudite companions. She is a **WITCH** of beginnings, of new life. She is a **WITCH** who is a friend to all deer, who applaud and smile as they first forge their way in the world. She is a **WITCH** of both the **LIBRARY** and the **WOODS**. She is a **WITCH** bolder and busier than you can imagine.


Mensa the Literate

SINCE THE FIRST BREATH OF THEIR CREATION, Iodine saw what others could not.

Things flickered at the edge of their bed, in the cracks of their walls, in the space between real and unreal, loved and unloved. Beneath the arc of the shadows at their door, gazes transparent and awed and pleading, huddled lost spirits grasping for a glimpse of the chosen.

These dead were unobtrusive, at first. They had been young once. They knew that power was something to let froth and bubble, to knead and lay to rest before roasting beneath the heat of prophecy. Iodine observed them with curiosity. These souls seemed but a reflection of what they knew the dead to be. While traditional necromancy attuned Iodine to the confused, clamorous whimpers of the recently deceased, their personal dead were different. Austere. Patient. Unseen to any but them. The ghosts’ eyes glimmered with a kind of hope long refused and only recently unearthed, the dirt of doubt and resignation to damnation yet to be brushed from its careful, lustrous surface.

> These dead were unobtrusive, at first. They had been young once. They knew that power was something to let froth and bubble, to knead and lay to rest before roasting beneath the heat of prophecy.

The six hundred and sixty sixth **WITCH** manifested. The knower of dead long forgotten. The translator of their woe. For many moons, Iodine knelt in their garden, unaware of this burden. They massaged the earth looking for shed lizard skins, picked at the scales to grind to a poultice and enhance their power. They waited for the dead to whisper, to ask them some favor with voices like wind moving through reeds, but never heard their sound. They let their curiosity go.

It was only on Iodine's six hundred and sixty sixth day of life that the words appeared. First, on their palm. Then, spiraling like storms of ink with each in and exhale, words wrapped around their wrists and arms, climbed over their chest and waist like the veins beneath their skin. The words appeared quicker than they could read, wove tales faster than they could follow with their eyes, flowed from one name to the next in a river of despair and dreams. The quiet spirits, usually at a distance, rushed forward in shock. They dumped lizard scales at Iodine's feet in waves, knelt with their heads bent to the ground in supplication. The necromancer gathered the offerings and ground a few between their teeth. They began to read.

With each sentence the dead were remembered. Memories, secrets, trials, treatises; eulogies for those gone far too long without rest. The stories lifted from Iodine's skin and dissipated to ether. Iodine pressed scales between their mortar and pestle, smoothed the powder over their arms and legs and chest. New words formed. The ghosts took Iodine's hands in theirs as they flickered once more, evanesced one and then another and another in clouds of ink-dripped dust. Rest, at last. Rest beneath the triumphant tongue of **IODINE, THE SALLOW NIGHTMARE**.


Iodine, the Sallow Nightmare

C**ENTAURI, THE VIRTUOUS CHALK**, was a keen observer of the world around her. A sharp eye, with an even sharper mind. She spent her days at the **HALLOWED HALLS** absorbed in the vast and immeasurable detail that suffused her daily existence.

While many **MAGES** focused on the manipulation of the natural world, the discovery of new theorems and laws, Centauri worked tirelessly to render with exacting precision the world she saw — one filled with so much beauty that she was breathless with it. She sought to deconstruct form and figure, dissect it into line and shadow and hue. To strip it bare and seize upon its very fundamentals, then remake it anew by her own hand.

> She sought to deconstruct form and figure, dissect it into line and shadow and hue. To strip it bare and seize upon its very fundamentals, then remake it anew by her own hand.

Each spectacular moment she witnessed, she rushed to sketch, to immortalize with complete fidelity before it escaped her grasping fingers. The surface tension of a single fat dewdrop, languishing on a leaf. The luminous sheen of lashes, flush against light-flecked eyes. The piercing arc of a ray of sun, refracting through dust. But inevitably that beauty was fleeting and ephemeral; she could never quite capture it. It evaded her pencil, her paintbrush, her chalk.

Centauri made attempt after attempt, to no avail. She saw an emerald butterfly, once, gently beating its wings against the wind’s current, delicate veins of white and black spidering out from its center. It was breathtaking in its brilliance, its tender fragility. She hastily pulled her sketchbook from her satchel, scribbling as quickly as she could. But she could already feel it, this tenuous moment, slipping from her even as she gripped fast onto it.

She glanced up from the page, to observe again the slope of the curve of the butterfly’s wing, when her heart stuttered — a bright bird dove toward the butterfly and, before Centauri could think or make a sound, snatched it out of the air.

The chalk crumbled in her hand. She stared, shaken, as the bird soared back up into the sky, a single crumpled emerald wing dangling from its beak. It had taken only an instant.

Centauri gazed back at her sketch, flat and muted on the page. A lifeless rendering, of a now-lifeless butterfly. Her heart weighed heavy with the knowledge that the vitality and vibrance she had seen with her own eyes had been reduced to a mere echo in her own portrayal.

---

But Centauri refused to yield. She took to **THE LIBRARY**, seeking out every text she could find. Only a scant few pointed her in the direction she needed, but it was enough to crystallize into an idea. A dangerous one, perhaps, but one that just might _work_.

She began anew with a single mote of dust — a test subject, the smallest she could find. This time, to observe her subject, she closed her eyes. She reached out instead with her mind, and, for the first time, she sensed a pull on her power, faint but present.

Centauri studied it for days, down to every molecule, every atom. Once satisfied that she had perceived everything there was to perceive, she reopened her eyes and put her chalk to paper, magic flowing steadily through her.

When she was finally finished, a perfect mote of dust floated on the sheet before her, realer than any other she had ever seen, encapsulated in that moment for eternity. She laughed out loud, exhilarated. Progress, at last.

---

Fortified with new hope, she wandered the grounds in search of her next subject. It was springtime, and flowers were just pushing their way up to the surface of the soil. A newly-budded daisy caught her eye, a pleasing shade of yellow, each petal flawlessly formed.

Centauri thought to pluck it but could not bring herself to cut its brief life any shorter. Instead she sat. Replicating the flower was a far more complex endeavor than the dust mote; she would need time.

Once again, she closed her eyes and extended the tendrils of her mind, feeling her way toward the daisy. Her magic rose within her, now insistent and hungry. She remained seated before the flower for weeks, sensing with her mind’s eye the hue of each petal, the curve of the stem, the way the leaves caught the light — inhabiting each cell until she had memorized it. The true form of the daisy unraveled before her, like a puzzle box unfolding to a flat shape.

At last, she returned to her rooms and retrieved her sketchbook and her chalks. She tucked her hair behind her ears and began her work.

But, this time, with each stroke of the chalk, power coursed through her, erratic and all-consuming, unlike any she had felt before. When she pulled out her paints, as the brush touched the page, she began to _burn_. She painted faster, feeling herself begin to tear at the seams, her body unable to contain the magic surging through it.

Realizing what was happening to her, Centauri knew what she had to do. She had seen it happen before to other **MAGES**, ones who had pushed too far into the unknown, who had called upon too much magic and become consumed by it. She had seen what was left of them, after. And she would not become them.

---

Pressing the brush to her own skin, she began to paint. Swirling, glowing runes of olde, an ancient script that even few **MAGES** could read, one that would bind her power to her, tethering it — and her — to the mortal plane.

The frenzied, churning power channeling through her slowly quieted to a muted hum. She took a shallow breath, hands shaking as she inscribed the last character on her body.

It was a kind of loss, to have contained her magic this way. Power, in exchange for enclosure. Many paths of knowledge, converging to one. But it was done, and she could imagine having done nothing else. Gathering herself, she returned her focus to the page.

> It was a kind of loss, to have contained her magic this way. Power, in exchange for enclosure. Many paths of knowledge, converging to one.

Centauri painted and painted and painted, now boldened by the knowledge that she no longer needed to hold herself back. The work of the flower took form, slowly but surely, until she shook herself out of her reverie, many months later, and saw that it was complete at last.

The painting before her breathed with life. The daisy, radiant in its bloom, appeared to flutter gently in an invisible breeze. She saw every single detail, every molecule, every atom, exactly as she remembered it, in all of its recursive immensity. It was — perfect.

Blinking blearily, Centauri stumbled back outside, exhausted and drained but permeated with a deep content. Her limbs were unused to the exertion after so long; they ached just to stand, to walk.

It was nearing the start of winter now. She stepped falteringly through the gardens, reveling in the brisk air, and found herself winding back along the path that had led her to her perfect daisy, though she knew it would no longer be there. Its season had passed. That was the way of things — brief, brilliant, beautiful life, then inexorable death. She was grateful, at least, for her painting.

Lost in thought, she had nearly forgotten where she was when — suddenly — she saw it.

It looked exactly as it had those many months before, a perfect flower just kissed by the blush of new spring. Except all around it, the plants had curled, withered, died. The daisy alone stood untouched, as if it had bloomed outside of time.


Suspended in Chalk

Where does one begin? Do I start at the beginning, or at the crossroad where I truly began? The question answers itself: there was nothing before the crossroad, nothing of particular note. Days passed, years drifted, and a curious child grew up. Others thought her curious too: too odd, too piercing a gaze, too many questions. Never truly fitting into her skin and itching at its limitations.

At some point, the details wane with the passage of time and the insignificance of that first being, the itching became a clawing. An unbearable misfit — in the true sense of a miss-fit, the body not accepting the soul — that the young woman could stand no longer. She sought answers that no one could give, knowledge that was forbidden. Her questioning drew sharp breaths and hastily muttered prayers. How could wanting to understand the wheeling stars in the sky, how a river picks its course, how a deer knows precisely where to put its hoof, what drives a man to madness… who would not want to understand such mysteries? She was puzzled by their reactions and further withdrew into her mind. At night she whispered questions into her cupped hands.

One day the wind answered. A breeze curled around her neck, brushed against her collar bones, and urged her forward. There was not a moment of confusion or doubt. Her eyes sought the horizon and her body sought solace. She felt the wind and complied, releasing a sigh of relief that mingled with the wind’s gentle insistence. She followed a call she could not hear, a signal she could not see, and she began to walk.

For how long and how far does not matter. Nothing mattered until she walked down the well-trod road, which turned into a dirt lane, which turned into a deer trail, which turned into… nothing. It’s hard to describe what came next: a feeling, an overwhelming feeling, of dread, of eternity, of possibility… of a cost.

> It’s hard to describe what came next: a feeling, an overwhelming feeling, of dread, of eternity, of possibility… of a cost.

I’ll admit that she, the previous me, panicked. How could she not. Nothing prepares a mortal for the veils to be lifted. Like a pitcher of icy water doused over one’s head, the truth is offered abruptly. It presents with a howling scream that is both overpowering and silent. It dares the soul to step into its rightful vessel.

