𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑-𝐌𝐀𝐍..
Not all heroes get remembered and surely not all heroes have it all; this story is about the hero who was never where she was supposed to be. Wrong place, wrong time, life gets confusing until a...
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In the darkness set between humid walls of old stones bathing in their moss and other crawling plants, slithering the cracks in natural décor or streets for the little bugs and insects who did not learn as much from their unfortunate predecessors that it was in the lair of a witch that they resided and to her, they weren't nothing more than the lesser ingredient to spells, to potions and rituals which laid, chaotically on putrid tables drenched in candle wax for skin. This witch had no fears of the dark, of the atmosphere she dwelled into, nor will she even see the roaches in between the dark veins on the walls and think of fright rather than her next advance in schemes.
If there was anything else clear about this witch's home, than it was the silence. Surely, some ventilation and circulation of energies thickened the air just enough to make the many black candles flicker and whip the atmosphere into motion, but what truly lingered was the loneliness of the walls, the columns, the shelves oversaturated with books, barely leaning themselves against the vines or even attached to the crone.
Hands are the true mirror of age and hers were wrinkled, slender skin to bones, barely hanging to its last tender connections, so no matter how many glamour spells she threw on her face, shadowed otherwise by a valor volume of black hair, curled from humidity, her hands betrayed her true stature. Those painted purple nails tickled as claws the recipients she played with. Long sleeves fluttered against her robes and danced along her swift and decisive movements.
At the very leg of the table at which her plans circled, a black cat licked its paw, as if, by some divine knowledge, she already knew her master was cooking her a delicious meal.
Because indeed, there were no odd items on the witch's table but her cat's bowl, a round, low thing in purple, which shone the name 'Ebony' on the side, waiting to be filled by the mixture she prepared in a mortar. Beside the pestle her hand was reaching out to grasp at last was a single flower, missing one petal. The witch was about to mix a petal of Wundagore Everbloom into her familiar's food, when her hand lost all connection to her will.
The pestle slipped her fingers and fell in the space between her draped dress and the table, right on the floor, rolling away after is catastrophically loud thud. Into the witch's eyes twitched the presence of a bluish glow and in her soul swirled the familiarity of an energy she has been looking for, for far too long, with all that which she could.
What struck her was gone as fast as it arrived. The familiar she was going to sacrifice one way or another to catch a glimpse beyond the veil of time and into the future scattered off, scared first by the dropping pestle, then second of the witch's gasp towards her crystal ball. Her crone hands grasp the edge of her waxed table. "Is it finally her?" she murmured in a voice which hasn't muttered much but spells for some time now. "After all these years..."
