MaeB

Intriguingly's

I’ll have a marinate on this and draft something up sometime over the next few days! (maybe sooner, but I plan to undersell and overdeliver)

๑ ❝ 𝕮 𝔥 𝔞 𝔯 𝔪 𝔢 𝔡 , 𝕴‘𝔪 𝖘𝔲𝔯𝔢 ❞ ๑ { A Witch’s Tale - RP }

Just a little something to get us started back up again, everyone!

I’ve gone ahead and removed the posting order. I think it ends up being more restrictive than beneficial so… You can all jump back in whenever you’re ready ^^

Hope to see y’all soon x

๑ ❝ 𝕮 𝔥 𝔞 𝔯 𝔪 𝔢 𝔡 , 𝕴‘𝔪 𝖘𝔲𝔯𝔢 ❞ ๑ { A Witch’s Tale - RP }

๑ JɄ₦ł₱ɆⱤ ๑
⋰ ⋱ ⋰ ⋱ ⋰ ⋱ ⋰ ⋱

_{___________________________
๑ Chapter 1 - Welcome to Corinthia ๑
Friday 6th February
9:30am
___________________________}

It wasn’t an initiation. Not in the way they’d been written for Witches past, anyway. June simply wanted to unite the new arrivals, to tether them together as true Corinthian Witches. It was a simple Ritual - A binding spell she’d been working on whilst she spread word of her plans. She’d gathered calamus root, thyme, skullcap, rosemary and poppy seeds; Ingredients that would cleanse and fortify. With her large pestle and mortar, June ground them down, the smell of fresh herbs filling the air. Then, she added them to the tea leaves that still simmered in the pot. Under the watchful eyes of her fellow Witches, a stilled expression of focus smoothed her features as she flitted about the Kitchen. Along the back wall spanned shelves of numerous mason jars, some large and some small, arranged like Russian dolls along the length of each shelf. Waving an index finger through the air like a wand, June searched for her black sand. With a quick hum of approval, she pulled down the jar and breezed into the conservatory where she’d decided the rite should take place. The light was beautiful at this time of day, sun beaming through the skylights, flooding the foliage-filled space with golden hues. Grabbing fistfuls of the jet black sand, June let it flow through the gap in her clenched fist, tracing a large circle. The sand, contrasting so starkly with the terracotta tiles, almost shimmered in the conservatory sunlight. As she connected the head and tail of the circle, June uttered the beginnings of her katadesmos. The ancient dialect was one she wasn’t wholly familiar with but had scoured many of Corinthia’s tomes for. She spoke carefully, articulating each syllable with a practiced enunciation. When finished, June clasped her fingers together, willing the spell to hold.

The Hawthorne Witch reentered the Kitchen, smiling at each of the new eyes that looked back at her. Aislinn had taken position on her perch by one of the Kitchen windows, her tiny coal eyes peering out at the ferret who twitched its nose curiously, clicking her beak.

“Rustic, huh?” June smiled. “My mother would spontaneously combust if she heard you say that. But thank you… I think.”

She lifted the tea pot, pouring just a splash of her artisan herbal remedy into several cups.

“I know this is all going to feel a little… Strange?” June began, speaking to everyone and no one in particular. Her tone was gentle. Compassionate. ”But I thought a Rite would be a good way to… Introduce us all? I’ve put together a simple binding spell. Just a little something to help bring us all together. Most Covens wait at least a year before Initiation but, well… We’re all here now. And it’ll give us the opportunity to get to know eachother a little better?”

June took a breath, setting the empty teapot back down with a small sigh. She splayed both palms on the countertop, biting down on her lower lip before lifting her gaze to the others.

”I’ve not done this before. Leadership. If that wasn’t obvious enough already…” huffing a breathy laugh, the Witch cradled a cup of her tea in her palms and inhaled the herbaceous steam that swirled upward. “I’ve always just followed the Hawthorne way and fallen into line as the Elders intended… But we’re not supposed to be shunned. Our Magic isn’t something for us to be afraid of. Corinthia Witches are going to learn how to embrace all that we are. And we’re going to thrive here. Out of the shadows. Where we belong.”