The young woman lurches forward and stumbles back, in a mental paroxysm of action and counteraction. All is understood and nothing is spoken: she could step forward into the unknown or step back into the known, but a sacrifice would be demanded either way. She could return to her previous life, burdened by the knowledge of the choice, and doomed to relive the moment in her mind until it drove her mad — or _I_ could step forward.

Young one, you know what I chose. I sacrificed my sight for my Sight, and I would do it a thousand-fold. There is no knowledge without pain, no vision without blindness. I gave my eyes for my answers and in return I whisper them into my cupped hands as offerings to the wind.


A SEER recounts her winding path to true sight.

The Crossroad

Fuchsia Pudding was still green when the wind whispered to her the name of a stranger. The Woods saw guests from time to time, but none in many seasons, and always travelers, passers-through. Fuchsia would welcome them inside — or, weather depending, out by the garden. Offer them whatever fruits her labors and magic provided — even a cup of hearty broth, if the gift they offered in return were deft enough.

But this guest — the branches rattled and scraped a warning, which grew louder with each step Fuchsia took away from her plot of safety, outside the circle of salt she’d drawn eons ago to shield her growings. 

Fuchsia always took heed of the wind, the sun, the bones of the chickens she raised and slaughtered and boiled into broth. The bones foretold the change of seasons — knowing when to pull the last squash was fortuitous magic for a Hag indeed — and the wind never failed her. But the sun that grew her broccoli had disappeared behind roiling clouds, and the wind, for all its hissed warnings, pushed insistently at her back. 

Perhaps, Fuchsia thought, the warning was not to stay away. 

Perhaps the warning was to hurry.

Signs never were obligingly transparent that way. 

The wind grew increasingly persistent until, between one step and the next, it ceased altogether. She had crossed a threshold, past a tree painted with a rune in bright, fresh blood, and into a clearing. The sky still churned overhead, but inside the remnants of whatever spell took place here, nothing stirred.

At the center of the clearing was a pool made of starlight, as calm and still as glass. Fuchsia knelt in the lambsquarter and purslane and peered down into the black depths of its water.

There, floating just under the surface, was a witch. An Occultist; the wind’s guest. Her eyes were closed serenely, her hair diffused about her head, as if frozen in ice. The accouterments of her spell clutched in her hand: a peach, a book, a feather.

Fuchsia never understood Occultists. She understood Mages — the thirst for knowledge — and she understood Seers, in theory, anyway. She could even understand Necromancers to an extent, and she certainly respected their talents, even if she’d rather not witness them. Occultists were wild, unpredictable, their power snapping and crackling like a flame, liable to lick at whoever got too close, to raze anything in its way.

She’d leave this Occultist to her business, but something about the way she floated, the storm, the wind, the cage of silence. Something wasn’t right. 

This witch was trapped. 

She appeared to be near the surface of the frigid, starlit water, but a Witch knows what they say about appearances.

Fuchsia was a being of sunlight and growth and warmth. And yet, she plunged in her hand.

-----

The greedy water pressed in on her, its spell gone awry, too strong for containments.

As the filtered daylight grew weaker, Fuchsia saw the Occultist above, her face framed in that spot of hazy light; a witch of shades, dark skin and white hair and grey eyes, wide open now, looking down into the water. And then, Fuchsia saw nothing.

She remembered this nothingness. She hadn’t named it before, but it was there in the twilights, in the breath she took to blow out her candle, the Silence between bells. Familiar, yet wrong for her. Fuchsia belonged with bare feet sinking into fresh-turned earth. With green things, innumerable jars of white sage and clover, tangled skeins of purple and orange threads.

But this was another kind of wonder, wasn’t it? 

Nothing was never really _nothing_. It was space to hear her own heartbeat, to feel her blood under her skin. The magic that whispered its song on the water was layered; not wholly one thing; Occultist or Hag or light or dark or wild or schooled. Nothing is ever only one thing, just as nothing is never nothing. And just as there is time for growing, for harvesting, for mending, there too is time for surrender, for humbling, and Fuchsia knew this changedness well. The robins and rabbits knew. The bears who slept in winter knew. The chickens who followed her footsteps knew.

> Nothing was never really _nothing_. It was space to hear her own heartbeat, to feel her blood under her skin.

It had been so long since she was not touched by sunlight, ruled by seasons. She’d almost forgotten that the moon was but a reflection of the sun, and what were the stars but many suns shining in the distance? Warm and cold, old and new, spring and then winter and then spring again.

For months and years, Fuchsia drifted in nothingness, percolating, growing even in darkness, as moonflower and evening primrose, as enduring as the dandelions the foolish farmers despised. 

When she emerged, pulled by occult power, Fuchsia was wreathed in starlight. 

The Occultist clutching her hand was still dripping wet, too. Not years then, but moments inside of moments. Around them were scattered corpses of rabbits and swallows and some chickens from Fuchsia’s own flock. Their blood made the markings hurriedly splashed on ground freshly scorched. When Fuchsia glanced over her shoulder, the pool of starlight was gone.

Fuchsia looked at Cereme Brawl, the guest the wind had delivered, the wild witch with wild powers not quite so unknown anymore, who had brought her back home when she could have walked away.

And Fuchsia said, “Would you like a cup of broth?”


A Crown of Starlight

Witness a witch with no wisdom, but a whisper of will. See her devour the world through wonder and woe. Hearken to the witch’s rune, a song of longing and desire, and you shall glimpse a tale of _The Barbecue_, and all her wiles set afire.Enter the deepest of woods, look for a tiding of magpies. When your lungs taste the scent of charred venison, know you may be lost in the lodgings of _The Barbecue_, where a feast may be offered in exchange for your soul. Hold on to your wits, and hold closer your heart, because what is once lost may never be found. You would do well to never share your real name with an Occultist, lest you find yourself entangled in all manner of sorcery. So do not be bewildered when you discover that _The Barbecue_ is not a name, but a nom de guerre gifted by another. “Why do you call yourself _The Barbecue?_”, you may ask her.“I do not. It is the others that call to me”, she will reply.The witch’s power flows from a fawn’s first steps. The Occultist cannot work her will without power. And so hunt she must, to shepherd the innocence to slaughter. But what is left of the fawn, becomes a meal for thee. None around her are troubled by hunger, as long as they do not overstay. Take care to not test her patience, or find your own heart dancing in the flames. The invited christened her Barbecue, and thus _The Barbecue_ she became.Alas, the truest of her names is one that is lost even to herself. The Barbecue does not remember much, nor does she have to. Oh, but does she long to remember. Essence formed from paper, recycled, abandoned to daylight and moontides, unable to recall her past as a tree. Born only with the yearning to return to what she once was, her footsteps always compel her back to the dark of the forest. There, she waits for her maker to return, once with patience, and twice with wrath. Days become years. Rain turns to snow. Life turns to ash. _The Barbecue_ remains, amongst her pillar of woe.“Why don’t you leave?”, you may ask her.“I think I was a willow once”, she will reply.What strangest of creatures conjured her, nobody knows. For what purpose she was created, nobody knows. Her heart grows colder, her hair grows whiter, her eyes stay the same, set ablaze. The march of time magnifies her magic, and she will endure. What she lacks in wisdom, she makes up for in spite.> What strangest of creatures conjured her, nobody knows. For what purpose she was created, nobody knows. Her heart grows colder, her hair grows whiter, her eyes stay the same, set ablaze.“How do you summon a being that you do not know of?”, you may ask her.“I shall summon them all”, she will reply.She lits a pyre of sacrifices, to pray to the altar of Gods and ghosts. But it is not easy you see, for _The Barbecue_ to pray. To beseech a being that has spurned her. She carves wood into effigies, to summon demons and dragons.But it is not easy, you see, for _The Barbecue_ to cut wood. To dig into what she once called flesh. She contacts coven after coven, to seek the counsel of witches and warlocks. But it is not easy, you see, for _The Barbecue_ to find company in others. To never be alone, but always lonely.“Why must you continue?”, you may ask her.“The truth of power is rooted in sacrifice”, she will murmur. Be careful, do not disturb her when she is in a trance. For it will be your soul that is perched on the withering willow, and it will not stare back.

the BARBECUE burns in search of her maker.

The Barbecue, Hearken to

There are several fundamental truths you should know about WITCHES. One is that you should never challenge a WITCH in her own home, unless you fancy spending the rest of your days as a chicken or a mouse. Or turned inside out, as was the case with one particularly inventive OCCULTIST and her hapless rival. 

Another is that few things will irritate an ENCHANTRESS as much as having nothing to wear. 

This was a fact that Hedione was frustratingly familiar with. She stood in front of her wardrobe, flicking garment after garment from its depths. Gossamer gowns, cashmere cloaks, wraps and robes in rainbow tints: each was discarded as inadequate, whether it was gifted by kings or won from tricksy demon seamstresses.  

Perhaps a more exotic locale would have something to suit her tastes. One blink, and a portal shivered into being within Hedione’s tower walls. The first landscape she chose was an arid wasteland with shifting dunes; she ran a handful of sand through her fingers and judged it too coarse for her silken skin. The second was a caldera belching noxious smoke and bulbous ropes of magma; the hues were eye-catching, but too flashy to be worth immortalizing in brocade. 

The third was simply a lake. It was deep in winter’s grasp, for much of it was frozen over, its glassy surface a stark contrast to the pines jutting into the sky at its edge. But Hedione was not alone: even as she conjured a witch-light for warmth, the purpling sky was blotted out by clouds of white. Swans, migrating back to their birthplace for their mating rituals. 

The swans fluttered down and settled into the shoreline. They acknowledged her with deep nods and kept a respectful distance, for birds, more than most animals, are well attuned to a WITCH’s moods. Hedione, for her part, was considering passing to warmer climes where her lips wouldn’t be chapped by the biting wind. But a tingling at the nape of her neck told her to watch and wait, so she did. 

It took several minutes before she understood what was bothering her. Instead of the honks and squawks she usually associated with swans, this colony was almost silent aside from the squelch of mud under webbed feet and the wet tearing of uprooted weeds. One large male, satiated by his grazing and still energetic after his journey, stretched his serpentine neck and flapped in a mating display. The song that issued from his beak, however, was arrhythmic and halting. Others made their own attempt at courtship, but they too managed only a discordant cacophony. Those lucky enough to have already found lifelong mates rose into the twilight, grunting their displeasure. 

“Oh, this won’t do at all,” Hedione said out loud. The unpaired swans swiveled in her direction, consternation evident in their beady eyes. One of them let out a forlorn whistle. She held its gaze, nodded almost imperceptibly. “I’ll be right back,” she promised them, and when she WILLED her portal into being, it led not to another landscape nor to the plush comfort of her tower, but inside the dressing rooms of a shop she often frequented. 

