Some Years After The Fall of the Demon King
(On A Particularly Bright Morning)
They squint.
She stomps her tiny, clawed foot and the brittle straw at the threshold billows dust into the brightness streaming past her, “You’re late,” she repeats slowly, with greater emphasis.
They take her in for a long moment.
Her clothes are plain, but in good condition. She’s scrappy, but well-enough fed. She has a streak of glimmering blue still stuck to her lips and swiped absently along one cheek.
“Who-” their voice rasps before they clear their throat, “Who are you?”
“I’m-” with a child-like tell, she pauses and her eyes widen, then she beams at them with a full, toothy smile.
“I’m the witch!”
“Nh,” they acknowledge with the barest necessary sound.
They stretch and settle themselves as comfortably as they can in their--pot? Kettle?
“So?” she prompts, blinking her huge, orange eyes at them with a judgmental sweep thrown in for good measure, “Who are you?”
They open their mouth and find something on the tip of their tongue, but it slips away before any sound comes out. They snap their mouth shut again and think, then look themselves over.
Against all odds, in spite of their nakedness, it does produce an answer of sorts: a flower pendant hangs on a sturdy chain at their neck. Pulling their head back and frowning at the characters written on the pendant reveals a name.
“Huālíng,” they turn the sound over in their mouth absently and it feels familiar.
The girl’s lower lip presses up, continuing to judge even that brief utterance.
“You don’t look like a ‘Huālíng’ to me.”
He tries to tamp down on his affront at the brashness of this child, “You don’t look like a witch,” he counters with an even tone.
The girl raises her chin once more, “Well I am now that I have you.”
“Have me?” he snorts.
“Yes,” she says firmly, stamping her foot once more, “You’re my familiar. That makes me the witch.”
“Who says I’m your familiar?”
She wrinkles her face and points to the ground around their kettle, marked with an array of sigils and characters painted in big, bold strokes of ink on the wooden floor, “I called you. I’ve been doing the ritual thing.”
“You came to me,” he settles back against the cold metal, letting his eyes wander the-
‘Quite frankly, this place is a hovel.’
Age has rendered no kindness upon the building’s sagging beams, and light cuts through the dust in bright spears from the holes where roofing tiles have slipped and broken. The wooden floor slopes slightly and looks visibly rotted in the spots where broken pottery hasn’t been used to collect any liquid the weather cares to pour in through the patchy ceiling. The woven bamboo walls bow in and outward in places where they’ve fallen away from the ceiling slightly. The firepit below him is a mess of piled ash and half-burnt char-
‘It is incredibly chilly.’
“You live in a drafty hole, Little Witch,” he grumbles, not-quite shivering as they lower their head so that the lid upon it might trap what little heat remains in the kettle.
The girl scoffs as she steps inside, closing the door behind her and plunging the hut into sudden darkness.
“I don’t live here,” she says with audible disdain.
He sees her eyes first, glowing orange in the shadows, just before his own fully adjust.
“Although,” she turns a circle and takes in the hut, as if appraising it, “I should live in the witch hut now that I’m the witch.”
She wrinkles her nose, “I don’t think mom will let me.”
He watches as she navigates the questionable floor with familiar ease, circling the central fire pit to a flat bar of wood near the back of the space.
“Thanks, Uncle Witch,” she says as she snaps her fingers and brings a spark of light to a broken bit of incense.
The flicker of flame briefly illuminates a shoddy scroll held up by slivers of wood pressed into the gaps in the wall. The figures in the painting summon up some sense of deja vu in him, but it winks out just as quickly as the flame at the girl’s fingertips and everything goes dark again.
Her face is serious as she carefully places the stub of incense into the cracked bowl filled to the brim with ashes, then gives the portrait a little bow.
Then she whirls on him with a frown.
“You better get out of there if you want me to warm this place up, else you’ll just end up getting boiled.”
“I’ll need clothes, first,” he points out, setting aside the mystery of the painting for more immediate concerns.
“Why would you need clothes?” she says, her nose wrinkling and her head pulling back to cock to one side in clear puzzlement.
He blinks slowly at her.
“I’d rather not bare myself to a little girl, nor the elements.”
She puts her hands on her hips again, “I’ve seen dog dingles when they pee and watched the cats go yowling at night. What’ve you got that needs covering?”
“That’s-”
‘Aren’t girls meant to have modesty? Propriety??’
“Those are animals.”
She narrows her eyes, “Aren’t familiars animals?”
He stands up--partially, keeping his lower half out of sight within the kettle.
The girl’s eyes widen hugely, even for a little owl.
Game Mechanics:
Familiar, Ability: “The Owl” Joker
- A Clue!
Clue, First Steps: “The Carnival” 3 of Diamonds
“You find something that shows you what the witch looked like. A photograph, drawing, or maybe a carving?”
(Drawing 2 Abilities because of the Joker <3)
Familiar, Ability: “The Wanderer” 4 of Hearts & “The Desert” Jack of Diamonds
- Cute - Whenever someone would give you a reagent, you may draw twice and take the higher card.
- Magic Eye - Reduce the Foraging Value of all [MAGIC] reagents by 3. Minimum 1.
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