A silence fell. A breath hitched in her throat. She desperately tried to cast aside the twinge of embarrassment that coupled itself to her vulnerability. Leadership wasn’t as easy as her Mother made it look nor did it come entirely naturally to her… She hoped, in the very pit of her stomach, that her speech had come off more natural and inspiring than it felt on its way out. Perhaps, with practice and validation, she’d settle into this new role. Until then, she’d method act as a Witch with all the confidence of a competent leader. With that in mind, she gestured to the conservatory with a grand sweep of her arm. Taking a tone of enthusiasm and encouragement, June guided the group through to where their Binding Rite would take place.

“Let’s head on through to the Conservatory! Grab a cup of tea, take a seat on the inner side of the circle and be careful not to break it. We’ll start with our names and our Magic… I think that’ll be a good place to begin.”

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

<sub>__________

𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚠𝚜𝚘𝚗,
𝙰𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙱, 𝙽𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚂𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚆𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚁𝚘𝚊𝚍,
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________</sub>

Winnie’s gnarled, sandpaper soles shuffled across the dust-coated floorboards of her apartment. She took a shower. The water that sputtered from the limescale-crusted head spat across her leathered skin, a piss-stream of lukewarm water slipping between her cracked folds, hunched and heavy with years of manual labour. She cupped her brittle-boned and wrinkled hands, lumped with callouses and patches of puckered bleach burns, splashing her sagging skin with lethargy and woeful weariness. This life was turning its back on Winnie. She’d grown tired of other people’s messes; Dreaded the phone ringing, swallowed back tears as she deck scrubbed on her hands and knees, twitched at her moth bitten curtains with every police siren that wailed outside her filthy apartment… The thrill of being Minnenoona’s street cleaner had long faded, a burden too weighted for her arthritis-riddled spine. The towel Winne plucked from the back of the bathroom door smelt stale with yesterday’s wash and it crunched in her nicotine-stained fingers, still stiff at her touch. The rough fibres scratched across her flesh, crinkling her skin like rizla paper, grunts of effort grumbling in her throat as she moved those aching bones. This body didn’t cooperate with her the same no more. It winced and whined at her, a petulant child in an aged shell. Hobbling back into the bedroom, the Cleaner stepped shakily into her corduroy overalls, stained and frayed at the hems. Her overgrown fingernails, permanently bedded full of miscellaneous dirt, fumbled with the buttons flapping on the ends of their loosened threads.

“Winifred, goddammmit” she muttered to herself, shaking her head at the Madam’s facetious arrogance. It wasn’t her name. The Queen of the Whorehouse couldn’t even use her real name. How many times had she corrected her? She’d lost count over the years.

How she wished, now more than ever, that she’d never taken that off-job all them years ago. She could’ve earned a humble salary doing the honest work, couldn’t she? But no. Winnie’s Wash went from simple mop and bucket to carpet-rolled bodies and blood-stained sponges. It was a risky path she’d chosen; Harbouring the darkest secrets for the no-gooders of this guttered town. The trust these charlatans put in her went beyond her custodial skillset. Sure, she had an eye for it. Indeed, she had the hardened kneecaps and blisters to prove it. But it was Winnie’s silence that cost those thugs the big buck. Though it was easy to turn the other cheek to crime when she knew very well there was little standing between her and the eye of a barrel. It would only take one loose-lipped hint. One wrong name. One knobbled toe out of line. Winnie’s Wash would be snuffed out quicker than a stain from a starched shirt. So, good ol’ Winne toed the line. She made out her invoices for end of tenancy cleans, office cleans, weekly house cleans… Legit paperwork for a less-than-legitimate business. At first, she enjoyed it. Those kingpins running to her every time they got trigger-happy and power hungry made her feel… Needed. It gave her purpose. But now?… Now, she wished there was a way out. A back door she could slip out of, cut the cord of her phone, change her name, take up sewing or playing Gin Rummy down the boozer. There was no chance of an Irish goodbye for Winnie. She knew too much. So even now, at the ripe ol’ age of 59 and just shy of 60, Winnie’s Wash continued to clean up after the damned in Minnenoona. Begrudgingly. With a bitter taste in her mouth and the sting of bleach in her silver nose hairs.