“Mistress Hedione, what a pleasure,” cried the proprietor as she emerged from behind heavy curtains embroidered with silver sigils. It looked like a pleasant-faced man with a bald head, but its palms were stippled like a lizard’s, and she sometimes glimpsed a razored gullet behind its human teeth. “Could I interest you in a lavalier or a coronet? Only the finest gems, polished with tree sap and maidens' tears!”   

“I’m actually looking for a music shop,” Hedione replied. “Do you have any recommendations?”

The man-who-was-not-a-man almost frowned but recovered itself immediately. “But of course,” it said, and gave her directions to a stall under the arches of a petrified palace. There were antelope-horn trumpets and crystal cymbals on display, and the shop owner welcomed her with a many-jointed flourish. _Take as much time as you need_, it said as Hedione chose biwas and bassoons, bagpipes and bells. Its voice was a comforting susurrus in the recesses of her mind. _It is always a joy when a WITCH deigns to peruse my wares_.

When the time came to haggle, their discourse was swift, calculating, efficient. In the end Hedione paid with a pair of gilded combs that fairly hummed with enchantments. Then she stepped back through her conjured portal to the lake, her purchases tucked away safely into a pocket dimension. 

Now the real work could begin. She called the unpaired swans to her and bade them sing. As they did, she chose for each one a mechanical counterpart and demonstrated melodies and harmonies, coaxing the birds towards a cohesive tune with each exhaled breath, each depressed string. It was painstaking work, and time-consuming – for swans, although tenacious, do not have the best memories. When the sun dripped below the horizon she curled up to sleep on the icy lake amidst her dragon’s hoard of instruments, sheltered from the elements by her charges’ mighty wings. 

So passed five days and five nights. On the sixth day, Hedione knew it was time to put her tutelage to the test. She picked up a set of bone chimes, stroking them with one manicured finger, and the swans surrounding her stirred and stretched as its tinkling filled the predawn air. Then, recognizing her cue, one female swan began to sing, beating her wings to accent the rhythm. The others joined in one by one, first tentatively, then with increasing confidence. They took to the air and found their partners as the song surged towards the climax, and Hedione herself was buoyed up by surges of magic. She hadn’t realized that all this time she’d been casting a ritual with each sustained note and cascading chord, and she laughed aloud even as the frigid wind wrung the moisture from her eyes.

> She hadn’t realized that all this time she’d been casting a ritual with each sustained note and cascading chord, and she laughed aloud even as the frigid wind wrung the moisture from her eyes.

By the time the sun crested over distant mountains, drenching the frozen lake in honeyed light, swans and ENCHANTRESS alike had landed gently on the lakeshore. As the other swans looked on, each newly bonded pair chose the longest, lushest feathers from their wings and lay it at her feet in gratitude. 

And that is how Hedione, the Beguiling Chime came by her luxurious feather robe, setting a new fashion amongst the WITCHES, and all those who can appreciate the value of gifts given freely by the beasts of the WILDS.


an ENCHANTRESS will stop at nothing in pursuit of decadent finery

For Want of a Robe

**PROFESSOR CRUX THE RAPID** KICKED OPEN THE DOOR TO DEMONOLOGY 201 with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a cloaked cage in the other. She had made stranger entrances to stranger rooms, but still the lecture hall rippled with surprise. Despite her polished bouffant and waxy bangs, she radiated an unbound mania that made even the most collected student nervous. There were whispered theories among the oldest wards of **THE HALLOWED HALLS** on how she had procured such strange, unnatural eyes—soft red like the pollen of a noxious plant, slit like a snake, always twitching from one imperceptible target to the next. The other staff said she was just as wondrous as she was woeful, but where that goodness sprouted in the dark, sloshy dirt of her haphazard personality was anyone’s guess.

She rarely began her lessons with any sort of formal introduction. “Contrary to some recent, utterly irresponsible research publications,” she spat, “you should never equate a demon’s magical capability or intelligence with its size. How do we measure demon capability?” Her voice boomed in the large hall, half-ringed with ascending semicircles of pale marble benches. 

A **WITCH** in the first row raised her hand. Their arm emerged from a near-gaseous cloud of curls. “Proximity to witchhood.”

She nodded. “Meaning what?”

The **WITCH** continued, emboldened. “Demons steal the natural magic of the wilds to survive and grow stronger. The closer one displays the power of a witch, the closer they are to the apex of that magic.”

“Good.” Crux pulled two shot glasses from their pocket, set them both on the **WITCH**’s desk, and poured generously from the bottle.

They stumbled. “Should we be drinking in lecture?”

”Never mind, you don’t deserve this.” Crux took both, her head knocking back with the ease of practice. Eyes closed, she exhaled fine golden mist. When they opened, her gaze was bright like pricked blood. “What signs of power do we look for in a demon?” She pointed at a student to her left with a black gown draped over their crossed heels.

They spoke quickly, “Capability for speech, stolen extremities or organs, convincingness of disguise.” 

“Excellent.” Returning to the front of the hall, Crux removed the sheet of fabric from the cage with a flourish. Inside, a small creature about the size of an apple with wet black eyes and a twitching snout. As it was exposed to light it curled upon itself to form a ball of quills like a cup of brown rice. The class could not contain a cry of adoration. 

“A hedgehog!” a few students called, voices pitched up with delight.

The professor muttered something under her breath before smacking the back of the cage with her hand. It tripled in size and knocked the creature into the bars. The form of the hedgehog rippled and shook, expanding to velvety black limbs grappling beneath a cloud of black smoke. The eyes, snout, and quills grew and flattened to a grotesque mask as if the rodent had been heated and stretched. The **DEMON** threw back its head. “Ow!”

The front row drew back in disgust and fear. Crux pointed to one, two, three first-year students who had reacted most strongly. “You, you, you. You just died in the woods meeting this thing. Get out of my class. Write an essay on self-preservation and then burn it before lecture tomorrow.”

The chosen scrambled for their belongings, eager to escape the immediately heavier energy of the room. The air around the DEMON condensed and pulsed with WOE. It had the bulbous frame of a sickly child—pudgy stomach, two legs, and only one arm ending in a thin claw. 

“Top a guy up, Crux? I even brought a cup.” It spoke in a rasp, the mouth on its mask still and unmoving. It pulled a large acorn cap from somewhere behind the warped face and held it up, pleading. 

Ignoring it, the professor turned to the class. “Why would that be stupid for me to accept?”

A shout from the back. “It could argue it gave you the cup as a gift and you owe it.”

“Precisely. I will, however, pour a shot for no reason in particular and leave it here on the desk. If some creature were to find it and drink it, that would have nothing to do with me.” She refilled both of her glasses, pushed one towards the cage and brought the other to her mouth. 

The **DEMON** reached its single, spindly hand through the bars to take the drink. It tutted mockingly. “It, it, it. I have a name, you know.” 

“What is it?” The curl cloud **WITCH** sat forward, fascinated. 

“Could I have yours first?” It tilted its head at them. 

“Of course not.” They grinned.

The **DEMON** squirreled the cup somewhere behind its mask. “Okay, Crux, so maybe you are a half-decent teacher.” 

Professor Crux tossed her hair, a smile creeping imperceptibly. “This is Hodge. He happens to owe me a great debt. Of course, he is as much a sniveling buffoon as I am a prolific scholar of demonology.” Though the **DEMON**’s mask could not move, its eyes rolled in spirit. “He has agreed to settle up by visiting our class today and allowing you all to practice negotiating with him without killing or seriously maiming anyone.”

“Seriously maiming?” someone squeaked. 

“Without any kind of maiming.” Hodge drew his arm up to his swollen chest. “I don’t have a heart, but you can imagine this is where it would be, and I’m swearing on it. Educational feedback only.”

“Yes, sans any kind of maiming.” Crux swirled the amber liquid in her bottle faster now, excited. She didn’t have the energy of someone who would oppose watching a maiming. “So, who wants to go first?” 

“I’ll try.” The curl cloud **WITCH** stood and walked to the front of the room. After a few steps, they turned and grabbed a paper sack from their desk. When they spoke, their voice wavered only slightly. “Mr. Hodge, I want to borrow some of your power for three hours.” 

Hodge crossed his good arm over the stump of the other. “In exchange for?” 

The **WITCH** stuck her hand in the bag dramatically, paused for effect, then removed a rather decadently stacked sandwich. “Tuna salad on rye.” 

“I would say yes, give you some cursed ability like hearing rodents’ thoughts but only the ones that scream all the time, and happily eat your lunch. Terrible wording. Next!” 

The **WITCH** in the long black gown stood next. “Demon, if I were to open your cage and set you free, what could you offer me in return?” 

“Better,” Hodge pondered, swirling his claws like tentacles upon his shoulder. “But you know I’m bound to a previous contract keeping me here. The cage is mere theatrics. Next.” 

Students took turns slowly at first, then faster as Hodge dismissed their offerings. Some approached the cage, others called out from their seats. He picked apart specificity, loopholes, conniving interpretations, tricks and traps.

As the class period drew to a close, a final **WITCH** stood. Her hooded eyes focused on Hodge, their lids drawn to fold as if sleepy. Two large curls of hair framed her chiseled face, the rest pulled back into twin tails of mauve silk. As she breathed, a trail of teal fire seemed to tickle at her nose. She approached the table with the cage, her gauzy shirtsleeves fluttering with each step.

“Mr. Hodge, please examine this.” She opened her fist to reveal a plain gold disk, one side etched with a line, the other smooth. “I swear on my life and magic it’s a completely unremarkable, evenly weighted coin that will do you no harm.” 

The fire at her nose exhaled upwards, climbing on the air and expanding greedily. If it was warm against her face, her expression did not betray it. A **WITCH**’s pact is binding.

> The fire at her nose exhaled upwards, climbing on the air and expanding greedily. If it was warm against her face, her expression did not betray it. A WITCH’s pact is binding.

“Interesting.” Hodge scraped at the coin with his tooth and weighed it on his tongue. He spat it back at her. “I’m listening.” 

“I propose a game of chance. You win, I take on all of your debts. I win, you take on all of mine. I toss, you call in the air.” 

“Now that,” Hodge leaned forward, forehead knocking against the bars. A wet cluck pierced the quiet mumbling of the hall as he licked his lips in shadow. “That’s something. I know nothing of your debts.”

“And I know nothing of yours.” The **WITCH** grinned, sleepy eyes widening with some hidden delight. “A split gamble with an unknown loss but everything to gain. No tricks. Just a chance that may be too good to refuse.” 

The **DEMON** deliberated, weighing curiosity and risk on imperceptible scales. Carina folded the coin over her fingers from one side of her hand to the other. Even just the movement of it dancing across her knuckles had her hair defying gravity in anticipation.

“I’ll take it.” Hodge stood up in the cage and gripped at its bars. The classroom of WITCHES hushed as each gasped and held their breath.

