A dark tower in the middle of a forest clearing should be suitable for noble witchcraft; but, this spartan top room with no orderly clutter is unfitting of greatness.
Dead man’s blood, stolen at the crossing when Vigor abandons may change that.
This potency called “finality”: twilight of fear, acceptance of what’s nigh.
([Needle of Loss], a shard of a widow’s spinning wheel tip. Slathered blood at the end. The feeling that it holds now…?)
Plunging into the predator’s den on decay, shedding like blighted skin all but the sheer terror called anticipation!
(A little too accurate, Teacher? Continuing with…)
A draught of vinegared wine pools onto the floor when poured.
Onto this spreading filth, a needle tosses to land on this aromatic purple which holds taint.
Demise.
Hopelessness.
Transition.
Three powerful feelings fuel the craft which a witch hides under shadow of her steepled hat.
With those feelings felt also by her, the change comes.
A needle begins to float, and the one who tests the shadows unseen by mortal mundanes also can explain just why the floating needle will soon spin, then…
(It is spinning~! No fey will block THIS ritu—!)
Once it turns when the modern witch happily claps; then, no more.
The spoiling wine doesn’t gather to itself as a pool as it should, instead pouring as a waterfall to ferry needle boat over the edge to flat stone below.
(Think you’re something, do you, bitch?)
Escalating tests one after another stab for weaknesses. First, to pierce the rainbow haze. Next, to bypass it entirely, perhaps through Great Placid or…?
The most recent, to simply acquire the direction to the demesne owner by brute force…?
(Only small attempts, my next will stab through.)
Back into her curio box the hopeless needle gets flicked.
Many spots of this ominous, empty tower room retain a minor imperfection marking the past ones attempts. Burn marks or crystal pieces embedded identify what each catalyst failed to… catalyze.
Even scrubbing can’t remove the witch’s work entirely from the rough, mysterious dark stone, for it’s as if the claustrophobic tower hoards her FAILU—!?
(PERISH, EVERY ELF!
BURN, EVERY FOREST OF THEM!
BURST INTO GLITTERY FUCKING BUBBLES AFTER I POP YOU ALL!?!?!?
DIE!
DIE!
DIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—!
Oh.)
Shaking while sitting on her knees, the witch properly compartmentalizes the hopelessness coursing through her that was only merely a sorcerous visualization. Active emotional life that makes her mesh feel itchy is very bad to let run free.
(Just… drift. “A divination that is hopeless should automatically lead to the source of the nightmare which caused that emotion.”)
Lets the tension be as if it was ever, always non-existent. She demurely cleans up the wasted wine with a cloth that absorbs all filth without spreading it, thinking of how to pierce the rainbow fog outside that blocks all sensations and extrasensory knowledge.
(That is the truth, Teacher, excepting if that nightmare is hiding like the coward it is! It’s not JUST an illusion if it can avoid truthful emotions, too. As I thought, that… creature is capable of what approaches the realm of witchcraft?)
Still beautifies what is around here yet again… even if it’s always barren and ugly. The thought strikes then that this banal space was chosen by another to embody emptiness, but Still can’t imagine why.
(A skanky beast hides just like that whore of mine!)
Its sin links to another’s, lifts a weight from Still when it becomes clear that the fault for their current plight lies with…!
(Adris fehl Dain!)
It’s His fault!
Everything always somehow is!
That — MAN’S — blame is without good humor or possible recompense, always turning punishments from Him toward those nearby!
He only takes… and deprives, and BEGS, AND LOANS OUT TO HIMSELF…!?
“PUDDLE!”
Toward the ceiling a completely uninvited interloper gawks like the complete fucking idiot this dog—!?
“Scaredyii, more-more?”
(I’M NOT FUCKIN’ SCARED, YOU… PISSANT CHAMBER POT!)
“Whyii? Danger, here? Smell-small, very none.” The dog’s annoying “yipping” noises that get planted in random spots when it gargles Castillian words deserve a dirk each time Still has to suffer them; but, since Still has so few dirks left to risk losing, the witch hangs down from her spot clinging to the ceiling to drop without a visible care.
{Finished letting the natives run a line on you, mutt?} An offhand observation like that about how the dumbold’s once-wet fur is messed up, using two fingers that Still specializes to signify a circle being expanded, won’t easily be understood.
(It’s nice that my feelings are easy to convey.)
