| Recipe - Potion of Remove Status For this alchemical potion, you will need: 1 cup of purified water 1/4 cup of crushed moonflower petals 1/4 cup of crushed goldenrod 1/4 cup of crushed lavender 1/4 cup of crushed chamomile 1 tablespoon of honey 1 tablespoon of Mushmush powder - Do not use the Mushmush’s cap. The powder should be from the body only. 1 pinch of salt Instructions Begin by heating the purified water in a small saucepan over medium heat. As the water begins to steam, add the crushed moonflower petals, goldenrod, lavender, and chamomile. Reduce the heat to low and simmer the mixture for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove the saucepan from the heat and allow the mixture to cool for 5 minutes. Strain the mixture through a fine-mesh sieve, discarding the solids. Return the strained liquid to the saucepan and add the honey, Mushmush's powder, and salt. Stir to combine. Heat the mixture over medium heat, stirring constantly, until the honey has fully dissolved and the mixture is well combined. Remove the saucepan from the heat and allow the potion to cool to room temperature. Transfer the potion to a clean, airtight bottle or jar and store in a cool, dark place. The potion should be effective for up to one month when stored properly. This potion has two servings of a minor effect each. Consume all for one major status removal effect. |
~ Alabaster Auborgine’s Handbook of Simple Alchemical Recipes
| ~ [Aurin, The Meek] ~ |
| Human, Male, Crusader {Legendary Swordsman} |
| Location: The Sub-Tower, Floor -94 |
| ~ [Dungeon] ~ |
| Floor {-94} - Diligence |
| Heaven’s Labyrinth |
| Floor -94 of the sub-tower of Isaiah A large room with no walls. Instead, hundreds of cascading waterfalls of holy water, streaming through slots in the ceiling high above, make up the linings of various corridors and passageways. |
| Room Effect: Every time a person fails and falls into the water, the room layout resets itself. |
They’ve come to a halt.
The grand crusade has not been brought to a halt by great demons of the breach or abundant combat, instead, they’ve been slowed down by their own numbers after all of this time of excellent progress.
Another man loses his footing, slipping off a wet square platform. Aurin spins, grabbing him by the edge of his chestplate and throwing him back onto dry ground. By his accounts, they’re halfway through the floor already, but it isn’t the first time. Somehow, people keep slipping and falling into the pits, which resets the floor. They’ve been here for far too long already; time is of the essence.
— The clock-tower ticks, the striking of the heavy hand ringing through his bones as a never-ending reminder of the finality of this situation.
They’re not leaving this place alive, not until the tower is destroyed and peace is restored to the good lands of this world, as intended by the true gods.
Someone yelps to the side. Aurin turns too slow, watching as somebody falls into the brink, off of the side of a pit.
He gets a sharp pang in his head, holding it, as he watches the man fly.
| ~ [Beige] ~ |
| Uthra, Female, Worker {06} |
| Location: The Sub-Tower, Floor -94 |
“Wow… that’s so mean, Magenta,” says Beige, watching as Magenta laughs, dusting her hands. The golden bangles around her wrists jingle through the roaring noise of the waterfalls all around them.
The two uthra are flying beneath the suspended platforms on floor ninety-four, dangerously close to the crusaders, who are literally feet above them, just on the other side of the stone.
“It’s not mean,” replies Magenta, looking toward Beige. “I’m just doing my job. It’s what Isaiah would want.”
“Is it?” asks Beige. The two of them have been sneakily yanking people’s legs, causing them to fall off of the platforms and reset the floor every time. “I thought Isaiah told us not to put ourselves in danger?” asks the uthra.
Magenta waves Beige off. “Danger?” she asks, knocking on the stones above their heads. “We’re fine here, they’ll never find uHSS~!,” says the uthra proudly, only then yelping in terror as something painfully snags her ear. The horrified uthra looks out of the corner of her eyes at Red, who reaches out, grabbing Beige too, and pulls her over.
“Found you,” says Red. “Dumbasses,” hisses the uthra, shooting downward.
— The stones above their heads shake as a great sword cleaves through the material from above, right where Magenta was a moment ago.
Red teleports them away.
| ~ [The Humming Man] ~ |
| ???, Male, Chronomancer |
| Location: The Island, Northern Edge |
The humming man hums, his legs dangling off of the edge of the northern end of the island, his hand stroking a long, scaled body belonging to a massive wyrm that has taken up residence here.