“Excellent.” Carina bumped the coin to rest on her thumb and flipped. It twirled in the dust for one second, two—flashing strike, smooth, strike—before Crux grabbed it out of the air. Hodge yipped in frustration.

“Educational feedback only.” She pressed. The spectral hands at her collar, usually austere, were twitching anxiously. If Carina didn’t know better, she would think the professor was nervous.

“No killing or maiming. I want to take the deal!” Hodge was shaking the bars now, voice pitched up like a child throwing a tantrum. The clock struck the hour. Class was over. 

“Your debt is repaid. Leave.” Crux insisted, voice steadier this time. The bell did not finish ringing before Hodge dissipated in a tuft of whining black smoke. Crux turned to the class. “Interesting work today. Reflect on your proposition and why it was struck down. We’ll debrief tomorrow.” Dismissed, the room of students broke out in a dozen different frustrated conversations. 

Crux turned to Carina. “I’m impressed. I wasn’t expecting anyone to get anywhere today. What was your trick, in the end? Something in the toss? You’re not stupid enough to actually make that deal.” There was something desperate in her expression, almost pleading. She pressed the coin into her student’s palm. The smooth side was face-up, glinting in the light. 

The Pithy Hourglass grinned, blue tendrils of heat blossoming across her face. Her mask, grown fully, cast writhing shadows against her skin. “I’d never dare cheat a toss, Professor. If you’d excuse me, I have another class.” 

She bowed her head before returning to her seat to gather her belongings. Crux watched as she left, coin in motion again, flying between her fingers, jumping animatedly from hand to hand.



The Flip

THE **WITCH WATERCRESS** HAD NEVER SMELLED A VILLAGE before one settled on her stream. Villages were faraway things, mirages to be observed through shifting water or caterpillar-punched leaves. **WATERCRESS** had avoided them like the thinnest wafer of ice on the pond — fragile, new, not yet grown into anything of use.

Usefulness she understood. In every plant was a poultice, every plume, a protectant. She was a **HAG** of foraging, foresting, forecasting. She knew which branches would hold egg-laden nests in the spring, which flowers would blossom and breathe in the fall. She made the acquaintances of spiders, friends of beavers, tentative, awestruck allies with the swelling mob of mushrooms that pulsed beneath the forest floor. But a village? What kind of use could a village serve to a **WITCH** so in tune with each wisp of smoke and tuft of grass?

It smelled mostly of sawdust, at first. Cooked meat, horse manure, sweat. It took a while for the houses to be constructed — first skeletal frames, then plastered walls, thatched roofs. The building team was organized, their materials stacked in neat piles and schedule well-kept. They knew enough of local plant life to separate the edible from the poison, knew enough of **THE WOODS** to take only enough to satisfy their need. Watercress approved. She decided to journey south for a time, to return with interest when the settlement was complete. 

After only a few moon cycles, the village hummed with activity. The population of villagers, entirely unattuned, had tripled. Watercress swam upriver, squinting hazily at laundry lines and log fences. The long rope of her hair twisted in her wake like a golden eel. She reached water that tasted silty, clouded with dirt. Through the waves, a stretch of cattail, no, a blooming water lily, no — a girl. Her peach ringlets came into focus through ripples and fish bubbles, distorted like a distant sunset. She sat on the riverbank, her eyes closed, forehead resting on her knees. There was some sort of call from behind her, then a sigh. Her breath blew wrinkles in the surface of the river, just inches from Watercress’s face. 

As the girl turned back to her work, Watercress raised just her eyes above water. The girl held a shovel that almost reached her chin at the center of a wide rectangle of dirt. She turned the earth with hesitation, often backtracking to her previous work to poke at it hopelessly with her spade. Sometimes she nudged the dirt with her foot as if crops were a cat to be gently persuaded from the path of a door. Watercress felt the presence of seedlings itching at the ground, surviving in spite of the girl’s poor efforts.

Of course the plants could not grow. They sat beneath the earth, petulant and prodded. Half were drowned and the other desiccated, the rows uneven and too tightly packed to be parted by hearty roots. Watercress floated like a gator, her shifting irises reflecting each ripple in the river. When the girl bent to pack the dirt even tighter with her palms, she couldn’t help but burst onto land.

“No, no, no, no, no,” she groaned, falling to her knees to claw at the plot with her hands. “That’s not right at all. My apologies, I can’t watch this.”

The girl yelped with surprise, ducking behind her shovel as if she could hide her entire frame behind a beam only three inches wide. “A witch!” she exclaimed, stuttering on the foreign sound of the word.

Watercress was not paying attention. “This, here, and this here,” she muttered, pointing at each seedling until they breached the ground and crawled to a new position. The hair around her face curled with each flick of her finger. “And that one there, and this here.” If she noticed the girl cowering in fear it did not affect her focus. “If you shift this like this,” she scooped canals at an incline between each row, “the water will flow back to the river. Water doesn’t flow uphill, you know.” She looked the girl up and down. “At least, not for you. I’ve done it and it’s a huge pain in the neck, hours of negotiations. Messy stuff. Until it’s not,” she grinned, reminiscing. “That’s the fun part.”

“Are you going to burn down our village?” The girl squeaked from behind her shovel.

”What? Who would do that?”

“Mother says the village to the north was burned down by witches.” She was pleased with herself for knowing so, privy to the knowledge of adults like a grown-up.

“Ah, north of here. They must have disrespected the grounds of the occultists there.”

“Are we disrespecting your grounds here?” She was sharper than she looked, now observing Watercress with curiosity.

“You are a bit, to be honest.” The girl shuddered, her face blanching. Watercress looked at her fully now, laughing. “But I’m not that kind of witch, I promise. Let me help you.”

“Help?”

“We can get these plants sprouting by the time the sun touches those trees.” Watercress gestured at the horizon, already dusting itself lilac as the night prepared to set.

The girl looked at the dirt she had been tending for the last hour, newly rearranged and strange. “Really?”

“Really. All of nature is a big song, you see. Counts. Like music.” Watercress raised her arms, first one, then the other. She rolled her head back on her neck before shaking the last of the river water from her legs. 

“Like music?”

”Yes, like music. Do you dance?”

The girl looked down at her plain cotton skirt, muddied at the ankle. She kicked out a foot half heartedly, her motion restricted by the fabric.

“Well, that won’t do.” Watercress gathered the garment and knotted it at the girl’s hip. “Try again.” This time her leg kicked spectacularly, shooting dirt into the air.

“Yes, you’ve got it! Like me, now.”

Watercress planted one foot at the edge of the farm plot, then kicked her other to pivot and twirl. First one step, then two, three, and four, two and two and three and four, three and two and three and four — she sashayed, jumped, twisted, and split. She splayed her arms, her legs, bent backwards then front whenever she felt the call of the sky or the ground. The little girl followed behind her, giggling as she spun and leaped. They circled the plot, dancing to the sound of the water rushing, old trees sighing, earth churning, Grow! Grow! Grow!

Rain began to fall. Fat, round droplets of rain punctuated each beat of their dance. Neither **WITCH** nor girl stopped their dancing, rather, they sped up, hair and clothes heavying with rain and gasping lungs and joy.

> Rain began to fall. Fat, round droplets of rain punctuated each beat of their dance. Neither **WITCH** nor girl stopped their dancing, rather, they sped up, hair and clothes heavying with rain and gasping lungs and joy.

As they stepped, the seedlings shimmied out of their holes — roots curling and uncurling down, down, down. Green stalks unfolded green leaves, red buds unfolded red fruits, vines jumped upwards, writhing with each step of their enchanted, frantic waltz.

By the time Watercress pulled to a stop, the girl was dizzy with laughter. She struggled to focus as the **WITCH** checked each of the new leaves, whistling with satisfaction.

“Perfectly tamed. They’ll behave from now on.”

The girl gasped in delight and astonishment, poking the nearest plant to feel it spring back, whole and healthy.

“At the end of your harvest, float a basket of the bounty down the river and we’ll call us even,” Watercress mused. The girl nodded vigorously. “Remember, to dance, first you must listen.”

“Listen.”

“That’s right. Close your eyes.” She did.

Nearby, the girl’s mother dozed, snoring and rocking beneath the weight of another child. At her window, a robin called to a nest of hungry, chirping brood. A dog barked, far away, farther than the setting sun could reach. Nearest the farm, the reeds hissed as if sucking air through their teeth. The river gushed a deeper, darker bass — churning, changing. The new plants of the harvest swayed, shiny freshness rubbing together like cricket legs, chiming like bells. Stepping delicately between them, tying the sounds together with pointed toes, Watercress the Dry Spoon parted the music of the evening and dove.



Watercress, the Dry Spoon

BEFORE SHE WALKED AMONG US, THE **WITCH ASTREA** made her home among stars. They say her voice is like starlight and it’s more true than they know — the very core of her is shimmering, cosmic dust. When you speak, she listens with rapt attention, her lashes parted like the moon waxing, her eyes reflecting something golden, something molten, something set ablaze thousands of years ago, thousands of lightyears away. Her fire is too distant to burn, too tender for violence. It is a guiding light. Do not get lost in this. She will laugh to regather your attention. Try to remember what you started to stay.

Back then, many celestial rotations ago, she wasn’t a **WITCH**. Not as we know them. Not yet. She was an attendant to the moon, something of an organizer. Star patterns are not innately formed, you see, they require prodding, charming, often a mixture of flattery and firmness. It’s not easy work, I’ll tell you, as stars are notoriously stubborn. Fiery expansion makes one protective of personal space. It was **ASTREA**’s occupation to coax them into patterns, pin them in shapes and collections those of us below could parse. Looking up to the sky is one of the most ancient kinds of magic. What we see is no accident.

Some constellations are old; older than you or I or this rock we thrust our existence upon. They have taken many forms — animal, hero, lover, god — and with each identity grown stronger, stranger. They have absorbed collective wisdom from those that wander beneath, taken on the power of memory and belief. New constellations, in contrast, are capricious. Young stars want to immolate their beauty, churn the fire of their youth, hum their resplendence across all of time and space. To collect them, to form unions between them, could be the work of only a devoted, powerful creature. It had a cost. With each passing year, **ASTREA**’s spirit lost substance, her feet floated and flipped. She found it harder to stay upright, harder to tether herself in place. When she raised her palms she could, more and more, see through the flesh to the inky blackness of space beyond.

They say it was **TAURUS** himself who first elected **ASTREA** thrust out of the sky. **SHE NEEDS SOLIDITY. GROUNDEDNESS,** he roared. **MUD BETWEEN HER TOES. A FORCE TO HOLD HER TAUT.** **ASTREA** pleaded not to leave. She loved the moon and the stars and the expanse of space. The moon rolled and sloughed a single, chalky tear. She knew to let **ASTREA** stay meant that one day she would flicker out. She had to let her go.

