Würsburg, Germany: Christmas Day 1631
Rro sat down slowly, "I'm so sorry...." The seasons first snow began to fall. Thirteen people murdered by their own town folk, good people killed off. Either burned or hung by the neck, this had gotten completely out of hand. Rogers looked up from the steps of the cathedral at the snow, "this was all my fault.... and only i can set it right."
Würsburg, Germany: End of Summer 1631
As summers last wind swept across south Germany, so too did Rogers. He was a cocky man in his late forties, but his hair retained it's rich black waves. A large wood crossbow hung on his back with steel accents lining the weapon, his hood hung low over his face as he stepped out of the northern woods. "Quaint," the man moaned. He had been tracking a woman across north Europe for the last four months or so, but all clues, tips, and rumors had lead him here. A small baby of a city full with tattered homes and rusted shops with a single large cathedral hanging over the town like the watchful oaf that it was representing a god that wouldn't protect them from the storm that was about to roll in. A large stone bridge crossed the river that cut through the town, the brick path that started at the bridge lead straight to the cathedral's front door. "So this is where your sisters call home..."
The woman he had been tracking wasn't of this world, she was something else. She was from a wilder world then ours, one with fire, mind control, and dark arts. A world of Witchcraft that sat beyond the threshold of this world, the man was attracting the eyes of at least half the town. He eyed the black smith with hands of metal and nodded, a hunter was trying to peddle the furs he had skinned, and a doctor was out gathering herbs for her medicine. Anyone of these people could be hiding the witch, anyone could know the two sisters of sin and black arts. The man tossed a silver coin to a homeless beggar, and continued forward to the front doors of the large cathedral. Rro kicked the door, swinging it open and barging into find the Man of the Church speaking with a woman of the farm.
"Sorry to interrupt your blessing father..." Rro had been a trader on the sea for most his life, but when a witch killed his love he dedicated his life to their extinction. If any witch was about in this town, or by his sources THREE, he would find them and kill them. All of them... "Names rogers, I'm from the Northern Isles," the man removed his hood and stood before the father of the church. "I've tracked a red witch here to this town, a fire finger." The man looked down at the farm woman on her knees praying, the sight made him sick. A quick glance around showed that a butcher was in on of the more forward rows praying as well. "What a waste," Rogers mumbled.
Reestablishing his focus with the good father of Würsburg Rro continued, "It is imperative that we root out this threat before your town ends up in ashes and your bones end up in the gear grinders of hell..." A bit of an exaggeration perhaps but the threat was real. There were four kinds of witches, White, Red, Dark and Pale, each had a different ability based on the nature of their training and origin. Healing, pyro kinesis, voodoo, or mind control possession. While a fire witch was bad, it could be worse depending on what the two sisters were that she had been rumored to be searching for here. "I believe that if my sources are correct there are three witches in your town, and with my help they will burn by weeks end..."
Rro sat down slowly, "I'm so sorry...." The seasons first snow began to fall. Thirteen people murdered by their own town folk, good people killed off. Either burned or hung by the neck, this had gotten completely out of hand. Rogers looked up from the steps of the cathedral at the snow, "this was all my fault.... and only i can set it right."
Würsburg, Germany: End of Summer 1631
As summers last wind swept across south Germany, so too did Rogers. He was a cocky man in his late forties, but his hair retained it's rich black waves. A large wood crossbow hung on his back with steel accents lining the weapon, his hood hung low over his face as he stepped out of the northern woods. "Quaint," the man moaned. He had been tracking a woman across north Europe for the last four months or so, but all clues, tips, and rumors had lead him here. A small baby of a city full with tattered homes and rusted shops with a single large cathedral hanging over the town like the watchful oaf that it was representing a god that wouldn't protect them from the storm that was about to roll in. A large stone bridge crossed the river that cut through the town, the brick path that started at the bridge lead straight to the cathedral's front door. "So this is where your sisters call home..."
The woman he had been tracking wasn't of this world, she was something else. She was from a wilder world then ours, one with fire, mind control, and dark arts. A world of Witchcraft that sat beyond the threshold of this world, the man was attracting the eyes of at least half the town. He eyed the black smith with hands of metal and nodded, a hunter was trying to peddle the furs he had skinned, and a doctor was out gathering herbs for her medicine. Anyone of these people could be hiding the witch, anyone could know the two sisters of sin and black arts. The man tossed a silver coin to a homeless beggar, and continued forward to the front doors of the large cathedral. Rro kicked the door, swinging it open and barging into find the Man of the Church speaking with a woman of the farm.
"Sorry to interrupt your blessing father..." Rro had been a trader on the sea for most his life, but when a witch killed his love he dedicated his life to their extinction. If any witch was about in this town, or by his sources THREE, he would find them and kill them. All of them... "Names rogers, I'm from the Northern Isles," the man removed his hood and stood before the father of the church. "I've tracked a red witch here to this town, a fire finger." The man looked down at the farm woman on her knees praying, the sight made him sick. A quick glance around showed that a butcher was in on of the more forward rows praying as well. "What a waste," Rogers mumbled.