“NNnnnn…!? ‘Lyiine’!?” With others, they’re at least smart enough to get the gist of Still’s signs leading up to the end one; with this kobold, only the forced synchronization of humors between them that Still causes by instinct makes Kol’s ugly face turn even uglier. “BAD SAYIING ABOUT KOL!?”
(Wouldn’t a doggy usually get ‘dogged’?)
It’s a waste of such a prettily liquour-like voice to give it to a pint-sized dog that pops up from a hole in the center of the room. White-haired like a cursed albino, this mutt’s head and unseen body becomes visible when she hurls herself up at—
{What is wrong with you!?}
“Nah!? ‘Schweemshoot’?” Mangling the foreign sounding word, this muscular slut with purple and pink rubber strings wrapped over her like she’s a tied up piece of meat clicks her tongue before sighing. “Ah, ‘swyiimsut’, Kol remembers.” After pulling at the springy material to reveal one of her tits, then releasing it with a smack, the actual slutbitch yells, “Tranyiing! Boss, bad torture tranyiing! Boss… SUPER-BAD MORE LATE—!”
(Training what!? Exhibitionism!?)
{Keep back! I don’t want to catch whatever illness he gave you!}
“Yi’ll!? Nyot yi’ll Kol!”
(What is wrong with these idiots when it comes to that… jackass’ ‘GIFTS’!?)
“Thyiis? Also Puddle got. Wear, swyiim, drown, then lyiike Kol, learn…”
A wooden box that’s pointed at tumbles once again when kicked. {Don’t even breathe.}
After her pirouette that launches the box holding a strange magical broach, Still plops back onto the nearest edge of the tower’s stone stair-tiers to lean back in judgment of the one who did wear her “gift”. {That ‘swimsuit’ is what a ‘pet’ has to wear to get her stinky hole plowed now~?} After the demeaning gestures flow only to be half comprehended, Still puts in one more effort to cause the unwanted toy shake even harder with rage. {If he’s demanding that for pleasure, even you can do better.}
(How dare a man demand such things?)
With witchcraft comes these deep tremors of pain and hatred.
The righteousness of all that Still does is a tangible motivation!
(… It’s not proper to dress up as a cock puppet for a man gone mad with ego.)
At least, until she suddenly shifts to lean against the stone tier’s base while feeling a bit energetically challenged. The gift box that randomly chipped Still’s mask with how hard it struck her head presents a new avenue of breaking down this manwhore.
(Maybe if I chose the design, it might…?)
“Idea, bad, that thyiinking, Puddle.” A cold, unfeeling tone isn’t like the rage Still wanted to drink in. That causes Still to shiver instead.
(That’s… not the normal conversation course change?)
The witch lifts the brim of her hat to find a mature stare full of en-rag-ing pity grinning back.
“Understand, Kol… nothyiing much, but, thyiis, know: nyot battle best ryiight now, Puddle, never wyiin later.”
(What battle wouldn’t I win, bitch?)
{Win? What? Against you? For…?}
“Enemyiies around, need more than Kol, nyot less be better, Puddle wyiin Boss maybe.” Kol nods at that, sending another cold chill through the witch.
(… Kol isn’t smart enough to think of something ominous like this.)
The situation couldn’t have possibly changed enough to worry about a runt’s ramblings, though, and if “enemies” possibly applies inward at their group…?
“Nnnn, Puddle get wyiill late-nyot-now. Startyiing nyot, unwant Kol fyiight.” No further explanation comes when the almost naked slut-bold shows her furry palms and shakes her head negatively.
(Poor bait. Let’s shake Neesiette for details later?)
{That so? It’s still ‘early’. Laze around somewhere else.}
“Nyot unwant. Want Puddle.”
Pointing at herself while circling her finger, Still tilts her head to the side with an air of dismissive interest; then, Still extends her palm up with outstretched fingers with the only relevant question.
“‘Whyii’? Haaaaaaaah…” All of Kol’s unusual stoicism drains out, hunching the idiot girl’s somewhat generous, probably her only good asset, bosom forward when the kobold cranes in frustration. “… Nnnnnn… true because, ‘fact’ be, if want ‘sexyii’, ‘seducee’…?”
(Sexy? Seducing?)
“THAT!” Still crosses her thick legs when those words are said, which makes the stupidbold nod her head vigorously while pointing at them. “Boss watches harder, same-same!”