He sighs, leaning back and taking in the sights of the world. He does wish the sun would rise again soon, but that’s all still a little ways off into the distance. Still, this is an interesting sight in and of itself too, isn’t it?
His vision wanders over the endless nightscape, stretching on for as far as he can see. The sky is full of so many heavy, dark clouds, that not a single star is visible in the void above their heads. Only the tower of Isaiah illuminates the heavens.
It’s quite a dramatic visual, honestly.
Not a bad set-up at all.
He looks at it, from over his shoulder, remembering the last time he was here. It was just a small, runty thing. Sure, it was a tower, but it was just kind of a tower like any other, barring some quirks. However, now, well… it’s certainly something worth looking at and investing in.
The wyrm opens a massive, yellow eye, looking at him. It’s an old, ancient creature that stems from a distant era that has now long since passed. The prime of its youth is long since over, the true glory days having come to an end. However, this new existence is good too.
In a way, the two of them are alike, aren’t they?
“Not interested in retiring either, huh?” asks the humming man.
The wyrm closes its eyes, not responding. It would have been odd if it did, given that it can’t see him or sense him. Perhaps it thought he was just a gust of wind at best.
He nods, looking back out over the darkness.
He gets it.
The young don’t really know how good they have it, not because of talk of youthful vigor or beauty or anything like that, which fades with age, but because they still have the pinnacle of their experiences ahead of them.
He’s the humming man, and that’s pretty great. However, there are things that even he would wish to have again, and he’s the man who has everything.
A hum escapes him as he watches the distant north. His next job is up that way, but that’s not for a good few years yet. Until then, he has a lot to finish up here. Although, there isn’t all that much left to do.
The pieces, set up at the start, have already begun falling over one another all by themselves, without any further interference needed from him after his initial meddling, plus one or two little kinks on the side.
Ah… to be young.
| ~ [Scholar Anderwal] ~ |
| Human, Male, Scholar of the Witches’ Sect |
| Location: The Dead City |
“We will finally prosper, Brother Anderwal,” says his companion from the Witches’ Sect. Anderwal looks at him. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” he asks.
“I kept the faith,” replies Anderwal, knowing the tradition in times like these.
The man makes a light fist, bumping it against Anderwal’s chest. “So what now?” he asks. “Will you stay here to take more notes, now that the work is done?” The man looks at him. “Or will you go to study the others in the east?”
Anderwal smiles, rubbing the back of his head as he looks around at the site. The members of the sect, hundreds strong, are rebuilding core parts of the city using their magic, which has been enhanced by Witch Perchta.
“Nothing against you, brother,” replies Anderwal. “But I study witches, not their followers.” He looks at the city. “However, I, uh… I think I will stay a little longer. I have an obligation of sorts,” he explains, looking down towards the ground.
“I see,” replies the other man, lowering his hand from Anderwal’s chest. “Then I am glad. Let me know when it is time, Brother,” replies the man. “You’re one of us, and you deserve a proper send off.”
“I’ll…” Anderwal is quiet for a moment, before looking up at the man. “I’ll do that,” he says, nodding. The other man nods too.
The pact is sealed.
Anderwal watches as the man walks off and then looks back down towards his leg a second time, waiting to catch a glimpse of the little red string tied around his ankle a second time.
But it’s not there now. However, he can feel it there. It’s wrapped around his leg so tightly that he feels like it should be cutting off the circulation to his foot, but no such lack of sensation comes. He turns, feeling a tensing of the string as something pulls him along down the street.
It’s not forcing him to go that way, it’s more akin to that feeling one has when suddenly, entirely randomly, deciding to do something different in life for no apparent reason. It’s the feeling of taking a different street home than the one that you would usually take, the feeling of buying a cold drink instead of a warm one, the feeling of sleeping in your bed with your head on the foot-end. There’s no real, good, logical reason for it, but rather something subconscious.
— At least, that’s what the mind tells itself, because it can’t see such things as the fickelties of fate.
Anderwal works his way through many destroyed, ruined side roads, crawling through some debris made into a tunnel, and then looks around at where he finds himself. A room filled with shelving from front to back, much of it is overturned and broken, damaged by fire. However, much of it is still intact and full of books.
The local library.
He wanders through the room, feeling the tightening around his ankle and his chest as he can already sense her presence. Witches are hard to miss when you know what to look for.
Scholar Anderwal looks past a shelf, staring at the white-haired, spider-like woman, Witch Spillaholle, who is surrounded by a mountain of books, her face buried in one as she feverishly reads, as evidenced by the turning of her head and the flipping of pages.