Reestablishing his focus with the good father of Würsburg Rro continued, "It is imperative that we root out this threat before your town ends up in ashes and your bones end up in the gear grinders of hell..." A bit of an exaggeration perhaps but the threat was real. There were four kinds of witches, White, Red, Dark and Pale, each had a different ability based on the nature of their training and origin. Healing, pyro kinesis, voodoo, or mind control possession. While a fire witch was bad, it could be worse depending on what the two sisters were that she had been rumored to be searching for here. "I believe that if my sources are correct there are three witches in your town, and with my help they will burn by weeks end..."
From a villager's view the small town was pure and God rained down his blessings on the obedient. Everyone acted to be a good saint in which Nelís knew that not all of them were, but it was easy to pretend that everything was fine. Of course, throughout every village, there was rivalry between neighbours, all of it masked under religion. Nonetheless they manage to put that aside at a Sunday Morning sessions and all the other sessions in between. This small village endured no real troubles and Nelís intended to keep it this way. Such a small community could be easily stirred therefore he was wary about those who pass by on their travels. He didn't want anyone telling fables to sway the hearts and minds of the villagers aside from Enyeto. The hunter was no church goer, but he provided the skins and meats; no one could argue against him. All in all, Würsburg was fine as is.
The once placidly of the church was disrupted when a man barged into the door, startling most who were deeply indulged in prayer including Nelís. His hand comfortingly patted the woman's shoulder, soon abandoning her so he could inquiry what all this calamity was about. The name sounded odd, peculiar, but it was faintly familiar. Rogers... As the foreigner proceeded to speak it suddenly clicked in the Nelís's mind that it was this man who he's heard of. The one who hunted witches. The same one who executed innocents only to find one. Nelís could not have that here. With Rogers present it put the entire village at risk of absolute tyranny of the majority.
Immediately his hand rose as to silence the foreigner before he could brew up any talk about witchcraft, however Nelís feared that those within the cathedral already formulated their opinions on the matter. "Please leave, I assure you there are no witches here," he stated firmly though he wasn't sure of the fact. He couldn't allow the people in the vicinity to leave believing that there were witches around. His concerns were far from his reputation and lied on the well-being of those in the village. Does Rogers know what fear and panic he would cause claiming such things in public?
The priest strode up to the foreigner, his voice low and adamant yet it managed to be soft, hardly echoing in the now silent sanctuary, "This town has sat undisturbed for a long while now. If you wish to discuss witchcraft I highly recommend that it stays behind closed doors, but if there are witches they haven't been a bother... I, with all due respect, ask that you leave."
The once placidly of the church was disrupted when a man barged into the door, startling most who were deeply indulged in prayer including Nelís. His hand comfortingly patted the woman's shoulder, soon abandoning her so he could inquiry what all this calamity was about. The name sounded odd, peculiar, but it was faintly familiar. Rogers... As the foreigner proceeded to speak it suddenly clicked in the Nelís's mind that it was this man who he's heard of. The one who hunted witches. The same one who executed innocents only to find one. Nelís could not have that here. With Rogers present it put the entire village at risk of absolute tyranny of the majority.
Immediately his hand rose as to silence the foreigner before he could brew up any talk about witchcraft, however Nelís feared that those within the cathedral already formulated their opinions on the matter. "Please leave, I assure you there are no witches here," he stated firmly though he wasn't sure of the fact. He couldn't allow the people in the vicinity to leave believing that there were witches around. His concerns were far from his reputation and lied on the well-being of those in the village. Does Rogers know what fear and panic he would cause claiming such things in public?
The priest strode up to the foreigner, his voice low and adamant yet it managed to be soft, hardly echoing in the now silent sanctuary, "This town has sat undisturbed for a long while now. If you wish to discuss witchcraft I highly recommend that it stays behind closed doors, but if there are witches they haven't been a bother... I, with all due respect, ask that you leave."
Samuel was the butcher and his wife owned the bakery next store. They made a good amount of cash and were probably the richest family in the small town. It wasn't by a lot but it was enough to gloat about. But as of lately the bakery had been dark, no bread was cooked and so the growing little German town were forced to buy their bread from outside the town which was more expensive for them. This was all because his wife had been very sick for the last few months, she wasn't eatting and couldn't even leave the bed to take care of their children Kenith, and Beck.
He lifted his head in the church and turned to the Witch hunter, ideas of revenge piled up in his head. The doctor who wasn't doing enough to heal his wife, the baker from out of town... "I know two witches," he said without thinking. He had no idea that the doctor was truly a white witch, he just happened to be furious that the treatments weren't working to save his wife Silvia.
