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⛤ Interlude 𓆏
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Holding on to knowledge of the past, present, and future was an unrewarding task, and Gria was tired.
Sure, she was old, really, and truly wretched old, even by a Witch’s standard, but this tiredness came from boredom, and not from the years weighing on her rusty frame. Of course there'd be the odd treasure to be found - some epidemic, a nice burning city, and if she was especially lucky, a fun little war, but they were far and in between. The sad standard was just the Fates making the already desolate life of some unimportant, hapless drudge even more miserable, which, admittedly, had been entertaining the first few times. After countless repetitions, though, Gria had lost her taste for it and was loath to watch another of them moan and wail about. Predicting the future was a burdensome and horrible business - because most of the time, it was just so damn bleak and offered absolutely no fun to fuel her cruel streaks. The air in her hut was foggy and filled with the aroma of herbs, the thick wafts roiling out of her cauldron providing humidity to comfort the dry rasp of her breaths. Right now, Gria was, in fact, quite excited, because her latest visions had been anything but boring. She had seen the chaos and havoc ahead, and it had been a good laugh while sipping her afternoon tea. One particular thing she saw thrilled her to no end. She had seen him, this obscure and veiled entity that kept on peeking into any and all’s affairs. This being would, for reasons yet still unknown to her, be heavily involved in the upcoming festivities, something she had never seen him do before. And now there was a real chance for them to finally meet - after years and years of Gria catching vague glimpses only. At last, a worthy adversary. Well, to be exact, they’d be allies, but Gria was resourceful, there’d be opportunities to toy with this nosy blighter.
She filed and sorted the premonition glimpses that were of relevance to her, but then, as it was prone to do, the Wyrd bit Gria in her behind. She winced as a new ghostly image took shape in the mists, adding yet another inconvenience to her already uncomfortable own outlook for the near future - well, apart from having a realistic chance to encounter the shady one, at last. Even though she had to admit that she was quite looking forward to this, why was she to be involved in the bog’s forsaken rest? Her plans had been to feck around for a few more years, create some more hexes and curses to add to her Grimoire, which was, admittedly, already a real nasty piece of work and would mess up anyone daring enough to find and open it nine ways to fire and brimstone; maybe watch a bit of the world finally coming to its well deserved end from the comfort of her rocking chair and then die before things got too unpleasant. Damn the Fates, and damn the Wyrd for messing up her retirement. Ah, well, she would get hers in the end, she always did, but Gria had to find some way to show all those uncursed tossers meddling with her future. If she was forced to partake, she’d damn well do so on her own terms. With a throaty chuckle, she returned her attention to the scenes in the mist, taking note of everything that could be of importance for her. And, sure enough, there the other one was, lurking behind a particularly unpleasant surprise. Gria smirked. That bastard. When would he learn that it was up to her when, where and how she would go?
Most folk didn’t know that about any Witch was able to tell when her or his own death was imminent, but then they were as clueless as babes regarding everything else, too, so no wonder. Yet, the death thing amused Gria from time to time, as the explanation for these self-prophecies was as simple as it could be, and she had cackled a good few times about the easily impressed fools that thought this a great feat. Almost any magic user, including Witches, of course, had at least a shred of divination talent, or seeing, as one might call it. Some might disagree with her on that, but in her opinion, which was the only one that mattered, of course, it was similar enough to count as the same. Well, a simple truth was that, regardless of one’s prowess, the more impactful or traumatic an impending event would be for one’s life, the easier it became to catch a prophetic glimpse of it. And one’s own death was, by definition, pretty darn impactful shite to happen to you, Gria thought.
The crux of it was the details. Sniffing out death around the corner was easy, but knowing how it all came about was the truly important part. How else would you plan ahead to avoid dying? Seeing as Gria had amassed immense magical knowledge and was lucky enough to have more than a modicum of power, she would make do. She had already shirked dying a few times by foreseeing mortal danger and then having the wits, skill, and the guts to refuse Death. That! That was the real feat, slipping through his fingers, and not seeing the bony old wanker coming in the first place. She wasn’t afraid of dying itself. But all the times before she’d had just so much going on, and still so many plans in the making, that not getting to do it all would’ve been a downright shame. Back in the day, Gria had been a cocky and arrogant little Witch - ah, what the heck, she still was a cocky and arrogant little Witch, just add ancient, wrinkled and creaky to the current mix; and Death and her were old acquaintances, so to say. Not that she’d invite him over for tea anytime soon, but then, when had she ever invited anyone over for tea? The last time she had tried the social shite and agreed to be part of a Coven, things had got mighty out of hand. Granted, it had not been absolutely necessary to hex their Weaver’s nose so it’d always tickle her close to but never relieving her with a sneeze, or to lay a curse of eternal bloating on the Coven-Mother; but then, Gria had only given them actual reasons for the stupid looks they carried around on their faces anyway. She was off well enough on her own, and everyone else could sod right off. She cackled at her own absurdity and got rewarded with a coughing fit for her wickedness.
