Before, I was not a witch.

Now I am one.

[scaffolde]

#SCAFFOLDE,  an independent and private writing blog for an original witch character. triggering content to be found ahead, follow at your own caution. themes explored include: hell hath no fury like a woman wrongly persecuted, creating the very thing you tried to destroy, being an ill-fitting piece of a grander social structure, an act of cleansing justice transforming into a malevolent ritual of demonification. inspired by both real-life history and elements found in a multitude of films, literature, television, and theatre. written by meg, she/they, 23, gmt.

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[sanctamater]

" A lone sheep in the pasture may find itself surrounded by wolves. " They say Our Lady speaks with the voice of Heaven itself; they say she can see into the hearts of any and know them for what they truly are as sure as the Lord does come Judgment Day. They say she sees your sin, and loves you anyway. Our Lady figures she can no more see the stain upon one's soul than they can see the blood upon her hands. It's better that way, after all. " But under the watchful eyes of a loving Shepherd, why, child -- He will guide and protect you as sure as the evening star. " It's not her voice she speaks with, either. But his. His hand on the back of her neck, his lips at her ear, her skin craaaaaawling, throat closing -- she cannot breathe, cannot --- cannot ---

Her nose is bleeding. It often does these days. Looking at this one in the dim shadows that even the light of all lights cannot reach does strange things to the Blessed Mother - odd things. Memories that are and yet are not; wrong place, wrong era - a gloved hand wipes at it; kid leather now stained. There is film grain at the edge of her vision - she remembers what she remembers. If Our Lady thinks upon it, if she knows what has been said to be true -- There are Pilgrims come to the New Eden from all manner of worlds. And God, she is afraid.

" You are most welcome here. " Safe, too - so long as she did not stray too far. Hands move; digging into carved granite to pull herself up upon unsteady feet. It is not the serene face of the Christ of her youth that looks upon her; but the spirit of America herself. Our Lady does not know this angel; and a part of her wonders if she ever has. " Prayer can be... Helpful. " It has never helped her; and her knees crack - ache - locked from so many hours trying to listen for a God that had never once spoken to her. " It is contemplative, if nothing else. " 

[scaffolde]

A lone sheep in the pasture may find itself surrounded by wolves.  How strange, the way that rattles around inside her skull, and how ironic, given her flockmates turned out to be the wolves in disguise.  Yet, maybe she's all the more fool for believing that; for thinking she was ever part of a herd, ever truly accepted.  No, the more that Verity thinks about it, the more she believes she was simply tolerated.  Allowed to exist in (relative) peace because she proved herself useful to her fellow folk every now and then, but never included, never treated as one of their own.  It was only when she dared to disobey that they bared their teeth and lunged for her, maws snapping, positively salivating at the thought of making an example of her –– behold, a monster in our midst, and see what we do to monsters!

Never mind the fact that she had helped bring their babes into the world, or nursed the sick, or aided young women in the most difficult of times.  How it all stood for naught when the time came.  Oh, the bonnets came to stare, dark skirts swishing in their stead, faces upturned in their many.  Each and every one either frightened for what might befall them should they speak up or frightened of what they believed her to be capable of.  The men had already marched home, giddy with hate, their evil turned inside out like a glove and left for her to wear.  Well, she certainly gave them all reasons to be fearful of her in the end.

" I do not believe I have ever been welcome anywhere. "  The sight of blood slowly trickling does little to impact on her.  There is no show of concern, no queries, no hasty offerings of a spotless handkerchief, ready for the staining.  " Nor have I ever found much comfort in prayer. "  She pauses, contemplating (ha!) whether such an admission was wise of her.  She realises that she does not care.

[scaffolde]

There has been no rope around her neck for the past couple hundred years, in one such sense, yet she feels its phantom grip just below her jugular.  The flames are all long gone, but the pain lingers on.  Tongue lodges itself right by the palate, motionless, as though still bound by the rag that was stuffed so unceremoniously in her mouth, but it is poised, venom perched on its tip, a snake prepared to strike.  Death has already sat on her shoulder like a crow twice before; it will not come back a third time.

" It has been some time indeed since I was considered part of someone's flock. "  A low murmur is all that she allows herself, gaze levelled down at @sanctamater, the woman they all call their Lady of Mercy.  The Mother of Sorrows, the Queen of Heaven, the Mistress of Forgiveness.  All at once, she is able to see –– or rather, feel –– the suffocation of such mantles, the slow and painful and silent demise of she who was once an heiress down below.  Empathy and anger flood her system, and Verity knows not where each is to be directed at.  " I confess, I do not have fond memories of the last time. "  A martyr in reverse, made into the very thing she was punished for, abandoned by all.  She may not have understood why she fell through into here at first, but by the by, it is becoming increasingly clear what her purpose may be.

[scaffolde]

#SCAFFOLDE, an original witch character. minors dni. seriously low activity. written by meg.