"The town doctor Eirwen is always making potions and elixers, and I bet she tries not to save ANY of her patients!" He exited the pue and walked down to the Witch Hunter, "and father Nelis, tell him of the mysterious bread maker that shows up almost as soon as my lovely wife went ill." If people in this town were going to burn, he wanted the people that prospered off his families suffering to pay. "Name is Samuel of Thornes Butch and Bakery. Nice to make your aquantence Mr. Rogers."
He lifted his head in the church and turned to the Witch hunter, ideas of revenge piled up in his head. The doctor who wasn't doing enough to heal his wife, the baker from out of town... "I know two witches," he said without thinking. He had no idea that the doctor was truly a white witch, he just happened to be furious that the treatments weren't working to save his wife Silvia.
"The town doctor Eirwen is always making potions and elixers, and I bet she tries not to save ANY of her patients!" He exited the pue and walked down to the Witch Hunter, "and father Nelis, tell him of the mysterious bread maker that shows up almost as soon as my lovely wife went ill." If people in this town were going to burn, he wanted the people that prospered off his families suffering to pay. "Name is Samuel of Thornes Butch and Bakery. Nice to make your aquantence Mr. Rogers."
The sound of a hammer's pounding resonated throughout the smithery, sparks flying every time Alkilai brought his mallet down on the red hot slab of metal, each strike shaping out the material into what would soon be a dagger, custom ordered by one of the townsfolk for defense purposes. Once it was of appropriate shape and size, Alkilai dipped it into a vat of water, steam immediately rising as the blade cooled. He let it sit, grabbing a towel from a nearby desk and wiping his hands clean of soot and grime, as he did a strange squeak caught his ear, causing him to pause. He listened carefully and resumed his wiping, realizing that the sound was coming from his own hands. He gazed at them as he curled and uncurled his cold, black fingers, the hinges squeaked and he was finally noticing how much more difficult it was to move the appendage. The Smith let out a sigh.
"Father, is there any oil left?" He called out to a middle aged man on the second floor of the shop.
"I believe so, check on the shelf in the back!" The man called down. Alkilai followed his instructions and soon found the can he sought, he returned to the forge and sat on his stool, dripping the oil into his metal hands to free the hinges up. For over a decade this had been his life, when he was just a boy his father caught the eye of a young woman, a witch who was merely passing through Wursburg. When his father, Tranzin, refused the woman's advances, she punished him by placing a curse on his only son, turning his hands into living metal; with this she left Wursburg, never to return. The new appendages moved at his will, as if they were flesh and bone, and yet did not grow as such, needing to be adjusted as the boy grew and came of age. This responsibility fell on Tranzin when Alkilai was young, and it tore his heart apart, having to tinker with his own son as if he were some broken object that needed to be fixed; it was for this reason that Alkilai became a blacksmith as well, to perform the maintenance himself and free his father from the burden. The father and son were very skilled in their craft and out of either respect or pity their business did not suffer, but in public they were avoided like the plague, some did not see it wise to associate with those touched by witchcraft, Alkilai's own mother included. Nobell could not take the shunning and the whispers, and she couldn't even bare too look at her own son nor the man that brought this torment upon them, and so she left, without so much as a word of goodbye. Alkilai had resented his mother ever since then, and despised witches for driving his family apart.
He checked his hand, the squeaking had stopped and he could move his wrist and fingers with ease again. He looked up at the open entrance to his shop and locked eyes with a man walking down the road, he gave him a subtle nod and was on his way. He was an outsider, that much he knew, he didn't need to recognize his face, no one from Wursburg would ever make eye contact with him, except for ignorant children who knew not of his affliction. He walked to the door and watched the man continue down the road, he saw the crossbow on his back and his intended destination of the town church, it didn't take a genius to connect the dots. Alkilai's face paled, there was a witch in Wursburg, and the only thing worse than a witch... was a Witch Hunt.
"Father, is there any oil left?" He called out to a middle aged man on the second floor of the shop.
"I believe so, check on the shelf in the back!" The man called down. Alkilai followed his instructions and soon found the can he sought, he returned to the forge and sat on his stool, dripping the oil into his metal hands to free the hinges up. For over a decade this had been his life, when he was just a boy his father caught the eye of a young woman, a witch who was merely passing through Wursburg. When his father, Tranzin, refused the woman's advances, she punished him by placing a curse on his only son, turning his hands into living metal; with this she left Wursburg, never to return. The new appendages moved at his will, as if they were flesh and bone, and yet did not grow as such, needing to be adjusted as the boy grew and came of age. This responsibility fell on Tranzin when Alkilai was young, and it tore his heart apart, having to tinker with his own son as if he were some broken object that needed to be fixed; it was for this reason that Alkilai became a blacksmith as well, to perform the maintenance himself and free his father from the burden. The father and son were very skilled in their craft and out of either respect or pity their business did not suffer, but in public they were avoided like the plague, some did not see it wise to associate with those touched by witchcraft, Alkilai's own mother included. Nobell could not take the shunning and the whispers, and she couldn't even bare too look at her own son nor the man that brought this torment upon them, and so she left, without so much as a word of goodbye. Alkilai had resented his mother ever since then, and despised witches for driving his family apart.