Anderwal clears his throat. Witch Spillaholle, entirely out of character for her, screams, practically tossing the book out of her hands, trying to catch it and not lose her balance as she herself jumps up — all in one movement.
Instead, the witch fumbles to catch the book, stumbles over her own leg, which was wrapped around the leg of the chair, and knocks over the towers of books around herself as she gracelessly lands down onto the old carpet.
“My apologies, Witch Spillaholle,” says Scholar Anderwal as the woman lifts her head with a sharp twist to look at him with wide eyes, as if she had suddenly had a horrific realization. He bends down to help her up. Good thing it’s her. This is another one of those scenarios that literally any other witch might have turned him into a frog for this. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Mister Anderwal,” replies Spillaholle, clearing her throat and taking on her usual, casual tone, despite lying on the floor with a few loose pages forming what looks like a pigeon’s nest on top of her head.
“I’m very sorry for scaring you. Let me help you,” he says, holding out a hand and picking up her books for her.
She reaches out, grabbing the book that he’s picked up. “Ah, no! That will not be necces-”
Ah?
He turns his eyes to look back at Witch Spillaholle, feeling something in his arm. He looks down. He’s still holding onto the book that she’s grabbed to take back, and her fingers accidentally touch his.
The two of them look down at this and stare.
“Mister Anderwal…” says Spillaholle, lowering her gaze.
“Yes?” he asks, clearing his throat again, watching as a red string wraps itself around their fingers, spanning from one to the other.
The witch looks back up at him. “What are your intentions?” she asks.
Anderwal looks into her eyes, shaking his head. This situation has gone critical; he needs to defuse it all now before it becomes a huge disaster.
“I’m not sure,” replies Scholar Anderwal calmly, lifting the book they’re both holding onto. “Maybe we can find the answer in here?” he jokes, thinking that he just made a pretty smooth save just now.
— At least until he looks at the book that they’re holding onto together, his eyes going wide as he looks at the stack of other knocked over books, which are hard to miss given the floral imagery, pageantry and writing style.
It’s a romance book.
They’re all romance novels in the sense that they are either quite literally so, or that they’re text books on the topic of romance, feelings, and other such complications. Judging by the fervor she was reading this one with, it must have been a potent one too.
Oh no.
Anderwal looks back at the witch, who seems to have been overwhelmed with this, what appears to be a very confident and aggressive answer. Her face and body are both as stiff as a terrified doe’s, her face flushed, and her eyes as large as they can be.
— Something tugs on him. He can feel it wrapped around him. Or maybe he can’t; he doesn’t know, honestly. Maybe there’s nothing there at all.
“M- Mister Anderwal,” starts Spillaholle. “It would not be appropriate. I am far too… too…” She stops, as both of them have moved very close to one another, so much so that he can feel the softness of her breath on his lips and she his. “— I mean, Mister… Scholar… An… Anderwal— It would not be…”
It’s a very confusing situation on many levels. Yes, fate nudged him this way, but he still went along for the journey.
Perhaps something tugs on him and perhaps on her to get them to move just a little closer to one another, or perhaps there was nothing there at all and they are just people placed into a situation that they chose to dive deeper into.
In the end, nobody can really say for sure.
White hair and a flower that smells of perfume fall together down onto the carpet, along with two bodies, displacing books and paper and threads of red.
| ~ [Witch Perchta] ~ |
| ???, Female, Witch of the Blackwater |
| Location: The Dead City, A Small House |
“Spillie!” calls Perchta, looking around the room. No response. “Did you see Spille?” asks Perchta, looking at Witch Gauden.
The large man shakes his head. “Sorry, Pipi, what’s up?” he asks.
Perchta sighs, sitting down at the table and letting her head flop against it. “I can’t find Yovel, and now I can’t find Spille either!” whines the witch, rolling her head over the table.
Gauden looks at her, rubbing his beard. “Hmm… well, Spille was here a little while ago. But your friend I haven’t seen since.” The man pats her on the back. “I’m sure it’s going to be fine,” he promises, getting up. “Come on, let’s bake something together,” he offers. “That always cheers you up, right?”
“Really?!” asks Perchta excitedly, lifting her head and beaming as the man nods his head to the kitchen.
The two of them bake a very nice cake, obviously not as nice as the one she made by herself for her friends, but that’s to be expected.