Some say they were there the day the moon pulled **ASTREA** from the tail of a shooting star and sent her hurtling to Earth. She had waves of hair kicked up like sand, jewelry yellow like ears of corn, skin smooth like a river stone, eyes like ochre, like mirrors to distant skies. I didn’t see it myself. I can’t say if it was a graceful fall or a reckless one. What I can say is she wasn’t pleased about it. They say she struck out at a tree in anger, came away with kermes across her fists. They say it took her years of wandering, of staring up at a space she could no longer touch, of lying in the sun to burn away her indignation with the moon.

The people of the wilds were welcoming, but wary. We were private then, more so than now. **ASTREA** received hospitality from disparate settlements, traveled **THE WOODS** and **WASTES** under apologetic evening light. She brought gifts and stories from hut to castle to tree trunk to riverbank, wove a web of attachments and previously untrodden paths. We reminded her of her stars, they say. Stubborn, lively, competitive, bold. Over time, she knitted **WITCHES** together in song and remembrance, **WITCHES** who might otherwise have never crossed. She shared of her times in the skies, the wisdom of her work. Together we cried, we mourned, we learned to make sense of forgiveness in the wake of sorrow.

Seven years after her fall, after seven years of shunning the moon’s gaze at its fullest, she turned to face it for the first time. She joined hands with her friends. She spoke her mind, riled with old indignance at first, then calmness, then tears. She spoke of gratitude. Of being alive. Of gravity’s work to hold her together. She spoke of intention. Of her place here. Of the people she’d met and hoped to meet. She spoke of her sadness, of her longing, of searching the sky for guidance from old **TAURUS**, even after all this time. She spoke until there was nothing left in her to speak.

> She spoke of gratitude. Of being alive. Of gravity’s work to hold her together. She spoke of intention. Of her place here. Of the people she’d met and hoped to meet. She spoke of her sadness, of her longing, of searching the sky for guidance from old TAURUS, even after all this time. She spoke until there was nothing left in her to speak.

The **WITCH** to her right went next.

That night, the **WITCH ASTREA** was the first to guide us in a moon ceremony. She does so even now, if you can intercept her in her winding travels. We give thanks in her wake. We speak what cannot be contained. We let go what cannot be held. We gather what will guide us forward. We feel a kind of longing, a longing that is not fully our own, for the star-riddled sky. We begin again.



Astrea

In the years since the founding of THE CITY OF MIRRORS, WITCHES and humans, true believers and the merely curious alike, have flocked to start new lives within its glassy walls. From its center rises a crystalline spire known as the TOWER – home to the city’s council of ENCHANTRESSES and the nerve center of the region’s political and magical power. 



As with all newborn creatures, the city experienced some growing pains on its way to becoming what it is today. One of the more curious developments arose as a way to temper its residents’ myriad appetites and aspirations. After a few very unseemly, very public spats – involving some ruined reputations, some dredging up of poorly-hidden secrets, and on one notable occasion a particularly WOEFUL enchantress stealing her rival’s face – the council decided that enough was enough and took steps to limit political infighting. All titles and hierarchies were thenceforth abolished within the city center (save for that of WITCH-queen RIJHA, the uncontested founder-ruler of the city.) In their place has risen an unspoken, ever-changing social code of etiquette as ENCHANTRESSES and humans alike jockey for RIJHA’s favor. This oblique sparring of WIT and WILES here in the TOWER is called the GAME. Few are those who can play it well and not be crushed under the weight of their opponents’ ambitions.



Partita (the Golden Goblet beyond the council walls) was one such player of the GAME. It was considered passé to delve too deeply into a WITCH’s history once they had established themselves at court, but whatever former life she'd had, it had given her a particular gift for outmaneuvering her opponents and seeing carefully laid plots to fruition. She also had a peculiar knack for persuading the city’s CATS into parting with their jealously hoarded secrets, coaxing and cajoling with strings of dried fish, lengths of brightly dyed silk floss, a judicious and well-placed scritch. For their part, the CATS’ involvement in the city’s intrigues was mainly because they delighted in chaos and reveled in the unraveling of stratagems, which was almost as satisfying as the unraveling of skeins of thread. If they had other motives for engaging in witchy power struggles, they kept that to themselves. 

> In any case, the GAME was a boon for the trade in secrets, and shortly after the motion to abolish titles and hierarchies was passed by the council, residents observed that many whiskered denizens of the city grew noticeably fatter, rounder, and glossier than before.

One crisp morning, Partita found herself waiting late for her regular informant at an unassuming teahouse squatting at the outskirts of the DEMON MARKET. (What, you didn’t think demons had their secrets too?) When the sun cleared the highest roofs of THE CITY OF MIRRORS and the swirling mists gave way to a languid afternoon, Partita conceded defeat, rising from her seat to ponder her next move. Could her informant have been poached by a rival, staked out new territory, abruptly chosen a new line of work? She frowned as she swept towards the exit, paying her bill with a flick of her finger and startling the hostess with the aggressiveness with which new coins populated her purse. All those were unlikely: both CATS and their nonverbal brethren are creatures of habit, and Partita knew for a fact that she was the only wholesale buyer of premium fatty tuna in the CITY. 



As it turned out (after some digging and calling in of favors), her informant had taken an early retirement after sustaining serious injuries from human villagers superstitious enough to blame their bad luck on a black CAT, but not superstitious enough to refrain from assaulting a being as undeniably magical as said CAT. Partita absorbed this information as she sat across from the injured party, who in between nibbles of fatty tuna belly bitterly bemoaned the threat of the increasing number of human settlements. More and more often, there were instances of these newcomers interacting with the established flora and fauna in objectionable ways, either out of ignorance or hostility borne from ignorance. *Slow-witted and creatures ruled by emotion, they are.* The CAT let out a yowl of disdain. *One wonders how their kind even made it far enough to need as many villages and settlements as they do.*



By this time Partita could already feel her grasp on the GAME fraying. It had only been a few days, but already she had suspicions that she’d made several missteps: was it too early in the year to wear that shade of blue, should she not have used her fan at that particular moment in an earlier conversation, and when was it decided that middle parts were back in vogue?! Less than a week later, her worst fears were confirmed: an invitation to the annual Landsmeet, the airing of grievances of prominent human leaders hosted at the TOWER, did not materialize. Partita stared at her empty letter tray, usually replete with heavy cardstock and gemstone-studded calling cards. If she were to act at all, it would have to be an all-out effort to persuade as many of her peers as she could with WIT and WILES. Grimly, she took stock of her dwindling reserve of secrets and set to work. 



***



If the CITY OF MIRRORS was a living organism, then the days leading up to each Landsmeet were critical stages of metamorphosis in its life cycle. Mirrored halls and back alleyways alike teemed with activity, with fine goods and foodstuffs being imported by the wagonful, foreign dignitaries and their attachés buying out the local inns, and CATS plying their trade from roof rafters, from butchers’ counters, from plush pilfered pillows. Partita watched this all unfold from her tower window. The tower’s lakeside view, normally unobstructed by clouds or tall buildings, was slightly marred by a rash of new construction - another casualty of Partita’s deteriorating political position. Her fingertips ached from the effort of sorting and grinding lizard scales, and her eyes felt as if she’d gotten caught in the WASTES during a duststorm without proper protective gear. When the sun dipped below the distant mountains and human and WITCH alike filed between the TOWER doors, she made final preparations to put her skills to the test.  



But first things first: WITCHES know how to host a good event, and part of that involved establishing a perimeter to keep undesirables at a safe distance. Partita had carefully traded for information on the evening’s security detail, and now she made her way towards one of the TOWER entrances, timing her steps so that she would cross paths with her target. The WITCH strode to meet her, white feather cloak ruffling in the breeze and a barely concealed smirk playing at the edges of her mouth - she’d heard of Partita’s sudden fall from grace. She opened her mouth to speak, but Partita cut her off with barely a glance:



“Beautiful weather we’re having this summer, wouldn’t you agree? Such a shame the Nevarine coast has had their harvest blighted, I do hope for everyone’s sake they’re able to find a way to contain those freak rainstorms…”



The other WITCH recoiled in shock, then suspicion, but made no move to apprehend Partita. Emboldened, she pushed past into the doorway, taking care to control her expression and body language - she’d never had to crash a party before. Once inside, she slowly waded her way to the center of the TOWER floor, where she knew RIJHA would be holding court with all the other invited ENCHANTRESSES to hear petitions and grant boons at their pleasure.



“WITCH-queen,” she called, ignoring the weight of a hundred stares and interrupting a jolly-faced king who had just begun to plead his case. “I, Partita, humbly request your permission to address this gathered group and propose an offer they cannot refuse.”



> The WITCH-queen assented with a slight inclination of her head; she was amused by Partita’s boldness in the face of power, and was as curious to see what she had to say as she relished the prospect of an uninvited WITCH making a public spectacle of herself. “Speak then, Partita.”



“I propose that every human settlement and royal court adopt a CAT, to ease these petitioners’ troubles and smooth out the courses of their lives.”



At this, the king she’d interrupted began to laugh. “A cat? What could such a small creature ever do to help the likes of us?” He turned to the other dignitaries assembled on the floor. “Did you hear that - she means to address state affairs by giving us more mouths to feed! They are wonderful creatures, to be sure, milady, but forgive me if I remain unconvinced.”



In response to the swelling laughter, Partita drew forth a handful of finely milled scales from an inner pouch, inhaled deeply, and exhaled into clenched fingers. Her lips shaped sibilant sinuous syllables as the golden particles shimmered and shifted in the air, coalescing into illusions:



A sweet sung melody accompanied *a sun-drenched vision of a CAT lolling under golden rays, stretching elegant furry limbs atop a haystack as labourers worked to secure the summer’s harvest. Cowed by the prospect of being devoured by such a beast, the mice and vermin steered clear of the gathered grain. The villagers’ spirits are bolstered by the unspoiled fruits of their harvest, and political unrest borne of economic hardship and food insecurity is averted.*



The melody fractured as Partita layered on a counterpoint, then another, then another, and before her audience now lay *a decadently appointed room seen from a shattered bird’s-eye view - pastel colors, plush fabrics, soft murmurs and squeals from far below. It was a royal child’s nursery seen through the eight eyes of a deadly spider. There was a slow descent towards the crib, a sense of impending doom as the infant’s soft pink skin loomed larger and larger - then a curious chittering sound and a toothy maw, then oblivion: a CAT had eaten the offending arachnid.*



Now Partita reprised her earlier melody, but shifted to a minor key and several octaves lower: on cue, her illusion shifted as well to reveal *a grayscale vision of a black-cloaked assassin huddled in the shadows of a great hall. Moonlight glinted off their cruel blades as they poised themselves to strike. As they moved towards their target, a vaguely feline shape wound itself around the intruder’s ankles, tripping them up and alerting palace guards to the intruder; there would be no assassinations today.*



She pitched her voice even lower as she wove the last of her illusions: *a stifling vision of a close, dark room, shutters drawn and hearthfire roaring despite the oppressive summer heat. An old king neared the end of his time on this plane, withered body barely making an indent in the mattress. All around were gray-faced attendants, weary physicians and grieving members of the mans’ family. In the midst of the crackling wood and stifled sobs, there was the constant bass thrum of a CAT’s purr. She had wedged herself between the dying man’s right arm and side, and her gently kneading paws mirrored the motions of the liver-spotted hand that slowly stroked her fur. Thus comforted, he passed peacefully and gently into that good night that awaits all creatures.*



As the last notes of her song faded to silence, Partita glanced around at the faces of the gathered group - some chastened, some damp with tears, others thoughtful, all humbled - and knew that she had convincingly made her case. She had made inroads among her peers as well; it is not often that technically demanding spellwork is combined with such a keen understanding of others’ core fears and motivations.