He checked his hand, the squeaking had stopped and he could move his wrist and fingers with ease again. He looked up at the open entrance to his shop and locked eyes with a man walking down the road, he gave him a subtle nod and was on his way. He was an outsider, that much he knew, he didn't need to recognize his face, no one from Wursburg would ever make eye contact with him, except for ignorant children who knew not of his affliction. He walked to the door and watched the man continue down the road, he saw the crossbow on his back and his intended destination of the town church, it didn't take a genius to connect the dots. Alkilai's face paled, there was a witch in Wursburg, and the only thing worse than a witch... was a Witch Hunt.
The last of the summer winds carried in the advent of winter, the season spreading its incense along with the soft breeze. Not a cloud blemished the sky and Anpetu Wi (sun) extended his brilliance to the surface. Enyeto;chee couldn't form any complaints on the weather as it was no less than perfect, but the same wasn't to say about the day to come. Soon he'd be limited down to only a few meats and would need the assistance of his brothers if he wanted to continue to sell furs and meats. Their wives contributed to the town as well, tailoring while each raised a child. More often than not Yeto makes use of them, making them observe when he skins animals and demands their little hands after he's brought in two weeks worth of kills. In years time they would be able to hunt as well.
His two nieces grazed their fingers along the fur that Enyeto;chee brushed thoroughly. He'd cleaned the pelt and was preparing to hang it on the wall with the others when a man whose face was obscured passed by. It was certain that he was a foreigner, even more so with the crossbow attached to his back. No one seemed to permit weapons in the town, Father Nelís especially, but with an exception on the means of hunting. Perhaps this man was only passing by, but Yeto had the odd feeling that the foreigner sought something. Like the very scarce visitors they had he may ask something of them and leave as quickly as he came. The town had been unblemished for so long, enough to where no one believed there would be any kind of crisis. Religion somehow kept them bound and Yeto could only wonder what rubbish they were taught within the walls of the cathedral, but he managed to respect it. They had their religion, he and his family had their way of life. Though he did little to commune with the other town folk there was an unseen mutual relationship. If they wanted his furs and meats they would exempt him from all their weekly traditional gatherings, and it hasn't been a difficulty thus far.
Giving a final glance to the foreigner he proceeded to brush the grey fur, his nieces finally poking at a nerve in which he smacked their hands followed by a bitter chit between his teeth. His frown, as many times as he used it, decorated his features with faint lines and his hair was lowly tied back with a thin leather strip. At times he appeared daunting only to have his nieces coax him into a subtle grin, but it would only be brief.
At last he finished with his latest pelt and hung it, oblivious to what was unfolding in the cathedral. Soon trust would be measured and blame was to reek havoc.
His two nieces grazed their fingers along the fur that Enyeto;chee brushed thoroughly. He'd cleaned the pelt and was preparing to hang it on the wall with the others when a man whose face was obscured passed by. It was certain that he was a foreigner, even more so with the crossbow attached to his back. No one seemed to permit weapons in the town, Father Nelís especially, but with an exception on the means of hunting. Perhaps this man was only passing by, but Yeto had the odd feeling that the foreigner sought something. Like the very scarce visitors they had he may ask something of them and leave as quickly as he came. The town had been unblemished for so long, enough to where no one believed there would be any kind of crisis. Religion somehow kept them bound and Yeto could only wonder what rubbish they were taught within the walls of the cathedral, but he managed to respect it. They had their religion, he and his family had their way of life. Though he did little to commune with the other town folk there was an unseen mutual relationship. If they wanted his furs and meats they would exempt him from all their weekly traditional gatherings, and it hasn't been a difficulty thus far.
Giving a final glance to the foreigner he proceeded to brush the grey fur, his nieces finally poking at a nerve in which he smacked their hands followed by a bitter chit between his teeth. His frown, as many times as he used it, decorated his features with faint lines and his hair was lowly tied back with a thin leather strip. At times he appeared daunting only to have his nieces coax him into a subtle grin, but it would only be brief.
At last he finished with his latest pelt and hung it, oblivious to what was unfolding in the cathedral. Soon trust would be measured and blame was to reek havoc.
Eirwen rubbed her eyes of another day of no sleep. Ever since Sam Thorne's Silvia became sick, the young woman had little rest, focusing all of her attention on helping Silvia. Her waist-length, white hair was slightly messy, strands sticking up from stress. Her shocking white skin seemed unchanged but the shadows below her sharp, white eyes made her look more like a ghost than ever. Just of her appearance, much of the small town stayed far away from her unless it was to be treated for sickness or injuries.
