- [The Witch of the White Fog] -

She lets out a sharp, indistinct yelp, flailing her arms to the sides as she tries to hold her balance as she teeters over the edge of the rooftop of a castle tower. Her thighs clench down together hard enough on her broomstick to cause the wood to creak. A massive gust of wind from this high elevation blows over her, as if trying to push her over the edge with a final nudge. Like a tail, the bristles of the broom swing out from side to side as she staggers and then stumbles back, falling down onto the steep ledge of the tower and onto her broomstick.

With one hand on her hat, she sighs in relief, holding it in place, and then looks down at the castle grounds from above.

The spires of many towers and walls jut up toward her like spikes in a pit she was about to fall into. The quietly screaming faces of grotesque statues are turned downward from her high perch for the most part. But a few of them are turned upward her way, as if the architect had feverishly imagined anyone ever reaching this impossible perch of hers. Her eyes dance across the walls, observing the impossible layout of the castle that almost seems to be growing like an organic object. The walls, the towers — when she looks away and then looks back — she’s sure that many of them had changed in those few seconds, rising higher and longer across the perilous mountain ledge.

A darkness hangs over it all, pierced by the sparse illuminations of lights from the castle windows and grounds, where torches burn and spells shine alight. But these brief flashes, contrastingly, only add a stronger sense of dread to the air. In a way, it’s worse than if it were completely dark, because as it is now, it looks as if there were lights fighting against the night, but they are always predestined to lose to its smothering ink.

My, my. What a frightening place this is.

It’s perfect!

The witch gets back up, readjusting her broom, and kicks off. She rises up into the air a ways, hovering over the ledge of the tower.

Then she stops, staring blankly for a minute.

…What is she doing here again? Where is she?

The wind blows, and, like a confused and lost elder, her glazed eyes drift for a minute before she snaps back to reality.

Right! Of course. The castle. Duh.

She forgot where she was for a moment there.

This will be the perfect place for her to find and train students to pass on her craft to. Her kind is a dying breed, and they are hunted across the world as they have been for generations now. There are hardly any witches at all that she knows of.

Whereas in long-forgotten days witches were seen as revered mystics and coveted people of societal standing, now they are all but wiped out. The Holy-Church had taken a disliking to them, given their rather unique nature as spellcasters compared to the other more traditional classes of the world, and began the witch hunts the world over.

Whereas there were thousands at one point in time, now she knows of only a handful at best who still survive to this day, including herself.

She’s strong enough to hide and survive, given her talents. But she isn’t strong enough to fight back against the dying of her profession alone.

But this castle and its Master…

Her eyes scan the waiting darkness.

— It is strong enough to protect her. She knows this because of the summons she received in the middle of the night. That requires potent, deep, and dark magic to find and reach someone as well hidden as she always is. Even she never knew where she was, always flying from place to place and hiding spot to hiding spot. The curse made it even more difficult.

There’s an irony in that — a witch being cursed — but she’s gotten used to it. It’s just the life she lives.

The Master has called for her.

She’s grateful for it. Nobody has called her name in a hundred odd years or so, because there is nobody left who can speak it.

There is much work to do. She must begin immediately.

Hwa-young nods to herself and flies to it.

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Whereas a sorceress or a wizard practice magic by following a specific school of magic, such as pyromancy, for example, or necromancy — talents for which are often leaned toward at birth already — witches don’t function in the same manner.

Traditional casters practice a mastery of the elements.

People like priests and druids worship specific entities and concepts and draw their strength through the lens of these metaphysical creations.

But witches and their male counterparts — warlocks — are bound to entities. These… things are usually old and forgotten beings, with names that aren’t placed in any holy books or in any dusty tomes, as writing them down in their true languages takes more pages than men have paper on this world. It’s not worship, it’s not reverence — it’s a connection, and oftentimes it’s one that isn’t pleasant.

Like a child being adopted by an abusive family, there is a forced, inescapable bond there that one has no choice but to live with. For some, this station becomes the norm of their existence, and they acclimate to the bitterness, letting it shape them. For others, it becomes the bane of their lives.

She’s somewhere in between those two places. But that’s because she’s a lucky-lucky girl. So very lucky indeed, not like the other witches. Her patron is the reason she’s alive still and why she escaped the hunts, and its the reason she’s here now.

