You are the Witch Maiden.
“Is this the place?”
“This is the place.”
You aren’t quite sure what prompted the coven to come here. It seems like a rather ordinary town – moderately sized, castle and its courts slightly off centre, surrounded by plains, and farmland. They were sure, right from the beginning, that there was something massive here, something extremely magical, but to your annoyance, you can’t see much at all. You felt your skin tingle and the hairs rise a little, but that was it. The Mother could detect the disturbance from several towns away. The Crone found it even earlier, though she didn’t mention it until later. Whatever it was, they said, exuded raw, chaotic magical power, the kind you’d almost never find anywhere. Coming here, they grew quieter and quieter – now, they seem to be standing in awe at the invisible.
You concentrate for a moment, trying to remember all your lessons on magic detection – then, just as your senses open, you drown in a crushing surge of energy. Your eyes widen. “It’s... Massive. And active. This is bad.”
“I imagine the Inquisitors will be coming,” the Mother says.
“They won’t be a large problem once we come under the rift ourselves,” the Crone replies. “But the activity... Will be an issue. This will attract more than just the Shamans. If the rift opens any wider, the beings on the other side will find it easy to pass through. As it is, it’s already easy for anyone with summoning spells; there’s a whole array of them, all very powerful ones, that would only work here.”
“Will the elves come, as well?” You ask.
“I doubt it. The fair folk are not given to opportunism, nor do they generally disrupt the Way of Things. When the time is right, they will open a rift themselves.” The Crone pauses for a moment. “But who knows – things can change unpredictably. Magic at this concentration doesn’t necessarily need a wielder; perhaps they’ll be drawn here regardless. Be wary.”
She turns toward the two of you. “Closing this rift will be almost as important taking care of the Shamans, and there are only a handful of ways to close a rift like this.”
You look at the town. Now that it’s visible to you, it looks, in a certain sinister way, majestic; a great gash across the sky, held open by ethereal moorings. On the other side of the hole, a great conflagration that crawls around as if alive, and the whole thing shimmers brightly, fading in and out like a mirage. You see the faint outlines of beams and waves of octarine light, flowing from the wound onto the town and spreading into the surrounding lands, leaving a slight glow on everything.
The Crone begins speaking again. “There is a way to stop both at once, quickly. If we can get the Shamans to cooperate, we can make the five-person circle necessary for a ritual to close the rift.” She frowns.
“You don’t seem especially eager,” you remark.
“No. It will be very difficult to convince them to cooperate.”
“And?”
“The ritual also needs everyone else here to be dead – everyone in the town. Once the ritual is complete, they’ll come back to life, but until then, everyone but us and the Shamans need to be dead. After that, the Shamans will ‘die’ and we won’t need to do anything else. But so will we; we’ll die.”
You feel a chill run down your spine.
“If that’s what it takes.” The Mother replies. “I hope they brew good wines here.”
“That’s what it’ll take. Whatever we do, we must stop the Shamans from starting their conflict here; that in itself likely won’t need us to be dramatic. But we can do that and close the rift at the same time – we should do that, if we can.
“Remember who they are. These things are not of here.”
You feel your lungs closing up. Death. If you were to sacrifice yourself here, there would be nothing left but the void, the black sands and night skies. Is that... Is it necessary? Why you? Why, when you’re so new, when all this is new? You shake your head and try to convince yourself that this is right, that this is for the good of the world – but your lungs won’t open. Do you really believe in all that?
You still remember what the Crone told you about the Shamans on the way. The knowledge had been passed down for generations, losing a piece each time, as old as it was, so little had been left behind since the last occurrence – but what you had heard frightened you. It still isn’t certain what causes them or what exactly they are, and there is much less information about any conditions for appearances or weaknesses. Shamans – forces of nature given human form, driven by a single-minded desire to further that force, to the point of upsetting the world’s balance. Never let two meet, especially if they are opposing natural forces; if they are, they will destroy each other along with vast swathes of countryside.
And here, the Shamans of Life and Death would meet, who represent the most fundamental and most opposed forces in existence – you can’t help but wonder about the havoc they would wreak should they be left to their own devices.
“I don’t think any of the townsfolk would appreciate witches coming here. We’ll borrow some bodies.”
Walking some distance away from the town, you find a secluded spot in the shade under a cluster of trees. Everyone sits down, takes off their hats and begins the ritual. You concentrate, and your soul slips away from your body. You were never good at overt magic or sensing magic, unlike the other two – but spirits, ghosts and souls? You were familiar with those. Even in childhood, you could sense the dead who remained, and spirits of nature. Borrowings came easy to you – something most others find to be very difficult.
Darkness, at first – and a dizzying sensation, almost as if you were cast into the air, tumbling around. When you wake up, you find yourself fallen over beside a reclining chair in a fairly large workshop – several tables and racks, well made and cared for, laden with bolts of cloth lie in the room, along with numerous tailoring tools. Some unfinished garments lie on the benches – mostly fine garments, in lustrous blue or green silks or fine wools, for wealthy patrons. On the racks rest a wide array of cloths, from long rolls of rough linens and coarse wools to exotic fabrics – though there are many more bolts of ordinary material. With some concentration, you manage to extract a few key memories: The host’s name is Michiel Verdomme, and is tailor who makes and sells his clothing to affluent patrons, also selling various types of cloth by the yard.