She made it out of the town and knelt beside some purple-black flowers. She looked at her heavily bandaged hands before taking a breath and picking the nightshade flower carefully. Though her hands were damaged by burns from heating water and cut by knives and thorns by her lack of sleep, they helped when she needed to pick certain plants. She placed the petals in the basket to take home just for the mouse by her chimney. She searched and searched for what she needed for Silvia.
After little success, she sighed silently and headed home. There was a bit of onion-grass and other unlikely healing plants but hopefully with this, she could treat Silvia. Eirwen feared what was affecting Silvia was something she couldn't treat but she didn't give up hope. There had to be something she was missing.
Once she entered the small, messy cottage, she placed her basket down and set the nightshade by the chimney for the mouse before opening the windows to brighten up the place. She stared at the papers on the floor, covered by the only symbols she knew she could read. Her own.
She couldn't read so she had to create her own way that she could keep track of recipes and of people who came to her for help. With permission, from Father Nelis of course, and a key to deciphering her symbols on the walk to literate folk, she could read in her own way. She pushed some of the mess into a dark corner and began to work on the next bottle of medicine she thought could make Silvia better.
She pulled down dried herbs, put on fresh ones and so on, keeping quiet except for the pounding of stone on stone for her mortar and pestle and the clinking of bottles as she began her work, using her clean, loose, white dress to wipe her hands. If undisturbed, she would make two different types of medicine, testing one on herself to make sure it wouldn't poison anyone if they needed it.
She made it out of the town and knelt beside some purple-black flowers. She looked at her heavily bandaged hands before taking a breath and picking the nightshade flower carefully. Though her hands were damaged by burns from heating water and cut by knives and thorns by her lack of sleep, they helped when she needed to pick certain plants. She placed the petals in the basket to take home just for the mouse by her chimney. She searched and searched for what she needed for Silvia.
After little success, she sighed silently and headed home. There was a bit of onion-grass and other unlikely healing plants but hopefully with this, she could treat Silvia. Eirwen feared what was affecting Silvia was something she couldn't treat but she didn't give up hope. There had to be something she was missing.
Once she entered the small, messy cottage, she placed her basket down and set the nightshade by the chimney for the mouse before opening the windows to brighten up the place. She stared at the papers on the floor, covered by the only symbols she knew she could read. Her own.
She couldn't read so she had to create her own way that she could keep track of recipes and of people who came to her for help. With permission, from Father Nelis of course, and a key to deciphering her symbols on the walk to literate folk, she could read in her own way. She pushed some of the mess into a dark corner and began to work on the next bottle of medicine she thought could make Silvia better.
She pulled down dried herbs, put on fresh ones and so on, keeping quiet except for the pounding of stone on stone for her mortar and pestle and the clinking of bottles as she began her work, using her clean, loose, white dress to wipe her hands. If undisturbed, she would make two different types of medicine, testing one on herself to make sure it wouldn't poison anyone if they needed it.
Twigs and leaves rustled simultaneously with a distant, white figure's footsteps. Sariel eyes fixated on the phantom like young woman. The woman was the only villager who ever ventured this far from the sheltered little town that Sariel had been watching for a week or two now. The ghostly figure went about collecting flowers and herbs and once again took no notice of Sariel's fervent eyes. The young witch had her suspicions about this white healer, but she didn't have much time left to take precautions. A drop of blood made a trail down her leg, Sariel's hand pressed tighter against her wounded waist. As the village woman turned and began returning to her small cottage, Sariel's hand gave off a fiery glow to help clot her bloody wound and keep it disinfected. With a deep sigh, she slid to the ground to rest a bit. Her long brown hair and earth toned dress helped to keep Sariel hidden but she never stayed in the same hiding spot for too long.
Sariel was also know as The Red Witch, she was taught to develop her fire craft and magic from a young age. She lived peacefully in distant lands with family until she began to attract too much attention to herself. Clutching her wound Sariel began to worry about the man hunting her. As her powers grew stronger she attracted the unwanted attention of an infamous witch hunter. Knowing he'd be too wise to believe that she was just a student of magic she had to run. Clever and an ambitious student the young witch had no trouble misleading the witch hunter and staying steps ahead of him, that is until she was badly injured in one of his traps. Sariel had no choice but to hunt down her sister witches to seek help.
Forcing her weakened body, the red witch quietly moved along the outskirts of the town. With each step drops of blood began to once again dampen her dress. Reaching down, the injured witch ripped another piece of her underskirt and bite her lip in pain while tying the second rate bandage around her wound.