…She thinks?

She doesn’t remember.

Stopping, she scratches her head. Her straight, chin-length dark blond hair moves beneath her fingers. The front part of it is a contrastingly dark brown-orange, the bangs of which cover her forehead. Her soulful brown eyes stare, lost in thought.

This isn’t her natural color. It changed when she changed.

…She feels like, anyway. She doesn’t remember if it was her natural hair or not. It feels like an odd way to have your hair be.

The witch lets out an excited gasp, peering in through the window of the tower into the alchemy lab from the outside.

It’s beautiful. She’s never seen one like it. Her tables and instruments are all ready. Glass burners are roaring, and blue flames bubble the frothing liquid inside cauldrons. Goopy slimes crawl out and around the bottles and shelves, having fun amongst themselves.

Opening the window, she slides inside off her broom.

She can’t wait to get to work! The Master must be very diligent and kind to have made her a laboratory as ready as this one. This is certainly a step up from the caves she’s been brewing in for years now.

Her eyes shine vividly with excitement as a slime gloops over toward her. The green monster takes shape, forming into something that looks like a person, and then stares at her curiously. It tilts its head.

Oh! A slime!

The witch smiles, waving to it.

Monsters aren’t mean to her, not just because she has been called by the Master, but just because they can smell on her that she is like they are.

The slimegirl, confused, sloshes around her and observes her from all sides, trying to understand what she is. Because she looks like an adventurer, but there’s something off about her.

Cute. She likes slimes.

The lab bubbles.

The witch stares blankly, her eyes glazing over as she almost seems to freeze in place. The slimegirl, having decided that she isn’t worth eating, begins to bubble in disappointment and then starts to move away.

…Huh?

Where is she?

The witch looks around herself at the lab.

Oh! A slime!

The witch smiles, waving to it.

She and monsters get along great! They don’t mind her, and she doesn’t mind them.

Cute. She likes slimes.

Confused, the slimegirl looks back at her and then waves again, somewhat less enthusiastically.

Smiling, the witch admires the lab. What an amazing place! The Master is surely generous and kind. She will do her best to create everything he needs, from potions to student witches who will serve him at his beck and call. She’d better hurry and get to it! She hasn’t met him yet, but she wants to make a great first impression when she does. She should unpack and start making potions straight away.

She turns to the window, getting ready to climb back onto her broom and then stops. Her hand rests on the window sill.

…What was she doing?

Confused, she turns back around and looks at the room.

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The witch gasps, as if seeing it all for the first time. An alchemy laboratory, and an amazing one at that.

Oh! A slime!

The witch smiles, waving to it. A slimegirl hangs over a table that it had begun crawling over, wanting to drink some of the brew inside of a large cauldron. Excited to see such an exotic, nice monster, the witch beams.

The slimegirl watches her, confused, and then drops into the pot without waving back. Must be shy. That’s not a problem; so is she. Monsters and her are the best of friends.

Anyway, she’d better not dally! The good Master is surely waiting for her to do her best, so…

So…

Uh… Hmm.

Scratching her head, the witch doesn’t remember what she was about to think. It’s gone. Shrugging to herself, she climbs out of the window and flies to the gardens.

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“Pretty, huh?” asks a voice, almost disgusted by the fact as a pair of sunken in airs leers her way from above. “You’re not from here. You look different.”

The witch, Hwa-young, tilts her head, looking at a disapproving, pale, runny face.

“Well it’s about time you got here!” barks a harsh, growling voice that does not fit the shape of the spirit it stems from. A drippy, melting ghost hovers there with her arms crossed. “The Master has been waiting for you for weeks now!” she snaps, leaning in closer and narrowing her eyes. “If it was up to me, I’d send you straight into the torture chamber!” An angry face closes down toward her as the ghost gestures out to the side, where a battle is happening between many adventurers and skeletons out in the gardens. “Look at this mess! We need potions!” she instructs. “I told the Master that skeletons were the way to go and they’re getting pummeled out here. It makes me look bad, and it’s your fault for being late.”

The witch nods, opening her mouth to reply.

The ghost lifts a finger, immediately shushing her. “Here are the rules,” she starts, counting off with her three fingered hand. “You never look at the Master. You never touch the Master. You never try to become the Master’s favorite, because that’s me!” she snaps, pointing at herself.