Razmatazz
*Tugs on collar*
Wew. Why is it so warm in here? Must be all the baking, haha...
| Recipe - Potion of Remove Status For this alchemical potion, you will need: 1 cup of purified water 1/4 cup of crushed moonflower petals 1/4 cup of crushed goldenrod 1/4 cup of crushed lavender 1/4 cup of crushed chamomile 1 tablespoon of honey 1 tablespoon of Mushmush powder - Do not use the Mushmush’s cap. The powder should be from the body only. 1 pinch of salt Instructions Begin by heating the purified water in a small saucepan over medium heat. As the water begins to steam, add the crushed moonflower petals, goldenrod, lavender, and chamomile. Reduce the heat to low and simmer the mixture for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove the saucepan from the heat and allow the mixture to cool for 5 minutes. Strain the mixture through a fine-mesh sieve, discarding the solids. Return the strained liquid to the saucepan and add the honey, Mushmush's powder, and salt. Stir to combine. Heat the mixture over medium heat, stirring constantly, until the honey has fully dissolved and the mixture is well combined. Remove the saucepan from the heat and allow the potion to cool to room temperature. Transfer the potion to a clean, airtight bottle or jar and store in a cool, dark place. The potion should be effective for up to one month when stored properly. This potion has two servings of a minor effect each. Consume all for one major status removal effect. |
~ Alabaster Auborgine’s Handbook of Simple Alchemical Recipes
| ~ [Aurin, The Meek] ~ |
| Human, Male, Crusader {Legendary Swordsman} |
| Location: The Sub-Tower, Floor -94 |
| ~ [Dungeon] ~ |
| Floor {-94} - Diligence |
| Heaven’s Labyrinth |
| Floor -94 of the sub-tower of Isaiah A large room with no walls. Instead, hundreds of cascading waterfalls of holy water, streaming through slots in the ceiling high above, make up the linings of various corridors and passageways. |
| Room Effect: Every time a person fails and falls into the water, the room layout resets itself. |
They’ve come to a halt.
The grand crusade has not been brought to a halt by great demons of the breach or abundant combat, instead, they’ve been slowed down by their own numbers after all of this time of excellent progress.
Another man loses his footing, slipping off a wet square platform. Aurin spins, grabbing him by the edge of his chestplate and throwing him back onto dry ground. By his accounts, they’re halfway through the floor already, but it isn’t the first time. Somehow, people keep slipping and falling into the pits, which resets the floor. They’ve been here for far too long already; time is of the essence.
— The clock-tower ticks, the striking of the heavy hand ringing through his bones as a never-ending reminder of the finality of this situation.
They’re not leaving this place alive, not until the tower is destroyed and peace is restored to the good lands of this world, as intended by the true gods.
Someone yelps to the side. Aurin turns too slow, watching as somebody falls into the brink, off of the side of a pit.
He gets a sharp pang in his head, holding it, as he watches the man fly.
| ~ [Beige] ~ |
| Uthra, Female, Worker {06} |
| Location: The Sub-Tower, Floor -94 |
“Wow… that’s so mean, Magenta,” says Beige, watching as Magenta laughs, dusting her hands. The golden bangles around her wrists jingle through the roaring noise of the waterfalls all around them.
The two uthra are flying beneath the suspended platforms on floor ninety-four, dangerously close to the crusaders, who are literally feet above them, just on the other side of the stone.
“It’s not mean,” replies Magenta, looking toward Beige. “I’m just doing my job. It’s what Isaiah would want.”
“Is it?” asks Beige. The two of them have been sneakily yanking people’s legs, causing them to fall off of the platforms and reset the floor every time. “I thought Isaiah told us not to put ourselves in danger?” asks the uthra.
Magenta waves Beige off. “Danger?” she asks, knocking on the stones above their heads. “We’re fine here, they’ll never find uHSS~!,” says the uthra proudly, only then yelping in terror as something painfully snags her ear. The horrified uthra looks out of the corner of her eyes at Red, who reaches out, grabbing Beige too, and pulls her over.
“Found you,” says Red. “Dumbasses,” hisses the uthra, shooting downward.
— The stones above their heads shake as a great sword cleaves through the material from above, right where Magenta was a moment ago.
Red teleports them away.
| ~ [The Humming Man] ~ |
| ???, Male, Chronomancer |
| Location: The Island, Northern Edge |
The humming man hums, his legs dangling off of the edge of the northern end of the island, his hand stroking a long, scaled body belonging to a massive wyrm that has taken up residence here.
