Mortals may have believed they had burned the witches on the stake hundreds of years ago. However, how would a simply puny human think they had to power to catch a true witch.
A true witch has magic in her fingers and devilry dancing in her blood.
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March 20th 2006
The shadows seemed to follow the youngling as she ventured through the dark forest. Ignoring the omen, she continued onward, only stopping to look at the swaying branches that created a canopy above her. The rustling of the leaves beckoned her to follow them. They whispered sweet nothings into her ears. They praised her obedience.
They led her around the thick vines cascading down from branches far above. She walked past the thorn-filled bushes and dangerous predators who searched for an easy snack. She lingered near a windy river pausing to brush her fingers lightly across the black water. The only evidence of her touch was a small ripple that begged her to join them for eternity.
Then, she went with a slight nod towards the disappearing ripple. She moved on, not once looking back at the river begging her to return. The witchling continued with her head high and back straight.
She walked through a meadow filled with chrysanthemums. The leaves whispered for her to collect a lovely bouquet of them. Her eyes wandered toward the pink, yellow, orange, and red omens of death.
Deciding upon the red death flowers, she gathered her bouquet, taking the black ribbon out of her hair to tie a lovely bow around them. She set them in her basket gently and continued forward.
The full moon above her shined down on her giving her the light needed to venture through the unknown terrain. The leaves ushered her to keep walking through the night.
So she continued walking up the hills and down them the next moment.
In the distance, she could see the faintest light coming from a town. She emerged from the dark forest with the guidance of the leaves telling her it was her time to leave. Alone the youngling walked aimlessly through the vineyards surrounding the tan-stone buildings with red roofs.
The witchling had never ventured this close to civilization in many centuries. Yet it was clear that the leaves had wanted her there. So she listened.
The sun was peaking through the mountains and buildings casting a red-orange film over the land in front of her, guiding her to her new beginning.