What a funny ghost. The witch tilts her head, her wide, floppy hat dangling off to the side. The Master must be very gentle for such a maddened, crazed, and depraved spirit to be so clingy. She looks forward to meeting him.

The ghost removes her hand. “You make potions, and then you go back to your little house without being pretty and charming in front of him, got it?” she asks, holding her hands on her hips.

In the background, a man trying to block a spell from a skeleton mage with a tower shield is instead sent flying. He launches through a castle window, straight up into the fourth floor. Glass shatters and rains down around everywhere.

…What was she doing again?

Confused, the witch turns her head from side to side and then looks up.

Oh! A ghost!

“Hey! I asked you if I was clear?” snaps the ghost angrily.

The witch opens her mouth, not sure what the question was about. So she gives a vague answer that seems like she was still all here.

“최선을 다하겠습니다,” replies the witch.

The ghost opens her mouth and then stops, looking at her curiously as she rubs her ears. “What?” she asks, markedly dryly.

The witch nods affirmatively. “최선을 다하겠습니다!” she repeats, smiling.

“I didn’t… I… what language is that?” she asks. “Can’t you…?” She stops, shaking her head. “Whatever. I don’t care. Good. It’s good if you can’t speak the Master’s language. because then you can’t try to steal him from me like the others,” she explains pointedly. “Last thing I need is for him to share my time with him with someone else again.”

A group of skeletons is vaporized off of a castle wall as a high-level human magical archer sends an enchanted arrow through their ranks. “Get me those potions! And don't bother the Master! He's very busy!” snaps the ghost, looking over her shoulder at the mess, and then immediately vanishes.

— She forgot how to speak the language a long time ago. She only remembers this one, but she’s not sure from where anymore. Nobody else can speak it, so she’s been stuck like this for a while now.

The witch stands there by herself.

What an odd, lively place this is! There is good energy in the air.

Nodding to herself, she opens the door to the little hut behind her using the key she was just given and steps inside.

Out in the castle gardens, somewhat off to the side, was a small little building that almost called to her as she flew down to it. The beckoning spell that summoned her here comes primarily from this place.

It’s a tiny little space, a hut… but in a nice way. There are four strong walls. A comfortable, strong-looking bed is in the back left. In the center ahead of her is a stone hearth, burning with warm fire. A table and some chairs are on the right, and the rest of the twelve-step big space is adorned with a mixture of comfortable furnishings. All of it comes together to give the place a feeling that she hasn’t felt for a long time. A black metal lock secures the door behind her. A few pipes with water run along the wall open-faced at the top, where a divergent flow of cold and heated water runs through the cabin and back outside.

Closing the door behind herself, she lets out a long exhalation, feeling the warmth of the space come over here. It feels good. This place feels safe.

The Master has spared no expense.

[{Restored} The Witch’s Hut]

{Sanctuary Zone}

A small, comfortable home belonging to a witch. Despite the scary things this would imply, it is instead a cozy, safe place in the world that carries over everything inside of itself — the warm orange of a lit hearth and the perfume odors of teas and perfume essences. No matter how cold or bitter the darkness outside, in here, it is always just right.

Given the magical essences collected here in this natural domain, it is the perfect magnet for helpful [Sprites], who may possibly be drawn to the [Blackflower Gardens] by its wholesome aura.

A special, black metal lock keeps out any unwanted guests.

• Enchanted [Equipment] can now be dropped by any monsters within the castle grounds.

• Adds [Sprites] to the monster pool near well-lit outdoor areas.

This room is active. No monsters are currently spawning here. Treasure: 1x [Welcoming Gift]

Walking over to the table, she follows her nose toward a fragrant bouquet of flowers that lie there together with a splotchy note. A beautiful, glassy crystal chunk adorns the table as its centerpiece. Picking the flowers up, she takes in a deep smell of the freshly cut petals and reads the scrawled note.

“Welcome,

If you’re reading this, then you got here before I got to you. Apologies; I’ll find time to meet you as soon as possible. Thank you for coming. I look forward to working together.

P.S. Please do not tell the gardener that I took these flowers.

— Inkume The Vampire Lord”

She smiles.

What an awkward, strange note. It would seem like a normal thing, if not for the fact that it’s covered in scratched-out lines. It looks like he wrote the note three or four times over before finally settling on one that sounded best.