Just as she was about to fetch the keys to her van, the trill of the phone cut through the air. She mumbled impatiently, cursing that Madam’s inability to simply await her arrival, snatching the receiver from its cradle and lifting it to her ear.

“Winnie’s Wash,” she snapped, expecting to hear the dulcet tones of Pearly Sackville invading her canal.

It was a low, gravelly voice that greeted her. One that she recognised all-too-well and made her skin itch.

“Winnie. It’s Tony Genovese. You workin’ the graveyard shift?”

Duchess, Winnie’s tabby cat, wound her way around her ankles. She mewed, tail brushing across splintered shins, demanding breakfast 4 hours too early. The Cleaner huffed a strained laugh, fingers fiddling with the knotted phone cord, browned teeth gnawing at a flap of loose skin on her bottom lip.

“Dirt on the street don’t need sleep like I do, Mr Genovese. I can’t remember the last time I got them 8 hours the doctor ordered… How can I help you? I’ll be free in ‘bout an hour.”

Tony’s hacking laughter crackled the speaker. Winnie heard him take a drag on a cigarette. The rubber cord slipped and slid in her sweat-slicked palms.

“No, no, Winnie. I’m not callin’ ‘bout a job tonight. I’ve got somethin’ a lil different for ya… Somethin’ I know you been wantin’ for a long time.”

Duchess mewed again. This time, more adamant than before. Winnie ran a clammy palm along the length of Duchesses back, fur sticking to her skin like a discarded lollipop on carpet.

“See, my boy ain’t come home. He ain’t come home for a couple days now. No word from him, no nothin’. And that’s unlike my boy. He wouldn’t miss his mama’s vodka rigatoni for no damned body. And she’s worried sick, my Maria, you know what she gets like dontcha, Winnie? Left his plate out on the table gettin’ cold for hours. Says she’s got this horrible feelin’ our Luca’s out in the cold god knows where. So I ain’t got a job for ya. Not yet, tesoro. But I want you to keep them ears to the ground for me. Listen out for anythin’ that could help your old amico Tony out.”

He cleared his throat. Duchess let out a strangled meow. Winnie hadn’t filled her lungs in minutes. They burned white hot as they begged for her to inhale.

“I’m sure you’re wonderin’ ‘what business is this of mine, Tony?!” the mob boss chuckled to himself, enjoying the feel of referring to himself in the third person. That Italian-American accent was like speaking in heavily punctuated cursive. “I wanna let you know that I listened when you said you’re gettin’ real tired, old girl. And I know you wanna kick the game. Before the game kicks you, huh? So?… I’m gonna offer you an out.”

Winnie’s knees nearly folded like a deck chair. She braced herself on her cluttered bedside table, pressing the receiver so hard to her ear that her skull and the plastic nearly merged.

“You hear anything, Winnie, anything that helps me find my boy? I’ll get you out the game. No ifs no buts. Clean cut. Just like that. You know I can do that for you don’t ya, tesoro? Easy!”

The Cleaner heard Tony Genovese snap his signet-ringed fingers in the background to drive home his point and a silence fell that felt like a woollen sweater on a wet body. Duchess meowed, long and impatient.

“Whadya say, Winnie? Ya like the sound of an out, right? Tell ya what. Why don’t you go move in with your daughter Lisa and that sweet grandbaby of yours?” Tony’s tone had shifted down an octave. Low. Rumbled. “Those early years really do fly by. Why it feels like only yesterday my Luca was makin’ mud pies and blowin’ bubbles in his apple juice… You don’t wanna miss that, Winnie. Little Holly should know her Nona. Whadya say, huh?”

