Petals of the Damned

Witch Hunt

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Agatha woke to the silence of the cottage, the morning light casting soft, wavering shadows across the walls. For a moment, she lingered, staring at the wooden ceiling, her thoughts slow and clouded by sleep. The bed felt unusually empty, though she was certain she had gone to sleep alone.

She pulled herself upright, feeling the chill of the fall morning, and caught sight of a slip of parchment on the small table by her bed. Leaning over, she reached for it and read from elegant, looping handwriting.

Good morning, Agatha. I had to go catch up on my duties, but I'll be back by this afternoon. Take some time to explore the cottage; make yourself at home. Tonight, we'll go on a witch hunt together.
♡
–Rio

Agatha traced her thumb over the tiny heart drawn at the end, unable to suppress a small smile. She folded the note carefully, slipping it into her pocket, and slipped out of bed, padding softly across the wooden floor.

She made her way out of the bedroom, stepping into the heart of the cottage where the scent of herbs and old wood mingled with the chill of the morning air. In the main room, shelves stretched across nearly every wall, lined with glass jars containing ingredients she could barely name, each labeled in Rio's neat handwriting. Some contained dried flowers, others held shadowy liquids or glimmering powders, and a few even contained clusters of stones and bones. Her fingers itched to lift a jar or two, to get a closer look, but she hesitated, drawing back.

The fireplace, large and carved with intricate runes, took up most of the wall in the common room. She traced her fingers over the carvings and recognized some as calming and healing runes - she wasn't aware of what the others meant. The embers from last night's fire still glowed faintly, casting a warm, reddish hue over the room's collection of relics and curiosities.

Above the mantle hung a woven tapestry, depicting scenes Agatha couldn't quite decipher—perhaps moments of ritual, or symbols of protection. She thought of Rio hanging it there herself, perhaps thoughtfully.

Her exploration continued into the kitchen, cozy and quaint, where dried herbs dangled from the ceiling in bunches, filling the air with a sharp, green fragrance. Copper pots and pans hung along one wall, polished and gleaming, and a basket of wild apples sat on the counter, their red and green skins mottled. On the center table was a small bundle of wildflowers, dried but vibrant, wrapped with a ribbon, and she could only guess who they might have been for. The little touches made her smile - how everything seemed to bear Rio's subtle 'green witch' mark, something simple and yet touched by care.

Finally, Agatha found herself at the door of another room, one she hadn't noticed at first, tucked back as if it didn't quite want to be seen. The door creaked as she opened it, revealing a small sitting room with low, mismatched furniture and a window looking out over the wild landscape. Here, soft wool blankets were draped over the chairs, books with worn leather covers lay stacked in uneven towers on the floor, and a collection of small trinkets - coins, shells, an intricately carved wooden crow - sat arranged on a side table. Among the carefully organized chaos was a quill resting in an inkwell and a neatly folded handkerchief embroidered with small azaleas in one corner.

She wandered inside, fingers grazing a blanket that felt impossibly soft. Apparently, Death was a creature of comfort. Who could've known?

Settling into the chair by the window, Agatha let herself sink into its softness, feeling as though the room itself was coaxing her into a quiet calm. She picked up a book lying open on a side table, its leather cover worn, the corners dog-eared from what she assumed was years of handling. The title, faintly visible on the spine, caught her interest: A Treatise on Witches, Their Powers and Myths.