For a Vampire Lord, he seems very unusual. She is excited to meet him. She will start working right away!

She stops, her eyes glazing over, and she just stands there for a time until a wayward spark from the fire rekindles her inner light.

What’s going on?

Confused, she blinks and then looks down at the note in her hand and the flowers. She smiles, seeing them. They’re beautiful. Hwa-young takes in the deep smell of their exotic, soft blossoms and fills herself with a perfume. Laughing quietly, she reads the awkward note with a smile on her face and then decides that she must get to work immediately, given how kindly she has been welcomed.

But before she can turn around, she stops again, her eyes glazing over.

And the cycle repeats for a time, until something comes that is strong enough to snap her back out of her empty cycling of the mind.

She didn’t used to be this way, but she became so a long time ago. She knows she does it, but only in part. It’s not that she’s forgetful; moreso, it’s that she’s simply… disconnected from moments that had happened only instants ago, and she’ll have to repeat them over and over again until she’s finally able to move on to what’s next.

Her patron’s bestowing of power, together with her own horrific experiences during the witch hunts, fractured some delicate calibration inside of her mind. Like a broken compass, it will still point in the right direction, but the metaphorical red needle will often spin around and around several times before finally reaching it’s stopping point.

And if she’s lucky, while she’s trapped, she’ll be trapped in a place like this.

The witch smells the flowers, as if smelling them for the very first time, and a smile comes to her face, as if for the very first time — which is confusing, as there seems to be one there already, and she’s not sure what from.

She reads the note, as if reading it for the very first time, and laughs to herself at the awkward, sloppy handwriting and the many scrawled-out lines that look more like the work of a terrified schoolboy asking a girl if she likes him than those of a great beast.

What an interesting man this Vampire Lord must be.

— But on other times, she’s trapped in places that aren’t so nice. She’ll get trapped in bad dreams, despite being awake. She’ll get stuck in painful moments, repeating them over and over, and she’ll get lost in pains that should have gone away a long time ago but honestly never will. She’ll get trapped in places she escaped a long time ago in body but not in mind.

The witch smiles to herself, smelling the flowers for the first time, as the sound of fighting continues to come from outside.

After taking a few moments to finally end the first, she stops and looks down at her side. There is a sling around her shoulder, and resting in a cupped weave of cloth at her side is a reflective sphere — a glassy orb. Setting the orb down, she checks the area and then looks into it.

This is her power. It lets her see things that are to come and see things that already are. She’s a little forgetful, but that’s the price she paid. It’s because her memory is stretched thin. She doesn’t just need her memory to remember things that are happening here. She also needs it to remember things that are happening there, where she is not.

Hwa-Young narrows her eyes, focusing into the glass as she stares into a vision that might be the past or it might be the future. Who really knows?

The image inside the crystal ball creates a mirage of the Vampire Lord.

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- [A Prophecy] - Somewhere, sometime, in the vaguely distant future.

“You can’t!” shouts the warrior hero, pointing her shaking sword toward the black heart of the Vampire Lord as he sits on his throne, his head resting with an almost bored, dull expression on his eyes that don’t match the torrent all around them. His other hand holds a chalice that he slowly swirls from side to side, the red blood in it swirling along the edges. Her gleaming sword’s blade aims toward where his black heart ought to be. “That ritual will end the world forever!”

The roof of the castle throne room is gone, blasted away by a wave of power. Smoldering, melting stones drip down the edges, hissing as rain from above strikes the destruction-created magma.

The light from the shining embers that drift through the air — some dancing between raindrops and others being crushed by them — bounces off of her golden, butterfly hair clip.

“That man I met would never do this!” she shouts, readying herself.

His cold, dead eyes look at her from his throne of ashes. “That ‘man’…” he replies in a slow, steadied voice. “Who was that man?” The Vampire Lord lifts his head, striking out his hand her way. “A wretched pile of quivering cowardice.” There is a shattering as the fragile glass flies from his hand, smashing to the soaked carpets as he gets up, unsheathing an elegant, black rapier from his side and pointing it down at her. “But enough!” says the greatest monster of the broken-mooned night above them, missing some near thousand stars from its weave. “Have at you!”

He disappears for a second, teleporting through his cloak. The heroine turns at the last second, her sword meeting his as the final battle for the world begins.