He sighs, leaning back and taking in the sights of the world. He does wish the sun would rise again soon, but that’s all still a little ways off into the distance. Still, this is an interesting sight in and of itself too, isn’t it?
His vision wanders over the endless nightscape, stretching on for as far as he can see. The sky is full of so many heavy, dark clouds, that not a single star is visible in the void above their heads. Only the tower of Isaiah illuminates the heavens.
It’s quite a dramatic visual, honestly.
Not a bad set-up at all.
He looks at it, from over his shoulder, remembering the last time he was here. It was just a small, runty thing. Sure, it was a tower, but it was just kind of a tower like any other, barring some quirks. However, now, well… it’s certainly something worth looking at and investing in.
The wyrm opens a massive, yellow eye, looking at him. It’s an old, ancient creature that stems from a distant era that has now long since passed. The prime of its youth is long since over, the true glory days having come to an end. However, this new existence is good too.
In a way, the two of them are alike, aren’t they?
“Not interested in retiring either, huh?” asks the humming man.
The wyrm closes its eyes, not responding. It would have been odd if it did, given that it can’t see him or sense him. Perhaps it thought he was just a gust of wind at best.
He nods, looking back out over the darkness.
He gets it.
The young don’t really know how good they have it, not because of talk of youthful vigor or beauty or anything like that, which fades with age, but because they still have the pinnacle of their experiences ahead of them.
He’s the humming man, and that’s pretty great. However, there are things that even he would wish to have again, and he’s the man who has everything.
A hum escapes him as he watches the distant north. His next job is up that way, but that’s not for a good few years yet. Until then, he has a lot to finish up here. Although, there isn’t all that much left to do.
The pieces, set up at the start, have already begun falling over one another all by themselves, without any further interference needed from him after his initial meddling, plus one or two little kinks on the side.
Ah… to be young.
| ~ [Scholar Anderwal] ~ |
| Human, Male, Scholar of the Witches’ Sect |
| Location: The Dead City |
“We will finally prosper, Brother Anderwal,” says his companion from the Witches’ Sect. Anderwal looks at him. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” he asks.
“I kept the faith,” replies Anderwal, knowing the tradition in times like these.
The man makes a light fist, bumping it against Anderwal’s chest. “So what now?” he asks. “Will you stay here to take more notes, now that the work is done?” The man looks at him. “Or will you go to study the others in the east?”
Anderwal smiles, rubbing the back of his head as he looks around at the site. The members of the sect, hundreds strong, are rebuilding core parts of the city using their magic, which has been enhanced by Witch Perchta.
“Nothing against you, brother,” replies Anderwal. “But I study witches, not their followers.” He looks at the city. “However, I, uh… I think I will stay a little longer. I have an obligation of sorts,” he explains, looking down towards the ground.
“I see,” replies the other man, lowering his hand from Anderwal’s chest. “Then I am glad. Let me know when it is time, Brother,” replies the man. “You’re one of us, and you deserve a proper send off.”
“I’ll…” Anderwal is quiet for a moment, before looking up at the man. “I’ll do that,” he says, nodding. The other man nods too.
The pact is sealed.
Anderwal watches as the man walks off and then looks back down towards his leg a second time, waiting to catch a glimpse of the little red string tied around his ankle a second time.
But it’s not there now. However, he can feel it there. It’s wrapped around his leg so tightly that he feels like it should be cutting off the circulation to his foot, but no such lack of sensation comes. He turns, feeling a tensing of the string as something pulls him along down the street.
It’s not forcing him to go that way, it’s more akin to that feeling one has when suddenly, entirely randomly, deciding to do something different in life for no apparent reason. It’s the feeling of taking a different street home than the one that you would usually take, the feeling of buying a cold drink instead of a warm one, the feeling of sleeping in your bed with your head on the foot-end. There’s no real, good, logical reason for it, but rather something subconscious.
— At least, that’s what the mind tells itself, because it can’t see such things as the fickelties of fate.
Anderwal works his way through many destroyed, ruined side roads, crawling through some debris made into a tunnel, and then looks around at where he finds himself. A room filled with shelving from front to back, much of it is overturned and broken, damaged by fire. However, much of it is still intact and full of books.
The local library.
He wanders through the room, feeling the tightening around his ankle and his chest as he can already sense her presence. Witches are hard to miss when you know what to look for.
Scholar Anderwal looks past a shelf, staring at the white-haired, spider-like woman, Witch Spillaholle, who is surrounded by a mountain of books, her face buried in one as she feverishly reads, as evidenced by the turning of her head and the flipping of pages.