{My legs?}
“How movyiing!” Kol’s overly strong hand clenches so fast and hard that the air snaps from it, sending Still half-leaping up the step!
(She’s only REALLY dangerous with her poleaxe, but… don’t stare so hard at me!)
“Lessons, eruufs! Kol, begyiin most-great one… ‘SEDUCKYIION’!” The retard loudly, but silkily, howls this sacred word and craters Still’s tension.
{Seduction?}
“Teach that, Kol, Puddle do also wyiill.”
{Seduction?}
“Ryiight-true word, yiis?”
{From me?}
“To Kol.”
(Rabies, and it’s already eating at her mind. Sad, really.)
{The cross-licking boy you simp for will give you the ‘walkies’ you need if you just beg. Go bother him.}
“TRY!” The kobold slams her fists on the raised stone. “Kol, TRY! But…! Boss, want, ONE THYIING!”
{… Hmmm…?} Still’s fingers trace the air, unsure now that this idiot mentions “one thing”.
(What could he be pining for now, if not ‘a girl’s trust in him, and his in her’? How amusing this useless distraction! How benevolent she expects me to be toward her!?)
So Still ponders with her chin resting on her hand this fresh melon cake served during the direst heat of summer, staring back at the most hateful creature in the universe after
— THAT ANATHEMA —
who shall not be named. Enjoying the many overtly dumb facial moods that… Kol moves through when being weighed and sorted by the witch’s silent judgment. How furry ears keep flicking around, then peel back with soft growls.
(‘Venture into danger prudently.’ Toss out a bone, see if the mutt drowns~.)
{… Far too stupid for any words to succeed.}
“Nnnnnyaaaa—THAAAAAAAT!?” Half shrieking, the teeth-grinding, hands-raised-up-to-leap ‘tardbold spills white-hot flames out!
{Screaming and hollering is all the ‘maw’ can manage?}
“GNNNNNNUUUUU!!!” Barely restraining herself with her own clenching arms, the veins-popped up Kol huffs and puffs, slower and slowing her heavy breathing.
“… Cough…! Nyot… full-full wrong… Kol, myiight half-say.” Biting her lip so hard that black Vigor drips out, the strangely composed kobold snuffs her flames. “P-l-e-a-s-e, help.” The kobold finally cranes her head forward in an insincere bow.
(Oh? But, doggie must earn her treat!)
Turning away so that Still reveals her “defenseless back”, Still sets the beast’s instincts aflame with their difference in societal importance.
“Nah!? P-PUDDLLLLLLLE!”
A hand to Still’s mask, open like a “V”, snaps shut to silence the mutt!
“… Nnn!?”
But Still’s hands continue to dance along the stone surface beside herself. Like humans they walk, with her left hand energetically swinging the outer fingers as it strolls. Full of self-importance and manic energy, it can only represent…
“Boss?”
Without confirming it, the second hand pulls a length of vivid red cloth to drape over itself.
“Dress-wear-new!?”
Toward the arrogant hand, a lady’s struts with the sensuality that only lithe fingers can exude while dragging the fingertips on the stone.
A catlike contempt turns the man’s hand in place, sends him reeling back!
To be confronted ever-so-slowly by what he can no longer look away from.
“Hoh? Corner?”
Once the lady hand has come within a centimeter of the man’s… it pulls back just as slowly.
Giving way, seeking to escape, sends the man’s hand leaping at her.
“… HMMMM?” The deep grunt of the tunneldog reveals a glimmer of sentience. Staring almost as closely at Still’s hands as they are near themselves, for Kol is bent over like a naked prostitute while her tail whips around, she asks a question that highlights the insufficiency of other women so well. “What yiff, NYOT jump? Then…?”
{Shock him, right when it matters.}
“Shock?”
(Not even one original thought, depressing!)
{Enlighten him that he wants you, not the other way around.}
“‘Lyiight?’ Umu. Work, myiight, ‘dress’ Boss show then ‘hype up’, more as …?” Talking only to herself now that her betters aren’t listening, Kol mumbles a few more things of trivial nature before Still’s red sight of the world watches the idiot jump down the tower’s gap without even thanks.
(I regret everything. About this day, about tunneldogs, about forests, about elves…)
Kol’s visit sours worse than the lingering smell of vinegared wine, and so Still hurries to find some new chaotic scent to banish both a swamp’s odor and the Beast’s tricks!
(And I’m VERY INSANELY CLOSE TO REGRETTING YOU,
Adris.)