After a desperate week of searching for her two sister witches that her uncle had so often told her about, Sariel knew she had no choice but to seek help from the healer or let her wound slowly kill her. She waited, cloaked by a sheath of trees, by the healer's cottage until darkness. Even with the limited magic she allowed herself to use, Sariel knew the witch hunter was in the village and any significant amount of magic she used would lead him to find her. Too weak to continue running and unable to use magic to find her sisters the red witch had this last option as her only hope. Nightfall came and she crept towards the cottage. Each step was now desperately weakening her, she shakily opened the cottage door and crumbleded to the floor.
Sariel was also know as The Red Witch, she was taught to develop her fire craft and magic from a young age. She lived peacefully in distant lands with family until she began to attract too much attention to herself. Clutching her wound Sariel began to worry about the man hunting her. As her powers grew stronger she attracted the unwanted attention of an infamous witch hunter. Knowing he'd be too wise to believe that she was just a student of magic she had to run. Clever and an ambitious student the young witch had no trouble misleading the witch hunter and staying steps ahead of him, that is until she was badly injured in one of his traps. Sariel had no choice but to hunt down her sister witches to seek help.
Forcing her weakened body, the red witch quietly moved along the outskirts of the town. With each step drops of blood began to once again dampen her dress. Reaching down, the injured witch ripped another piece of her underskirt and bite her lip in pain while tying the second rate bandage around her wound.
After a desperate week of searching for her two sister witches that her uncle had so often told her about, Sariel knew she had no choice but to seek help from the healer or let her wound slowly kill her. She waited, cloaked by a sheath of trees, by the healer's cottage until darkness. Even with the limited magic she allowed herself to use, Sariel knew the witch hunter was in the village and any significant amount of magic she used would lead him to find her. Too weak to continue running and unable to use magic to find her sisters the red witch had this last option as her only hope. Nightfall came and she crept towards the cottage. Each step was now desperately weakening her, she shakily opened the cottage door and crumbleded to the floor.
((this may be a terrible reply, bare with me, I'm typing with one hand. had a rough day yesterday, "rough" being an understatement))
Sky had the dough baking, it was fresh in and since the village was running out of bread she'd worked overtime trying to get as much bread made. She had made quite a bit, wrapped up in a room ready to be sold at expensive yet attainable prices. Skylar wiped the sweat from her brow and sighed. She sat at a table kneading the dough that she'd prepared, glancing at the flowers laying on the wooden surface. Alexandra's husband, Kristof was spell bound by Skylar, she tried her best to use as little magic as possible but some men are just easier to control.
He did anything that she'd asked and when she arrived at this village, she'd no money except her fellow witch sister but Skylar wanted to get money her own way. She lived with Eirwin for a short amount of time, it was easily sensed that she was a witch by a fellow witch but, a type of witch is only discovered through her practice. Skylar's abilities are discrete and hard to notice but she can manipulate minds at will, women were harder to control, they required potions, Men on the other hand, all they need is a touch, her voice or both and they'd be under her spell like dogs to an owner.
She finished up a batch, washed her hands and opened the cottage door just as Eirwin returned "hello! do you need a hand picking ingredients?" she smiled as she greeted her. Skyler's long black hair ended at waist length and was blonde less than half way down. Sky noticed the lady in the woods approaching the cottage, she didn't say anything from shock. Sky stared for a few seconds covering her mouth, she eventually pulled herself together. "she's hurt!" Sky said running to her. She put the Lady's arm around her shoulder getting blood on her own dress "Here, let me help you" Sky took some of her weight and helped her to the door.
Sky had the dough baking, it was fresh in and since the village was running out of bread she'd worked overtime trying to get as much bread made. She had made quite a bit, wrapped up in a room ready to be sold at expensive yet attainable prices. Skylar wiped the sweat from her brow and sighed. She sat at a table kneading the dough that she'd prepared, glancing at the flowers laying on the wooden surface. Alexandra's husband, Kristof was spell bound by Skylar, she tried her best to use as little magic as possible but some men are just easier to control.
He did anything that she'd asked and when she arrived at this village, she'd no money except her fellow witch sister but Skylar wanted to get money her own way. She lived with Eirwin for a short amount of time, it was easily sensed that she was a witch by a fellow witch but, a type of witch is only discovered through her practice. Skylar's abilities are discrete and hard to notice but she can manipulate minds at will, women were harder to control, they required potions, Men on the other hand, all they need is a touch, her voice or both and they'd be under her spell like dogs to an owner.
She finished up a batch, washed her hands and opened the cottage door just as Eirwin returned "hello! do you need a hand picking ingredients?" she smiled as she greeted her. Skyler's long black hair ended at waist length and was blonde less than half way down. Sky noticed the lady in the woods approaching the cottage, she didn't say anything from shock. Sky stared for a few seconds covering her mouth, she eventually pulled herself together. "she's hurt!" Sky said running to her. She put the Lady's arm around her shoulder getting blood on her own dress "Here, let me help you" Sky took some of her weight and helped her to the door.