So it came to pass that CATS, once maligned, were welcomed between the walls of human settlements, large and small. For their part, the CATS were – well, if not demonstrative in their gratitude – they at least came to an understanding with Partita for what she had wrought. They were ever more forthcoming with their secrets with the WITCH. With this newfound network of furry informants, now spread across every human settlement, Partita reaffirmed her position within the TOWER, and cemented her reputation as one of greatest players the GAME has ever known.





On how Partita, the Golden Goblet came to an understanding with THE CITY’s confederation of CATS

A GAME for CATS

Oh, come with me dear Visitor, welcome to the Woods. Please, sit here. Sit, sit. I will help you see, for I am Veronica, SEER. Evoking the light, clearing the pathways, receiving the messages, and foreseeing the future. That is me. 



But first, dear Visitor, I have a story to tell. You would not believe it at first, but I promise, it is quite the tale. I once befriended a HAG that used to be an ENCHANTRESS and later turned HAG. Her name is Crone Borlotti. Her family, a powerful one among the weird wilds. But her story shows, no matter your family's influence, you should always follow your true path. You see, Crone was magical from the start. Although, her magic was not her charm. Oh no, dear Visitor, she was not endearing, she was not seductive, she was not glamorous. She couldn't get attention from a King, even if she pursued.

How so?



Well, my dear Visitor, Crone always smelled of the WOODS, where she spent most of her time. She foraged mushrooms and collected herbs. She would eat and drink the moonlight and would later return home, all painted with mud and leaves. Her older sister, a beautiful ENCHANTRESS, would be so ashamed.

"Crone, for once, please get rid of those muddy dresses. Not a prince will look at you with all that messiness".

"My sister, my love. Who needs the love of a prince when you have moss? I love nature and the WOODS, it feels like my true home".

"Enough with your fantasies! Tonight is the ball. Please dress up nicely. Your future is about to unfold".



Crone dressed in the only untainted dress she had. She exchanged the flowers in her head with a delicate small crown. She looked at her long tresses and combed them as much as she could. The golden long hair didn't need much, it was her most beautiful feature, except for her big green eyes. You could see her soul through her eyes, the GREEN meshed with the WOODS could reveal her true nature, her nature, her soul. 



Oh, dear Visitor, who could have thought that Crone’s love was really in the ball! He was a dark skin prince, visiting from a known territory in the weird wilds. At first, he glanced at her, and then she saw him. His attractiveness was quite evident. His brown eyes and his big lips were inviting. All the women and men at the ball couldn’t help but feel magnetized. They said he was a witch, an ENCHANTER. 



Prince Darius moved his hands and a wind carrying gold speckles started to circle across the room. Everyone gasped at the spectacle and Prince Darius just laughed. His bright smile lit the room, literally, while the gold speckles settled in the walls. Crone was charmed, but not enough. “So he knows magic, but what does he use it for? Could he summon the dead or bring the winter with his touch? Could he heal a wounded animal?” she wondered. 



Prince Darius approached Crone and she took a step back, seizing him from head to toe. He smiled again and she was sold. He asked for her name and she couldn’t pronounce it, it wasn’t until her sister interrupted that she let out a sound. But it was too late, Prince Darius looked the other way and followed the sister to a corner where they stayed. They talked and laughed together and Crone could see, the chemistry sparked the room, literally, for the speckles started to burst. Crone left the ballroom and nobody noticed she left.



In her room, she contemplated. Although she thought of the prospect of love as exciting, she wasn’t sure it was for her. “I can be charmed by a Prince, but would that be enough?” she asked. She caught her reflection in the mirror and looked at her dress. The splendor and gilded details felt foreign. She felt the dress didn’t belong to her. But the worst was not the dress. It was her golden head. Her beauty had never served her. She had yet to display power. Even her sister was able to enchant the ENCHANTER. But what had she enchanted? Nothing. Crone took a pair of scissors and started cutting and then, not convinced of her very short hair, she decided to shave it all. 



Oh, dear Visitor, this is the best part, this is where Crone decides to carve a different path. A path I feel privileged to share with her. You see, she decided that night that she would leave. Leave the palace, leave her life and be free. And that’s when she found ME. 



As the night had fallen, Crone headed to the woods on foot. The walk seemed longer this time, but she was prepared, no more dresses; she had put on a black robe. Her new baldness had her head exposed to the cold. She picked up a few flowers and made a flowery hat to put on. No more long nights listening to her family’s antics about riches and fools. Crone knew she would return, but not stay. Her time in the palace had expired. She finally felt it was time to do her own thing. 



The WOODs were filled with its familiar rhythm. The sounds of the evening critters, the smell of the leaves and the fruits, the softness of the earth. Crone took everything in, touching the trees as she passed them by. Collecting anything that would attract her mind and her senses. Suddenly she saw across her path the light of the fire and the smell of wood burning. She ran quickly and decided to look closely behind a tree. It was a neat fireplace in front of a dark-skinned, red-headed woman sitting in contemplation. Crone observed she had a third eye in her forehead and remarkable beauty. Besides her, a majestic mare lay on the ground. The mare was huffing and Crone could recognize it was in pain. 



Oh my dear, come near me. I can SEE you, you see. No need to hide, for I, am able to see, even with my faintest eye. 



Crone approached quietly and I stood up to meet her. I am Veronica, SEER. This is my mare, Enrica. 



Crone asked me what was wrong with Enrica and I described my concern about my mare. You see, she had eaten something or caught a bug or something, I don’t know. But she was very distressed, you See. As soon as I finished Crone approached Enrica and started caressing her. She said she could help me, but it would require a specific herb. Crone left and returned in the afternoon with a strange plant. She crushed the leaves and gave them to Enrica. I can assure you, that the mare was up and running in a minute. I marveled at the miracle and ask her to join me. We would travel together, I would be the SEER and she would be the Healer, the HAG, the Healer HAG. 



And she accepted, dear Visitor. Come and meet my companion. 





The story of a Hag born Enchantress and turned Hag

The path of Crone

MASHU was a connoisseur of whispers. It was a vocation passed down between generations of OCCULTISTS. She and her sisters would spend their days foraging for them deep in the WOODS. Pluck them from deep nests of thistles, turn over rocks to find them amongst the wriggling worms. Once discovered, they would coax them into vials, stopping the cork before they escaped into the wider world and no longer bore the rarity of secrecy. Became less valuable for trading. But some whispers were too good to trade. Made more enjoyable by the chaos unleashed - they were OCCULTISTS after all. Take for instance the hushed confessions of a founder who had bilked billions from his users. That could have fetched an emerald or more at the DEMON MARKET but instead MASHU let it drift between her fingers so that it found its way inscribed in text in the inbox of a journalist. A smile crossed her face as she recollected the furious aftermath.

This however, is the story of a whisper traded. A negotiation with a DEMON who should have known better than to haggle with an OCCULTIST.

MASHU set out on her monthly visit to the markets, vials clanging against one another at her breast bone. It was a half day’s journey through the WOODS. The moss beneath her feet soon gave way to a more trafficked dirt path, the silence of the trees to the cacophony of shouted bids and offers that characterized the great bazaar of the DEMON MARKET.

Vibrant tents of vermillion silks sheltered rows and rows of rough hewn tables. At these tables were stationed demons with all manner of gems and beasts, potions and weapons. The HAGS brought their roots and herbs, while MAGES prowled the aisles for books, beakers and cauldrons. ENCHANTRESSES sought jeweled hair pins and dazzling mirrors. NECROMANCERS stocked up on embalming oils and threads.

MASHU glanced down at her vials as she made her way through the tents. This month’s bounty should be enough for another strand of beads. But as she looked up her eyes greedily caught the glint of a dagger, tucked behind a cage full of canaries. Her goal changed. That dagger must be hers.

She sidled up to the table, elbowing aside a HAG enquiring about the birds, and beat her fist three times against the table to get the attention of the DEMON to whom the table belonged.

“Coming, coming, Ms….?” he croaked questioningly.

“As if I’d be dimwitted enough to tell you,” Mashu spat. “I can see from your size that some of my sisters may have made that mistake, but you may address me as OCCULTIST.”

“Worth a shot” he offered. “So, OCCULTIST, what can I do you for?”

MASHU pulled the leather from around her neck, and placed the vials of memories that hung from it on the table. “How much”?

“That depends, how rare are they?”

“You know as well as I that it is you who decide what’s rare” remarked MASHU, rolling her eyes.

“Very well”. The DEMON dragged a heavy scale across the table. After holding up each vial to his single eye, he weighed it on the scale. Prayers from the nunnery barely depressed the plates. The faint “I love you” breathed to the back of a departing ex left an audible thud. The DEMON placed another handful of classroom insults muttered by frustrated children to the stack, as he carefully calibrated the balance.

After five minutes, he scribbled a figure on a scrap of paper, passing it to MASHU’s expectant hand. She crumpled it in her fist and let it fall to the ground with a simple “No”.

Smoke started wafting from the DEMON’s ears, betraying his displeasure.

“No,” MASHU repeated. “Tell you what, I’ll take that dagger for the lot.”

The demon’s spindly fingers grasped the handle of the blade, while shaking his head. “This dagger was hard won, and I’ll need far more than this mere collection of whispers to part with it.”

MASHU thought for a moment. She then shoved her hands into the pockets of her skirts and pulled out two more vials. “These two are seed phrases” she noted as she pushed them across the table. She chuckled to herself as she thought of those witless enough to think they’d be secure as whispers.

The DEMON repeated his earlier movements, holding them up to his eye, adding them to his scale. He then placed the blade on the other side of the scale. The dagger still weighed more heavily. His eye brow rose expectantly as he turned his eye back to MASHU.

With a shriek of frustration, she fished in her other pocket to pull out a final vial. This one held the secrets of a Prince that he’d so far managed to keep at bay from the tabloids and Tik Tok reels. She had been holding this one for months, debating whether to trade it or let it loose into the world.

The DEMON added this to his pile and the scale sank with a satisfied squeak, now below the level  of the dagger. He gave a satisfied smirk and pushed the dagger across the table to MASHU, pulling the vials to his pouch.