“C’mere, ya little pest,” Gria rasped at her familiar, an enormous and warty Toad, who was lying belly up in front of the fireplace at the moment.
The amphibian's body alone was double the size of Gria’s own head. Lying prone with outstretched limbs, it was a humongous bloody menace for an ancient Witch with slightly unsteady feet to trip over, which was, of course, the exact purpose of it.
“Ach, what do you want, you ugly old fart,” Moiragwyth burped, but at least rolled over to look at Gria. She blinked, one eye after the other, her lids sliding over her huge yellow eyes emitting a slimy, kind of smacking noise.
“Such love I feel. It’s been a while since someone said something this nice to me,” Gria cackled. “Now get your fat rolling, you useless waste of perfectly good warts. I got an errand for you. An important one.”
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“Shove your broomstick up yours, ya daft sack of rotting bones. Get it yourself then,” Moira yawned, showing the Witch her huge, mucus covered, rosy tongue. The Toad shifted her limbs around and twitched a bit, stretching before settling down to continue her nap.
“Well aren't you just a warm and brilliant ray of pitch black midnight? I got other things to do while you earn your keep for a change,” the Witch waved a dismissive gesture. “We are up for a death again.”
“Ach!” the Toad perked up. “On whose pudding did you hurl snot this time, sunshine? Made a new friend? Or is one of the old ones trying for better luck this time around?”
“Neither,” Gria smirked. “This is bound to be interesting.”
“Well, out with it then. I don’t care to go down with you yet, even though we both look and you also smell like worm food. Whatsit you need?” Moira crawled up to her and rubbed her side against Gria’s leg. Her head reached up to the Witch's knee, even without the Toad trying, and she regarded her with an inquisitive and worried look in her yellow eyes.
Despite their unique way of talking to each other, their bond was strong, and Witch and Familiar felt a deeply rooted affection for each other. Not that they would ever admit it to anyone, mind. What would be next? Dusting her shelves and cleaning her hut? Or, curses forbid, flower vases and - knitting? Gria shuddered.
“You need to get me a Mandrake, and a good one at that. And be quick about it, will you? We need to start right away, because the first sequence of events has already come to pass.”
“Your last visitor?”
“Yes,” Gria grumbled. “She is as oblivious as ever, the vain little trollop - sharp as a hard-boiled egg, that one. Well, at least she's not boring, but that damn croaking Familiar of hers sure as fool's fire rubs me the wrong way every damn time they come round to pester me. I fobbed her off with a vague interpretation of my vision and sent her on her way. Too dangerous to keep her around for now. She'll be back soon enough anyway, and with ample company. Now, they will be an interesting bunch, let me tell ya, and you and I shall have good fun with them. But the hussy, I fear, has got herself into something far more tangled and dangerous than she bargained for. This time, she might be in way over her head.”
“Sounds familiar,” Moira chuckled. “I know of another wench with the same habit, back when she was stupid’n young. She’s just stupid now, because the ‘young’ packed its bags and buggered off. But, it sure was a lot of fun, to watch her struggle and feck about.”
“Oh, shut it, you abysmal outhouse leaving. I am and was never anything like her.”
“Sure, ya cranky waft of bog stench. Must have mistaken you for somebody else, then, Griselda. Such a common name.”
“Don't you take that tone with me, or I'll hex you, ya overripe knickers’ stain,” Gria leant forward and scritched Moira’s head.
“I'm not afraid of you. You should know better by now than to try with your empty threats,” the Toad mocked with closed eyes, leaning into the Witch's hand. “You know what a fine Familiar I am to be bound to, you won't risk me.”
“No? Let's see how you like being a pretty little butterfly for a while. Or how about something cute and fluffy? You’d make an excellent puppy.”
“Ach, you wouldn't!” Moiragwyth exclaimed and her eyes sprang open. “Not even you could be so cruel, you sour old excuse of a hag!”
“Try me. But enough with the banter already, best be on your way, I got preparations to handle,” Gria stated and gave Moira a final pat.
The Toad looked up at her and blinked once more, yet again with one eye after the other. “Don’t die on me while I'm gone. I want to be there for every single one of your hopefully painful death rasps, and laugh at you until you breathe your final,” the amphibian garbled, then shot off with unnatural speed.
“I know. I love you, too,” the Bog Witch thought and looked after her Familiar, worry pinching her heart.
With much huffing and puffing and quite a few very unpleasantly popping joints, Gria got out of her chair. Time to get to work - but first she’d write down the hex for eternally damp handcuffs, and the curse about the outhouse paper. There’d be only one slip left for the cursed, every time they’d just dumped a right big load, and there’d never be anyone else around to bring them more. Her Grimoire was a greedy little git which had to be fed on the regular, and Gria’s brain was not what it once had been, so she had to pen it down before she forgot again. One had to hold on to the precious baubles of cruelty one came up with.
And after that, she’d see about her role in the end of all things. Despite the inconveniences ahead, what a grand ol’ time it was to be alive and still - well, not kicking, but at least cackling!
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