So that was that. That was how Winnie’s Wash made yet another deal with yet another devil. Though this one felt more like shackles made of cotton candy. This one promised her what she’d been begging God for the last 8 years. Tony Genovese was her fallen angel. Her ticket off the crazy train. He’d tie up loose ends for her, let the mob know Winnie was out of business but that it was all taken care of. He’d shut up shop for her. And that carrot being dangled was enough. Enough to have her picturing a life without blood-stained carpets and overalls. All she had to do was keep an ear to the ground for word on Luca… And by chance, she was driving straight to just the place she could start asking questions… But not before she cracked open a tin of chum for Duchess and tossed the empty can into the ever-growing pile that was mounting up in the sink. Winne cleaned up other people’s messes… But she never cleaned up her own.

Intriguingly's

@Stryder BC

Are you getting involved in this, Stryder?

Wanna jump in together?

๑ ❝ 𝕮 𝔥 𝔞 𝔯 𝔪 𝔢 𝔡 , 𝕴‘𝔪 𝖘𝔲𝔯𝔢 ❞ ๑ { A Witch’s Tale - RP }

@JFK It can be next to Fig's future garden play pen, obviously. :P

@themaybreeze I did briefly mention the idea I had for Trish potentially being a trigger for hunters catching a whiff about the coven, since her powers seem inconveniently... visible, even with some future control on it.

@Byte

I absolutely think hunters is a great subplot… Let’s catch up soon on how we can get that set up! Love this idea, Byte!

Would make for a drama-filled twist, giving all of us the opportunity to unite against a common enemy ^^

๑ ❝ 𝕮 𝔥 𝔞 𝔯 𝔪 𝔢 𝔡 , 𝕴‘𝔪 𝖘𝔲𝔯𝔢 ❞ ๑ { A Witch’s Tale - RP }

I wanted to thank you all for sticking around, despite the stagnancy of this thread. I promise that’s about to change! But thank you for your patience.

In the spirit of transparency, so you’re all aware, I have removed Hazel as a character from this story. Unfortunately, I’m not willing to compromise the success of this game by waiting for a collab post that takes over a month with no other movement or alternative post in the meantime.

I’d like to resume this game with some reignited enthusiasm! I’ll be doing more as a GM and encourage you all to come forward with any ideas you may have for your characters that’ll help you stay intrigued in this plot.

As I mentioned before, my next IC post will be moving us into the “Initiation” for your characters. Followed by a set-up for the late-night visitor. I’ll get this out by the end of the week.

I am so excited to see all of your characters return… Long live Charmed <3

๑ ❝ 𝕮 𝔥 𝔞 𝔯 𝔪 𝔢 𝔡 , 𝕴‘𝔪 𝖘𝔲𝔯𝔢 ❞ ๑ { A Witch’s Tale - RP }

@HylianRose

Welcome back, my dear!

There’s going to be some upcoming changes to this RP. I just need to get my work week out the way and then I’ll update you all.

My post will be the next IC progression… And then, we have a fresh start ^^

❃ ꯱ׁׅ֒℘ꫀׁׅܻᥣׁׅ֪ᥣׁׅ֪ϐׁׅ֒ᨵׁׅυׁׅꪀׁׅժׁׅ݊ ❃ ᴿᵘᵇʸ ˣ ᴹᵃʸᴮʳᵉᵉᶻᵉ

<sub>They stood a mere stones throw from one another now. The Waxing Circle Witch had edged closer and closer to the Forest intruder, tip toeing as if the ground were awash with rose thorns and flame. As Nora watched the Sorceress from between narrowed eyes, she barely blinked when the laugh tumbled across the forest floor toward her. It rolled through the dirt, sullied and cynical, lacking the honey of joy and devoid of any real emotion. Save for its pointed hysteria, the laugh rang vacuous, scattering hibernating birds in the canopies. Fractured, exposing. A laughter laced with a private joke Nora couldn’t possibly understand.

“Apologies, people saying ‘my kind’, showing anger to me… I never really get used to it.”