MASHU took the hilt of the blade firmly in hand and tucked it into her waist band - but only after passing it across the neck of the DEMON who had dared to haggle with her. His body fell to the ground before disintegrating into a neat pile of dust. She gathered up her vials - she could get those beads at another table after all - and knocked open the door to the canary cage for good measure. Watching the birds set off for the skies, she knew what to do with that final vial she had been saving for months. She pulled out the cork with her newly acquired dagger and set the whispered secret free, relishing the chaos she knew would be unleashed. 





In which a DEMON learns never to haggle with an OCCULTIST

The whisper trade

Radicchio wasn't particularly remarkable. She was, after all, named after a leaf vegetable.

But then again, her whole village was pretty unremarkable, having nestled into an archipelago dense with mangroves too calm and predictable for SEERs and too barren of soil for HAGs.

The village chose this corner of the wilds precisely because it was forgotten by WITCHES. It was a peaceful place for the unattuned to live a salt-crusted life, wading through the tangles of roots to hunt fish, birds, and small deer, collecting crabs and kelp from tidepools and roots and leaves from the mangroves that made up the ten thousand island archipelago.

Radicchio spent her days in the tides. The mangroves flooded twice per day in a mirrored dance with the moon, and Radicchio watched with fascination as life carefully chose its place among the roots where it would neither suffocate nor drown.

Radicchio spent her nights with her grandmother. Her grandmother, a slight woman with white hair and golden brown skin leathered by a lifetime on the water, was old enough to remember the village before its move to the brackish water. They used to be, she would tell Radicchio, mountain people. And she, as a very young girl, would escape her mother's watchful eye to go learn the ways of the mountain's magic from a kind WITCH. Alas, the grandmother mused, the village didn't take kindly to the magically attuned, and chose to abandon the mountain and search for a quieter corner of the wilds.

Radicchio got her rebellious streak - and her golden brown complexion - from her grandmother. As a child, she was fascinated by the stories of mountain HAG magic her grandmother shared, and became intent on learning despite the fact that her grandmother assured her that the mountain magic wouldn't apply in the mangroves.

But Radicchio watched the tides, learned their ways, and coming to her grandmother with fists full of seaweed and mollusks, assured her grandmother that she would figure it out.

She started small, making tea from the mangroves’ roots and leaves, and gradually Radicchio learned to understand the equilibrium of the salt, sun, and breeze. Gradually she learned the language of the sea and became attuned to the tempo that the moon and tide danced to.

One day, about one moon before the summer solstice, Radicchio woke up and, stepping outside, sensed something was amiss. There a vacuous wind, a storm brewing offshore. The storm was a BEAST, and it had sucked up her mangroves' water leaving the tide weak. The storm chose this location to steal water because the village, entirely unattuned, had no protection and were no threat.

But Radicchio could feel the shift. The water that was gone had her doubled over in pain, feeling suffocation in her chest as though she could sense the strife of the mangrove creatures who were desiccating on the now bone-dry roots.

She knew she couldn't bargain with the storm, but she could, perhaps, call upon the moon.

The sun set on that dry day revealing a waning crescent moon, a tiny scratch against an ink black sky. Radicchio walked out towards the water, her back fully to her mangrove islands by the time she reached ankle deep water. She sat.

Radicchio closed her eyes. She felt the push and pull of the water lapping around her legs, from her toes to her seat, barely perceptible. She focused.

She focused on the movement of the water, moving back and forth and back again. She remained thus singularly focused for hours, as the night dripped on, her skin pruning from so much time submerged, focusing only on the push, pull of the moon and the water.

Gradually she felt the water gain strength, more push and more pull, in longer sweeps across her body. She sat, eyes closed, focused only on the water as it danced over her, now fully attuned to her breath, and getting stronger.

By the time Radicchio felt the first slice of warmth from the rising sun on her eyelids, the water had reached her chest. Exhausted, as the sun rose she felt the waves urge her to rise too, strength and gratitude washing across her. She opened her eyes to a clear horizon of wavy chop and calm clouds. She turned and saw her mangroves once again submerged to their roots, happily soaking up the salty water.

Proud, Radicchio walked back to her village to start her day of watching the tides and harvesting the pools.

She entered her grandmother's home as her grandmother was scraping meat out of a coconut to reduce into oil for frying fish. She looked up and gasped, coconut falling to the ground with a thud.

At that moment Radicchio saw herself in the mirror. Her hair had turned white, and a crescent moon, like a pearlescent scratch against her tanned skin, had appeared on her forehead.

The grandmother embraced her newly attuned granddaughter with tears in her eyes.

"They'll exile you from the village for this," she whispered.

"But I saved the mangroves," Radicchio replied. "I can't leave them unprotected again."

Her grandmother pulled away, observing this white-haired WITCH at arms length, a younger visage of herself.

"I know."

And so this small village of unattuned gained a new guardian, a TIDE HAG who stays hidden when the sun sparkles on the sea.

But every night Radicchio goes out to greet her mangroves and dance a pulsing tango with the moon as all ten thousand islands keep time. 



The story of how an unattuned corner of the wilds gained their guardian, a TIDE HAG who dances with the moon.

The Mangroves and the Moon

## She’d been here long enough to call many crooked crevasses of the earth home, seen light of dawn spilling over and under and around jagged edges and spiny leaves, cupped in the gentle, sweeping hand of brisk air once unfilled by the industrial grime and aftershocks of city-making and empire-building. At twilight, the soft splatter of dipped ink inches its way into the deep until it fills THE WOODS with more shadows than sun. And in all the spaces in between, dawns and twilights as fleeting as quick strums in the tune of time, she was there—seen and unseen. 

In this time, just a flash, she had tended to mint gardens to soothe the stomachs of witch and folk alike after the last great BEAST ravaged the ancient wilds. She had discovered her affinity for all the ways one could see, feel, and taste water—collecting and bottling every kind she could from every corner of the world. She had traveled far and often, through the unknown and back to the familiar. She rose many times to meet whatever calling pulled her in whichever direction it was calling her from, sidestepping thorns to make her way and her magic. 

But now she hides in pockets away from sight. Foraging had become yet again a solace, not a mission, a quiet place full of wonder she could see and smell and hear. These pockets were her favorites, for she could bear clear witness, knowing a speck of glitter was a sign not that a galaxy was near but that they were right inside it suckling from the spilled though never spoiled milk of at-once waking and dying stars. 

Though she strays into the quiet, adventure is never far; the strums of time make sure of it. There is a rhythm, as undetectable as it may be, strings pulled by none other than those like herself.

On one of these many days, something brewed in the distance. It came as a tickle, just a hunch. And in her quest to find a material as wondrous as the unmoving splatter of the Milky Way in exactly the way she had once witnessed when the strums were just starting their tune, she followed, wandering resolutely toward the glittering speck on a spiraling road into the distant city that seemed to have risen overnight. 

Speck turned into prisms before her eyes. Behold, a city with many eyes where tiaras encrusted with rubies laid rest next to mirrors held by those who did not forage and craft but who cast and charmed and made mirages before they’d make material from which to weave dreams from. *Enchantresses.*

Curious, she wandered deeper in, and as she did, a hush of voices surrounded her periphery. As she continued on, taking every new sight and sound in, the muffled voices seemed less like accident and more like punctuation between strides and winding roads, until they became the only thing she could hear, a cloud of chatter she was now in the midst of.

She listened closer.

They were in awe, but of what? 

*…but how…?*

*What’s that…made of…? *

*Never seen…color…*

She traced their eyes back to her and looked down at her suit, and looked back again at all those who had by now stopped to gather and clamour around her. They wore glamorous and beautiful gowns and robes but which, in the midst of the glittering city, had started to blend in with all the other glamorous and beautiful gowns like a scattering clan of bejeweled beetles. And they, hard to enchant for they were the enchantresses, were enamoured with her suit crafted from the wondrous materials of her wanders. 

Of course they admired. She had been away so long she had forgotten how much time she spent, for that was all she truly kept after everything else fell to dust eventually. She passed her time crafting the kind of wonder she could envelope herself in wherever she wandered, ventured so far into the unknown and collected materials that most have never heard of, harvesting and spinning and cutting and draping like the mad woman she aspired to be. 

In THE WOODS, her suit was to her just a clean-cut, dark and sweeping one piece with long sleeves and a high neck, but cast under the light of the prism city it was instead a colour that can’t be explained because it hasn’t been named and barely seen still to this day. In the city’s silken air, the fabric around her came alive, billowing as if it had a mind of its own, close to her yet not quite sitting still, like the skin of the night air meeting her in an electric dance. And as it did, its soft crooks glittered, reflecting the scene of her twinkling adventure in the city.

Some came to ask how she had made what she had made, where she had gone. They invited her into their homes, and she stayed a while, like she always did, trading stories of her travels for rumors of new places to haunt.

She told them how her suit came to be, all the secrets that cannot be divulged so carelessly in tale, and in return, they shared stories of a DEMON MARKET just beyond the city walls, a place where she could pick up birch and bone and perhaps other bobs. Her mind sparkled with possibility just as their eyes did. In turn, she left them directions to where she had found the silkworms, in an abandoned hut on the very edge of THE WASTES, not tended to in centuries, the air there so pure and still on a very particular axis that only starlight far enough can shine into, filled with the very particular condensation of a pool built by alchemists down the hill now almost impossible to see unless you were looking very hard for it. 

She had always been a passerby and usually didn’t overstay her enthusiasms before yearnings for the comfort of a pinecone bed took over—not just the mirage of them but the entire world that held their roots. But this city pulled her in for longer. She had enchanted the enchantresses, and anyone who has had the pleasure of meeting one knows that’s not an easy feat—though so charming they are that you’d think otherwise. The truth is in the morphing shape of their eyes, she discovered.

As spoke and listened in equal measure, she noticed that here, too, under the prismatic light their clothes were glimpses of the world outside the city, reminding her of all the homes she had made. Because of this, a few years passed quite easily, and by this time, she had visited the stalls and alleys of the DEMON MARKET many times over, her pockets now full of curios, her mind satiated with friendship and rumours and beauty. The enchantresses, of course, had gotten much more than they bargained for when they first set their eyes on the mysterious stranger.

But now strums paced at shorter intervals, and it was time to go home. 

She left in the echoes of the night just as twilight had spilled into day, carrying with her the memories of the glittering ruby-speckled city as she disappeared from view, her suit no longer a separate entity from night.

Today, if you walk through the colourful bazaars and pristine gardens of the city known as THE CITY OF MIRRORS, you will see how she’s made her mark on the witches here, gowns made from fabrics that look just like water and wind and stars and shadows, attuned now to flowers and gems and wings from the wilds. 

Or perhaps, more likely, you will not. The wilds is a strange place, where ignorance renders even the most wondrous of materials invisible. You, unless you find your way to the city, will never see nor hear of this ever again, but the story must be told for its strums fall more faintly each day.