The Witch Maiden
[POWER] [MAGICAL] [NIGHT] Rapport: A targeted player can be psychically contacted during the night with the aim of establishing private communication; the player does not need to be alive. The targeted player will learn of your identity as the Witch Maiden, and will be offered the opportunity to enter a QuickTopic chat with you that will be held open for the remainder of the game. The target player may deny the offer and is under no obligation to keep your identity hidden.
[PASSIVE] [DAY] [NIGHT] Witches’ Coven: You may speak freely with your fellow witches in a private chatroom.
[PASSIVE] [MAGICAL] [DAY] [NIGHT] Magical Affinity: You have some chance of being notified of any magical events that occur during the course of the game, including any magical powers attempted by players.
OBJECTIVE: Reverse the Shamans’ roles - keep the Death Shaman alive to endgame without him having any ability to die, and keep the Life Shaman dead to endgame without him having any ability to resurrect.You are Pierre Guiot, mercer.
Born to a family of poor and illiterate weavers, your childhood was defined by hunger and hardship. In the wake of the Black Death, farming had grown in importance as labour was in short supply and few people had enough to eat. In a much poorer society, there was little need for new wool and linen or other purchases.
You remember only being able to eat one regular meal a day. You had never heard of seconds, or dessert, or pies, and there would only ever be a second meal for special or important occasions. Though you were constantly hungry, you tried to keep quiet; your parents had much less than you did. In order to feed that growing child that they loved so, they gave you what was to be their food so that you could have even that one meal a day. You saw them go without food as often as you saw them eat some meagre portion with you.
You remember those days well. At the end of a day of helping your mother weave, your father would come back with a few coins from what he had sold. In the mornings, you would always see him leave with an armful of bolts of rough cloth, the ones you had woven the day before. You always hoped they were good enough.
Usually, he’d come back with the same armful, only a little smaller.
Dinner would be a reminder of that. Most often, it would be watery stewed beans or cooked turnips and beets, shades of grey or dull brown. You would pretend that the lumps you found in those bowls were bits of chicken, perhaps pretending also that you were happy farmers or craftsmen during those meals - though deep inside there was always the melancholy thought that none of it was true. With it there could also be barley bread - grainy, tough and often dry - as sops when they could be found by alms. Sometimes, if it was a good day, or an occasion, some salt pork would be cut out of whatever small lump was hung from the ceiling; the white mould that invariably developed would be brushed and scraped off as well as possible.
As soon as you were able, you were sent to sell the cloth that your parents would weave every day. It was hard work, and standing out there hawking cloth was demanding on your voice and your mind, but these original training grounds refined your sense for the sale and for a good bargain. As an adult, you sometimes wove your own cloth but more often bought and sold cloths made by others, making a small profit as the middle-man. That was enough for a while, but you quickly realised how flawed it was as you saw each meal with your family was the same as it was before.
There was never any “big break” for you. Instead, it happened more gradually - as more affluent people began frequenting your shop, freemen and craftsmen at first, then armourers, then other merchants, you began to earn more money from each customer and to sell more luxurious cloths. Using the connections you made with merchants that travelled to other lands, you began importing cloth as well - which attracted the attention of nobles still interested in foreign silks but running out of vendors to buy them from. You ate regularly, then could afford to add pepper, mace and nutmeg to your food - then even your wine.
Your parents, sadly, never knew what it meant to be wealthy. Your mother died of a fever, sweated all night and soaked blankets. Her last words, even, were unintelligible - such was the fever’s grip on her. Your father, then, died of pneumonia - a wheeze and cough that had gotten worse and worse over the years, until he finally stopped breathing one night. You were never there for his final breath; only for the morning thereafter, when he had already become cold, pale and clammy. If only there had been something you could do.
Town
OBJECTIVE: Eliminate all witches.You are Pierre Guiot, mercer.
Born to a family of poor and illiterate weavers, your childhood was defined by hunger and hardship. In the wake of the Black Death, farming had grown in importance as labour was in short supply and few people had enough to eat. In a much poorer society, there was little need for new wool and linen or other purchases.
You remember only being able to eat one regular meal a day. You had never heard of seconds, or dessert, or pies, and there would only ever be a second meal for special or important occasions. Though you were constantly hungry, you tried to keep quiet; your parents had much less than you did. In order to feed that growing child that they loved so, they gave you what was to be their food so that you could have even that one meal a day. You saw them go without food as often as you saw them eat some meagre portion with you.
You remember those days well. At the end of a day of helping your mother weave, your father would come back with a few coins from what he had sold. In the mornings, you would always see him leave with an armful of bolts of rough cloth, the ones you had woven the day before. You always hoped they were good enough.
Usually, he’d come back with the same armful, only a little smaller.
