my ears can hear my mouth can speak my spirit talks my soul believes
Witch. It is a familiar word, but not one that Chaele expected to hear in sympathy with this young man and his sudden appearance. Their first instinct is suspicion, that satisfying scratch on the itch of solitude, but it is quickly assuaged by introductions and offerings. “I am Chaele,” they reply, eyes darting in the shadows of their mask as they follow the path of another ringing jinglebug. “And I suppose I can also be called witch. Do you know of a magical or ritual use for the beetles?”
The witch has been dreading this trip northward, their first visit to the Greatwood now cursed with certain guilt. Their boots are peeling, their skirts tattered, their masked head weighed low. A lantern sways softly on the back of their pack, a faint papery percussion between the discordant chimes of Deepfrost’s musical plague. In a rope pouch at their side hangs a sizable clay pot, which attracts a protective hand as they turn their body between it and Enzo.
“In truth I am here to light a lantern and bury some ashes. Do you know this wood well?”
The witch has been dreading this trip northward, their first visit to the Greatwood now cursed with certain guilt. Their boots are peeling, their skirts tattered, their masked head weighed low. A lantern sways softly on the back of their pack, a faint papery percussion between the discordant chimes of Deepfrost’s musical plague. In a rope pouch at their side hangs a sizable clay pot, which attracts a protective hand as they turn their body between it and Enzo.
“In truth I am here to light a lantern and bury some ashes. Do you know this wood well?”
Base code by Odd • Art by Krakenkatz