The late day sun weakly shone down on a house past the outskirts of Würsburg. The structure wasn't too big, but it definitely wasn't small. There was a wooden shack behind it that seemed to be in good enough shape. To the side of the two buildings were a few small to medium sized fields. In the field closest to the the bigger house like building knelt a young woman in old dresses. Sierra. Sierra was in what appeared to be a small garden of sorts. It was filled with flowers and herbs. On her arm was a woven basket, the inside adorned with flowers delicately placed in a ring. There were red roses, red and white lilies, as well as the occasional tulip or carnation. In the middle of the ring of flowers lied different herbs, a high majority of which were used in medicines. The woman looked in to her basket, pleasing her enough so that she could get up from her field and make her way back to the the house. She didn't seem to be very dirty.
Through the door she went as she placed the bland basket filled with colorful plant life on a small bureau filled with drawers. She made way her to the stairs and bounced her way up to tidy up her appearance some before she made her way back down after some time. She was now wearing a slightly more lavish gown in black and red, accompanied by low heeled black boots. The woman made her way back to the bureau and went to the bottom draw to the very left, away from the door. Opening the draw revealed several rows of daggers, their hilts and handles in different shades of blacks and browns. The woman peered down at her shoes before she searched the weapons with her eyes before she found four that matched the exact shade of black as her footwear, somewhat of a charcoal. She took one at a time and slid them in hidden sockets on each side of both of her shoes. One on the outside of the left, one on the inside of the left, and the same for the right. The shape and color of the blade's handles perfectly concealed them, not to mention the length of her dress did them some justice as well. In the top draw of the desk was a piece of polished obsidian. She gingerly picked up the makeshift mirror and expected her features, causing her to realize that her hair was still tied back with a piece of twine from her picking flowers in her small garden. She undid her long, full, icy blonde hair, it's length going down some past her waist, a seemingly trademark feature shared by her and her sisters, though hers seemed to go down an almost unnoticeable amount past theirs. Her almost white hair greatly complimented her pale skin and shockingly piercing bright blue eyes. On a hook next to the door hung a series of hooded floor length cloaks. She reached for the black one with a red trim and tied it around her neck. Putting the obsidian back in its drawer, Sierra opened one more draw on the top to pull out a handkerchief-like cloth, unfolding it to place it over the open basket, covering the flowers inside. She put the basket back on her arm and made her way out the door.
Sierra's abode was a little way away from Würsburg, but nothing dramatically far. By foot the journey could be made in under an hour, making it easy for her to sell her crops when needed. It also made her less weary of her need to conceal her magic. Sierra, known by legend only as a "Dark Witch," had came to Würsburg in search of family, the White Witch. When she first arrived in Würsburg, her attention was immediately caught by that of the town's blacksmith. Under an incantation to alter her appearance, she desired to be with the married man. He rebuffed her advances, deeming her to young. Devastated, she cursed his prized possession. Out of spite, she sought revenge on the blacksmith's only son. She made it so that his only child could never experience any feeling in hands again, who, coincidentally, wasn't much younger than the Dark Witch herself. After which, she took up residence in her current home, keeping close to witness the man's suffering under her true appearance.
Sierra made her way from her home through a sparse forest of sorts. Everyday she went to visit Eirwen and Skylar, though not always at the same time. She enjoyed helping Eirwen with her medicines, the herbs and plant's she grew in her fields often coming along with her in an effort to help. It was a little past the begging of night fall, the last light of day escaping the witch as she put her hood up. Her cloak flailed and whipped around her feet as she walked, spying Eirwen's cottage moments after her eldest sister collapsed at the door, unbeknownst to her. She made her way to the front door of the home, wide eyed at the sight in front of her of the open doorway.
Through the door she went as she placed the bland basket filled with colorful plant life on a small bureau filled with drawers. She made way her to the stairs and bounced her way up to tidy up her appearance some before she made her way back down after some time. She was now wearing a slightly more lavish gown in black and red, accompanied by low heeled black boots. The woman made her way back to the bureau and went to the bottom draw to the very left, away from the door. Opening the draw revealed several rows of daggers, their hilts and handles in different shades of blacks and browns. The woman peered down at her shoes before she searched the weapons with her eyes before she found four that matched the exact shade of black as her footwear, somewhat of a charcoal. She took one at a time and slid them in hidden sockets on each side of both of her shoes. One on the outside of the left, one on the inside of the left, and the same for the right. The shape and color of the blade's handles perfectly concealed them, not to mention the length of her dress did them some justice as well. In the top draw of the desk was a piece of polished obsidian. She gingerly picked up the makeshift mirror and expected her features, causing her to realize that her hair was still tied back with a piece of twine from her picking flowers in her small garden. She undid her long, full, icy blonde hair, it's length going down some past her waist, a seemingly trademark feature shared by her and her sisters, though hers seemed to go down an almost unnoticeable amount past theirs. Her almost white hair greatly complimented her pale skin and shockingly piercing bright blue eyes. On a hook next to the door hung a series of hooded floor length cloaks. She reached for the black one with a red trim and tied it around her neck. Putting the obsidian back in its drawer, Sierra opened one more draw on the top to pull out a handkerchief-like cloth, unfolding it to place it over the open basket, covering the flowers inside. She put the basket back on her arm and made her way out the door.