Nora scoffed. Her slender brows threaded together, a cavernous lightning bolt of a wrinkle appearing between the two, disapproval whetting her pores. Rose petalled pink ironed into white as she pressed both lips together, whistling breaths sharply inhaled through flared nostrils.

“No, I’m quite sure you’re a stranger to disdain for your kind, Sorceress” the Witch said coolly. “Your Kingdoms in snow globes and bell jars are very well immune to resentment from us lowly Lear-ned Magic Users… A design fault, I’m sure. Nothing purposeful, right? Just Nature’s Natural Order - keeping Born and Lear-ned apart. ”

Sarcasm sharp and piercing protruded from Nora’s syllables like pincushions. The needle-pointed observations of Society’s failures would surely glide off the Sorceress’ duck-feathered back. How could she possibly understand the impact of marginalised Witches from her ivory tower? She’d surely lived a life of abundance, wrapped in cotton clouds, blinkered to the goings on beyond those walls. It remained unclear as to what, exactly, had lead her here. What disaster had forced her out from beneath velvet sheets and shining chandeliers?

“… For starters, more people should. Witchwood is lovely in the autumn, you know.”

The red-heads hand gestured to the fallen golden leaves in moonlight, the spindled branches, the shedding bramble. Nora’s eyes flickered.

“Witchwood’s autumnal beauty is a secret best kept between those that protect it,” the Witch snubbed.

Despite Nora’s guarded hostility, despite her hesitancy, the Sorceress sported a smile. She was either immune to the disapproval or ignoring it completely. Still, the smile pinched at the Sorceresses cheeks. Perhaps it was smug. Perhaps, like her explosive laughter, it was empty. But the Witch sensed that there was much more hidden behind the veil of strawberry blonde. It was so small coincidence she happened upon Witchwood at night. She’d not simply taken a wrong turn and wandered these winding, undisturbed dirt tracks.

“… I am a political prisoner… They don’t exactly tell you. Very dangerous people just come for you in the middle of the night. No courts, no appeals to the local lord or lady, just the end of life as you knew it.”

As she spoke, Nora beckoned for the Shadows to retreat, to rest on their laurels. A political prisoner was undoubtedly far more concerned with remaining hidden than disposing of a disgruntled Woodland Witch. It would be unwise of this Sorceress to waste energy unnecessarily, risking exposure. She was outnumbered, after all. Despite her apparent power, the Waxing Circle rested just a 10 minute jaunt away, collectively wielding the magic of many practiced years. Besides, there were bigger battles this woman was fighting. The one within the most prominent.

“I don’t know if you could stop me, please don’t make me find out…”

Nora lifted her dainty chin, defiant and challenging.

“Your threats are wasted here, Sorceress” she hissed, voice hitched with warning. Her darkened eyes flickered with the flint of something other than suspicion. “Spare me them, even when they’re wolves dressed in wool, I don’t fear you. Lest you forget. The borders were laid down for a reason. It is my right to ask you why you trespass in my garden. Forgive me if I didn’t assume you were merely admiring the autumnal scenery…”

The horse tossed its mane, hooves shuffling on mulch. The whisper of a smile twitched at the corners of Nora’s lips.

“Besides. An enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

Once again, the wind whistled through the trees and with it, it tossed fallen leaves like confetti. Those flecks of amber whipped and danced around them both, twirling and pirouetting on the breeze. The Sorceress was right about one thing - Witchwood was indeed a marvel in autumn.</sub>

๑ ❝ 𝕮 𝔥 𝔞 𝔯 𝔪 𝔢 𝔡 , 𝕴‘𝔪 𝖘𝔲𝔯𝔢 ❞ ๑ { A Witch’s Tale - RP }

Don’t worry, all! I’ll be bypassing this collab and moving on this week - Regardless of whether it drops or not.

If the post then doesn’t make sense following on from mine, it will require an edit in order to slot in accordingly.

We’ve waited long enough, I think. And I’d like to reignite our enthusiasm for this story! <3@Byte