Anderwal clears his throat. Witch Spillaholle, entirely out of character for her, screams, practically tossing the book out of her hands, trying to catch it and not lose her balance as she herself jumps up — all in one movement.
Instead, the witch fumbles to catch the book, stumbles over her own leg, which was wrapped around the leg of the chair, and knocks over the towers of books around herself as she gracelessly lands down onto the old carpet.
“My apologies, Witch Spillaholle,” says Scholar Anderwal as the woman lifts her head with a sharp twist to look at him with wide eyes, as if she had suddenly had a horrific realization. He bends down to help her up. Good thing it’s her. This is another one of those scenarios that literally any other witch might have turned him into a frog for this. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Mister Anderwal,” replies Spillaholle, clearing her throat and taking on her usual, casual tone, despite lying on the floor with a few loose pages forming what looks like a pigeon’s nest on top of her head.
“I’m very sorry for scaring you. Let me help you,” he says, holding out a hand and picking up her books for her.
She reaches out, grabbing the book that he’s picked up. “Ah, no! That will not be necces-”
Ah?
He turns his eyes to look back at Witch Spillaholle, feeling something in his arm. He looks down. He’s still holding onto the book that she’s grabbed to take back, and her fingers accidentally touch his.
The two of them look down at this and stare.
“Mister Anderwal…” says Spillaholle, lowering her gaze.
“Yes?” he asks, clearing his throat again, watching as a red string wraps itself around their fingers, spanning from one to the other.
The witch looks back up at him. “What are your intentions?” she asks.
Anderwal looks into her eyes, shaking his head. This situation has gone critical; he needs to defuse it all now before it becomes a huge disaster.
“I’m not sure,” replies Scholar Anderwal calmly, lifting the book they’re both holding onto. “Maybe we can find the answer in here?” he jokes, thinking that he just made a pretty smooth save just now.
— At least until he looks at the book that they’re holding onto together, his eyes going wide as he looks at the stack of other knocked over books, which are hard to miss given the floral imagery, pageantry and writing style.
It’s a romance book.
They’re all romance novels in the sense that they are either quite literally so, or that they’re text books on the topic of romance, feelings, and other such complications. Judging by the fervor she was reading this one with, it must have been a potent one too.
Oh no.
Anderwal looks back at the witch, who seems to have been overwhelmed with this, what appears to be a very confident and aggressive answer. Her face and body are both as stiff as a terrified doe’s, her face flushed, and her eyes as large as they can be.
— Something tugs on him. He can feel it wrapped around him. Or maybe he can’t; he doesn’t know, honestly. Maybe there’s nothing there at all.
“M- Mister Anderwal,” starts Spillaholle. “It would not be appropriate. I am far too… too…” She stops, as both of them have moved very close to one another, so much so that he can feel the softness of her breath on his lips and she his. “— I mean, Mister… Scholar… An… Anderwal— It would not be…”
It’s a very confusing situation on many levels. Yes, fate nudged him this way, but he still went along for the journey.
Perhaps something tugs on him and perhaps on her to get them to move just a little closer to one another, or perhaps there was nothing there at all and they are just people placed into a situation that they chose to dive deeper into.
In the end, nobody can really say for sure.
White hair and a flower that smells of perfume fall together down onto the carpet, along with two bodies, displacing books and paper and threads of red.
| ~ [Witch Perchta] ~ |
| ???, Female, Witch of the Blackwater |
| Location: The Dead City, A Small House |
“Spillie!” calls Perchta, looking around the room. No response. “Did you see Spille?” asks Perchta, looking at Witch Gauden.
The large man shakes his head. “Sorry, Pipi, what’s up?” he asks.
Perchta sighs, sitting down at the table and letting her head flop against it. “I can’t find Yovel, and now I can’t find Spille either!” whines the witch, rolling her head over the table.
Gauden looks at her, rubbing his beard. “Hmm… well, Spille was here a little while ago. But your friend I haven’t seen since.” The man pats her on the back. “I’m sure it’s going to be fine,” he promises, getting up. “Come on, let’s bake something together,” he offers. “That always cheers you up, right?”
“Really?!” asks Perchta excitedly, lifting her head and beaming as the man nods his head to the kitchen.
The two of them bake a very nice cake, obviously not as nice as the one she made by herself for her friends, but that’s to be expected.
Razmatazz
*Tugs on collar*
Wew. Why is it so warm in here? Must be all the baking, haha...