SPEARMINT—that was her name—never did go back. She found herself flung further and further into new unknowns, though every once in a strawberry moon, she gazes into the mirror she was given, the only artifact she still holds from this tale, hoping for something but seeing nothing but herself. On these shadowed nights, dreams of the wilds she knows feel somehow different, as if there is a prism turning beauty into kaleidoscope. But even these dreams fade quietly into the night’s edges over time, just as she did and still does. 

That is, until once upon a new evening, she tucks herself back into a pinecone for a long hibernation, conjuring new dreams of armour made of pearl shells and delicacies made of salt-brine oysters, somewhere light years away from here. 

But that's a tale best told over a cup of dew and waterfalls for another time. 



A Tale of The Twinkling Tailor and Her Star Speckled Suit

The Enchantresses' New Clothes

Her earliest days at THE ASYLUM frightened Fuji in a way she’d never been before, which was not saying much because she remembered virtually nothing of her life before her time among the snow monkeys, the hot springs, and similarly lost WITCHES.

She remembered when she’d first come to consciousness, as new to the world as a newborn babe. Everything was so unfamiliar and nothing made sense; she’d stared blankly when the monkeys had offered her roughspun robes to ward off the winter chill, hot tea in earthenware cups, and yuzu to sate her hunger after the exertion of the ritual. She’d barely understood what those hard things in her mouth were for, until she’d seen one monkey bare his own teeth to separate the plump fruit from its rind, juice dribbling down his chin.

Even her own face was foreign to her; the first time she’d seen her own reflection in the spring waters, she’d panicked at the sight of inky black streaks and jagged markings where she’d expected smooth, uniform skin. Her screams had sent the nearby snow monkeys scattering for cover. Afterwards, another of her lost sisters had had to explain to her what those mysterious patterns meant, which was difficult since she herself knew little of OCCULTISTS and even less of their customs.

*So, I’m an occultist*, Fuji told herself. *Or was.*

Not that the word meant much to her at the time. Among the fruit-laden yuzu trees and pleasingly babbling creeks, it was easy to forget that beyond these mountains, there was a vast wilds filled with creatures and environs that seemed as fantastical as they were distant.

Fuji spent her days learning again how to fend for herself, and at night she slept on a slab of rock by the steaming waters. As she slept she dreamed, and saw fresh horrors — the rock faces of the hot springs misshapen by half-cooled magma, all the surrounding greenery blasted and charred, ash falling from the sky instead of snow. When she lifted her eyes to the heavens, she saw cratered stone gaping back at her instead of snow-capped peaks, glowing lava still flowing like ichor.

> Fuji spent her days learning again how to fend for herself, and at night she slept on a slab of rock by the steaming waters. As she slept she dreamed, and saw fresh horrors — the rock faces of the hot springs misshapen by half-cooled magma, all the surrounding greenery blasted and charred, ash falling from the sky instead of snow. When she lifted her eyes to the heavens, she saw cratered stone gaping back at her instead of snow-capped peaks, glowing lava still flowing like ichor.

In these nocturnal visions, the monkey guardians of the ASYLUM were nowhere to be found. Instead her only company were the mostly female faces in the ruined pools of water, some jeering, some beckoning, some marked with colored scripts or framed by curving horns, some not human at all. All unfamiliar and terrifying.

The first time she’d discovered a face in a dream-pool, she’d scrambled backwards and in her panic, lost her balance and slipped backwards on the water-slick rock. Fuji’s head hit the floor with a sickening crack, so that the pounding, pounding, pounding in her temple now pounded in time with her heart in her chest. *What fresh hell is this?*

Eventually, she worked up enough courage to investigate further. On her hands and knees, she ventured gingerly towards the water’s edge.

The face locked eyes with Fuji as she approached. *Come back, sssSister-ter come back to us.* Although the woman in the pool seemed to hold Fuji’s gaze, her stare was unfocused and her words repetitive, senseless. *Come back.*

*Who are you? Who am I? What am I to you?*

To that Fuji had gotten no reply, just a repeated refrain.

What she saw in that nocturnal vision left her drenched with sweat and blearily restless at dawn. For a time she drove sleep away by endlessly wandering THE ASYLUM’s paths barefoot, purposely taking the routes with the roughest gravel and clenching her fists so hard her nails left red crescent-shaped welts in her palms. The skin on her heels cracked and grew bloody. Fuji herself grew thinner and grayer.

On the sixth sleepless day, too drained to resist further, she let a concerned monkey lead her to a mat to be lulled to sleep near the trickle of a waterfall. *How can you ask me to sleep when you know what frights await me when I do?* she’d demanded of those who brought healing salves for her feet and tipped cups of honeyed tea to her parched lips. Her voice cracked with frustration and anguish.

*Those who are LOST shelter here to calm their fractured minds*, answered the same kindly WITCH from before. *But we are the confluence of our minds, bodies, and spirits. You will not find peace by refusing rest.* She passed a cool hand over Fuji’s eyes, and when the darkness lifted the dreamer found herself again in that familiar blighted landscape.

This time she didn’t linger at the first dream-pool. She walked with unsteady but unblemished feet towards another, this one fed by rivulets of water tinged orange by the surrounding glow of embers and molten stone.

***

In this way Fuji explored a dreamscape that soon became as familiar to her as the ASYLUM was during her waking moments. She learned which dream-pools held which faces, and which faces seemed more kindly than most, and which ones would strike fear into her heart with unnatural features that melded ceaselessly into one another — demons, she thought. Some of these faces spoke, entreated, beckoned. Others were silent, as if deep in thought or meditation. One — belonging to a massively bulbous form that lay coiled deep underwater, like ribbons of ink made semisolid — mocked her in a voice like grinding stone:

*Not regretting your decision, are you? You know where to find me if you have second thoughts.* A bubble rose and popped lazily on the water’s surface as a trio of murky slits morphed into a single guileless cerulean-blue eye.  *A mind is a precious thing, as I’m sure you’ve come to realize.* *Surely the loss of your own would outweigh that of many others?*

Fuji didn’t bother to correct its assumption that taking her mind had left her memories intact. *Begone from here. You have no power in this place*, she spat, hoping that the monkeys’ confidence in the ASYLUM’s protective wards were warranted.

Dark coils shifted in the pool’s depths as the demon tittered. *Of ****course**** not, dearie.* Its plump crimson lips split in a mirthless grin to reveal a bloodred gullet and concentric rows of needlelike teeth like a lamprey’s. *As if I’d want sloppy seconds from a WITCH who’s already given up one of her most valuable assets. I’d much rather discuss any deals in the waking world, anyways. Not in this… whatever you’ve created here.* It sniffed, although it only had twin gashes for what Fuji supposed was a nose. *Just reminding you you have options, that’s all.*

After that, she avoided the deeper pools with their ever-shifting faces. Instead she committed to memory the locations of pools with faces that beseeched and called, and those with faces holding austere expressions, as if deep in prayer. She learned which pools contained faces that chanted in syllables too erratic or tones too profound to comprehend. Each night, she inspected a new area of the shelves of rock arrayed along the mountainside and peered into its waters. Each night, she examined cheekbone and chin, temple and tear duct, noting that she sensed a strange kinship with some, although she couldn’t say she’d ever seen any of those faces before.

Fuji continued her exploration during her waking hours. She clambered over stone and waded through basins hazy with vapor — from steam or sulfuric gasses, she could not say. She swam through waters hotter than anything she’d ever known, and shivered as she lifted herself out of the scalding liquid to traverse ledges, tree branches, a cluster of chittering monkeys. Her limbs swelled with muscle and the soles of her feet grew leathery and supple. Although the demon’s words weighed heavy on her mind and her body ached with exertion, each time she submerged herself in the hot springs she could feel the tension and fear she’d carried deep within herself since that first day lessen and slip away, at least a little. At the end of each day, she welcomed sleep with a single-minded resolve.

Some nights later, Fuji found herself in a pool at the charred base of a yuzu tree on a ledge about halfway up the rock face — one of the few in this dreamscape that was not already occupied. The changed contours of this world no longer terrified her as much as they had in the beginning: she had found that the hot springs here, formed as they were by volcanic activity, were as relaxing and restoring as the ones she frequented during the day. She sighed deeply as the steaming waters sent tendrils of warmth deep within her core, her forehead dampening with a sudden flush of sweat. Then, holding before her mind’s eye the faces she’d come to know so well, she leaned back to douse herself up to the neck in heat and stilled her thoughts to listen.

Arranged in a circle around her, in pools up and down along the mountain peak, were her sisters, she was sure. All these nights, she had heard them calling to her, although she hadn’t always known it was her they were summoning. Now she placed herself in the middle of that intentionally created space, her hands turned up to the sky, face and chest open to the mountain air. She might have sacrificed her mind and sealed away her power, but Fuji’s pack wouldn’t give up on her so easily, and their calls had reached her in the one place she could wholly call her own. As she breathed in the scent of wet rock and sulfur, she thought she could hear that now-familiar refrain in the space between her heartbeats: *come back, come back*.

> She might have sacrificed her mind and sealed away her power, but Fuji’s pack wouldn’t give up on her so easily, and their calls had reached her in the one place she could wholly call her own. As she breathed in the scent of wet rock and sulfur, she thought she could hear that now-familiar refrain in the space between her heartbeats: *come back, come back*.

For a moment, she thought she could feel a trickle of her sisters’ power flow through her, as a current flows through a wire.

Several days later, the kindly WITCH found Fuji as she sipped a cup of tea by the water’s edge. She watched as Fuji drained it to the dregs, and delicately cleared her throat before speaking. Her tone was consoling but firm. *You know what it means to have gained entry to the ASYLUM, and what it means to stay. This cannot last.*

*My mind is stolen, and my power is sealed. Anything that was done, was done by others of their own accord.*

She gave Fuji a wry smile. *You know as well as I that you’re speaking in technicalities.*

Fuji accepted her judgment with a silent nod. She’d known this was a possibility, and she didn’t begrudge the other LOST witches and monkey guardians their peace. *I understand. I’ll prepare for the descent tomorrow at sunrise.*

That night, she dreamt again of THE ASYLUM, though not for the last time. In the nights since she first laid eyes on its newly formed rock faces and reflecting waters, the magma had cooled and started to break down into a sandy volcanic loam. On the charred stumps of the fruit trees surrounding the hot springs was a slight green dusting — moss and new growth, emerging from among the ruins of older vegetation. The landscape of her dream-ASYLUM might be irrevocably altered, but hot water still sprang from the cratered mountain peaks, and their cleansing heat was unchanged. All around, she could hear the faint susurrus of her sisters’ voices.

Fuji smiled to herself in her sleep.

On fractured minds, waking dreams, and cleansing waters within the ASYLUM

The Tree of Echoes