Dinner would be a reminder of that. Most often, it would be watery stewed beans or cooked turnips and beets, shades of grey or dull brown. You would pretend that the lumps you found in those bowls were bits of chicken, perhaps pretending also that you were happy farmers or craftsmen during those meals - though deep inside there was always the melancholy thought that none of it was true. With it there could also be barley bread - grainy, tough and often dry - as sops when they could be found by alms. Sometimes, if it was a good day, or an occasion, some salt pork would be cut out of whatever small lump was hung from the ceiling; the white mould that invariably developed would be brushed and scraped off as well as possible.
As soon as you were able, you were sent to sell the cloth that your parents would weave every day. It was hard work, and standing out there hawking cloth was demanding on your voice and your mind, but these original training grounds refined your sense for the sale and for a good bargain. As an adult, you sometimes wove your own cloth but more often bought and sold cloths made by others, making a small profit as the middle-man. That was enough for a while, but you quickly realised how flawed it was as you saw each meal with your family was the same as it was before.
There was never any “big break” for you. Instead, it happened more gradually - as more affluent people began frequenting your shop, freemen and craftsmen at first, then armourers, then other merchants, you began to earn more money from each customer and to sell more luxurious cloths. Using the connections you made with merchants that travelled to other lands, you began importing cloth as well - which attracted the attention of nobles still interested in foreign silks but running out of vendors to buy them from. You ate regularly, then could afford to add pepper, mace and nutmeg to your food - then even your wine.
Your parents, sadly, never knew what it meant to be wealthy. Your mother died of a fever, sweated all night and soaked blankets. Her last words, even, were unintelligible - such was the fever’s grip on her. Your father, then, died of pneumonia - a wheeze and cough that had gotten worse and worse over the years, until he finally stopped breathing one night. You were never there for his final breath; only for the morning thereafter, when he had already become cold, pale and clammy. If only there had been something you could do.
Town
OBJECTIVE: Eliminate all witches.You are Regnault Coullart, a shoemaker.
Small, fairly old, the frame dry and slightly cracked. The painting is a simple one, the panel painted with tempera – yet, you find in it an unmistakable beauty. Hung in a little-used wall in your small workshop, it remains a point of curiosity in your new life. More than its material value or subject matter, what is most important is how you managed to preserve it over the years. Yes... And silver cutlery, and a thick, soft cloak.
You sit down on a nearby stool – cold, scratched, shoddy – and stroke one of the shoes still being lasted. Dry, firm, mottled, and entirely unlike the leathers you remember – rich, waxy, flexible cordovans that were as smooth as polished steel and incredibly tenacious. The workshop seems, late now in the evening, awfully large and barren; wind howls from gaps in the walls, door and windows, nothing moves or makes a sound save for the soft creak of floorboards under your feet, and the only light left is the soft blue glow of the moon and night sky. No, nothing’s left, now – save for you.
You had lived those years - those wonderful, horrible years - in Paris, a veritable metropolis. You had met your wife for the first time as an apprentice to a master cordwainer, young, fit and foolish to the extreme. She was but a maid, then, working in Lord this-or-that’s estate. It was at the markets. You still remember the exact weather of that day – clear and bright, but not sunny. The sun had been obscured by a thin sheet of cloud that had turned all the light into shades of grey – but she, dirty though she was, seemed to you to possess an inner golden glow. You stood there, dumbstruck, and probably mumbled some stupid words she couldn’t make out – she looked at you for a moment, smiled, blushed, and left. The two of you quickly struck it off, and when you could have a shop of your own, marriage seemed a matter of course.
First she gave you a baby girl, pudgy and healthy and beautiful. She was beautiful when she turned one, beautiful at two, beautiful yet at three. There was even another – a boy, she said – just, too, when you were making your mark. You had found the patronage of rich men who paid handsome sums for your handiwork, and your business flowered – right up until the first one died. Quite a while, a surprising while, after that, even. Then people started dying in droves from the plague. It had come back.
Early on, you stayed because everyone thought it was a curse for the sinners. Your parents were one of the first to succumb, the first of many – and when you saw it wasn’t so, you told yourselves it could be staved off and prevented. Stupid! You should have known that wouldn’t work – even then, you should have known. When you did, it was too late, and your daughter, your beautiful girl, also succumbed – then, you were too afraid to move her to leave. Only a day after, your wife came down with a sickness – when you woke up again, you found her with black fingers and buboes. You tried to nurse them, as well as you could, but they died anyway – the daughter within a day, your wife – and son, whom you never got to see – a while later. A horrible storm of death, devastating your life in less than a fortnight.
You didn’t think to pack. You grabbed random possessions – you didn’t pay attention to what – and your money, and ran. You desperately searched for transport – all gone, all gone. All you found was a lone rider with a cart, you told him you didn’t care about the price – he took most everything you had left, and abandoned you here.
What was left was a painting, cutlery, and a cloak. You lived on, living on as they would’ve wanted you to – but what use is living on, when all you had lived for is gone?
You still don’t know. You think about it every night, with no answer. All you do is... Make shoes, eat, live.
Town
OBJECTIVE: Eliminate all witches.