Sierra's abode was a little way away from Würsburg, but nothing dramatically far. By foot the journey could be made in under an hour, making it easy for her to sell her crops when needed. It also made her less weary of her need to conceal her magic. Sierra, known by legend only as a "Dark Witch," had came to Würsburg in search of family, the White Witch. When she first arrived in Würsburg, her attention was immediately caught by that of the town's blacksmith. Under an incantation to alter her appearance, she desired to be with the married man. He rebuffed her advances, deeming her to young. Devastated, she cursed his prized possession. Out of spite, she sought revenge on the blacksmith's only son. She made it so that his only child could never experience any feeling in hands again, who, coincidentally, wasn't much younger than the Dark Witch herself. After which, she took up residence in her current home, keeping close to witness the man's suffering under her true appearance.
Sierra made her way from her home through a sparse forest of sorts. Everyday she went to visit Eirwen and Skylar, though not always at the same time. She enjoyed helping Eirwen with her medicines, the herbs and plant's she grew in her fields often coming along with her in an effort to help. It was a little past the begging of night fall, the last light of day escaping the witch as she put her hood up. Her cloak flailed and whipped around her feet as she walked, spying Eirwen's cottage moments after her eldest sister collapsed at the door, unbeknownst to her. She made her way to the front door of the home, wide eyed at the sight in front of her of the open doorway.
No warm air came into the small city as the late summers night began to decend on the people of Würsburg, it was a chill that crept into the looming cathedral as Rogers tried to alert Father Nelis of the approaching threat. "As a man of the church I am sure you have heard of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, well picture them..." He paused grinning, "but in dresses and not riding horses." His tone was somewhat mocking the fathers disbelief. If Nelis didn't have as much fear in his heart as the towns folk should, then it could be possible that Nelis himself new of the witches and was hiding the two sisters of the Red Witch he was hunting.
"Well father, it seems that I am getting no where with you, maybe you yourself are dabbling into witch craft?" Rogers gathered his belongings, "if so then I place the responsibility on myself to alert your town of the up coming threat." He pulled his hood up, "good day." And with that he headed for the door, opening the large church door he turned his head back, "is there anyone I should talk to first? Someone who will hieth my warning with all the proper weight that it deserves?"
"Well father, it seems that I am getting no where with you, maybe you yourself are dabbling into witch craft?" Rogers gathered his belongings, "if so then I place the responsibility on myself to alert your town of the up coming threat." He pulled his hood up, "good day." And with that he headed for the door, opening the large church door he turned his head back, "is there anyone I should talk to first? Someone who will hieth my warning with all the proper weight that it deserves?"
After he was done at the church Sam had gone home to sit with his dying wife but flowers and his soft words were met with his wives tears. She had been suspicious of him cheating on her for sometime, "How dare you accuse me of such sins!?" His voice was angry and filled with pain, "I sit by your bed every night, and sleep here every night that I don't try my luck at hunting." His anger grew in volume, "the sooner I learn to trap my own game, the sooner I don't have to buy from that damn foreigner Pepeae!" He didn't understand how she could accuse him of that when he was so kind to her, he stayed by her side and only left every few nights. And only from the purest of reasons... right?
The butcher now made his way to the east, knocking on the door of the Dark witch he nocked again. Although he was oblivious to the fact that she was a witch he visited her almost every week, sometimes twice. The door continued to stand shut, so Thorne pulled a small key from his satchel, it was late, perhaps she had gone to bed. He opened her door and walked on in as if he lived there, "she is on to us," Thorne admitted, "my wife, she knows of my love to another, my love to you Sierra." The butcher found the woman and approached, "I may be forced to smother her as she sleeps if her accusations continue." His love was strong but the dark hold the witch had on his heart was stronger. It may not have been her magic, but his pure obsession with her that brought these thoughts of evil to his mind.
"Tell me what to do my flower?"
The butcher now made his way to the east, knocking on the door of the Dark witch he nocked again. Although he was oblivious to the fact that she was a witch he visited her almost every week, sometimes twice. The door continued to stand shut, so Thorne pulled a small key from his satchel, it was late, perhaps she had gone to bed. He opened her door and walked on in as if he lived there, "she is on to us," Thorne admitted, "my wife, she knows of my love to another, my love to you Sierra." The butcher found the woman and approached, "I may be forced to smother her as she sleeps if her accusations continue." His love was strong but the dark hold the witch had on his heart was stronger. It may not have been her magic, but his pure obsession with her that brought these thoughts of evil to his mind.
"Tell me what to do my flower?"
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