Somewhere nested in a forest, a river, and a lake, there's an idle suburb that goes by the name of Fivewood Glen. Depending on your view of things, you might be fortunate enough to know that beyond its rusty metal roofings and dusty antique shops there's nothing special about it at all.
Or you might be be in the know about its chronic problems with ethereal spirits, strange happenings, and nocturnal monsters. You might even be part of the obscure few who are responsible for cleaning up these mystical messes, especially the ones they create themselves; the witches of the Glen, the Fivewood Coven.
If you're very lucky or very unlucky, you might even believe both.
Our story starts, as a number of stories do, on a moonlit night, in a moonlit forest.
The wind howled. There was no lightning or thunder to accompany its ambience - but the wind still tried the best it could to make up for their lack, with its furious wuthering and wooshing through the trees. The moon was a bright, perfectly-iconic crescent in the night sky, shining down on Fivewood Woods with the gleam of pallid moonbeams. Its companions, the stars, winked down as well; in their perfectly-organized patterns and asterisms. Woodland critters scurried across their tree-spangled home; zig-zagging between grass tufts and bushes or spiraling across branch to branch, invisible but for the keenest trackers.
There was magic in the air. That much was obvious, for anyone with a romantic soul. Or a witch.
In truth, there was some pretty extreme overlap between the two.
But none of these might have even been necessary to know something supernatural was going on; for if anyone was in the forest itself it would already be dancing in front of them.
Pale blue ghost lights whistled between branches, under canopies and over stones, floating in erratic zig-zags as if they were pure motes of light, unknowing of gravity, twirling about the woods like candle flames dancing in a frenzy. Or at least, it would certainly be more of a boogie-woogie rather than a waltz.
These will o' wisps, as they were named, appeared only a ways into the woods, tailing like miniature comets out of the way of any but the most lost. For the third night in a row, now, they seemingly squeezed themselves out from the ground to tango their midnight tango, spooking the aforementioned woodland critters of Fivewood Glen from their bushes and branches.
In the distance, a trio of figures stand about a cooking pot (well, one was crouching), speaking of matters mystical.
Iggy Snapp makes a few sputtering sounds in response. Truth be told, despite her being a witch, Iggy was never very good at staying up until midnight, even when she was a kid. The fact that she had only just managed to wake herself up a scant half-hour ago, along with the spooky atmosphere of the forest in general, end up causing the already nervous woman to be crushingly devoid of the wit necessary to form a coherent response for a good five seconds.
At that, the straw-hatted Thatcher titters to herself. Her two companions give eachother an aside glance, weathering her soft cackling.
The green-cloaked woman patted her companion lightly on the shoulder, who then did her best to match the color on her face with her hat.
Some people might assume that these words would indicate a blood-relationship between the two convening witches. In truth, Wick Thatcher was just the kind of person to make anyone and everyone call her by "Auntie". She often acted like the type to give you a candied apple while your parents weren't looking. Whether you wanted it or not.
Fillet was... an odd and mysterious individual in a group of odd and mysterious individuals. It was only over many moons knowing the hooded magician that Iggy and Thatcher could take this response in stride.
The other two respond in unison - with a brief period of silence.
The other other two have, by coincidence, the same response.
The masked figure seems to withdraw back in on himself, punctuating his argument with a crouch of satisfaction. Thatcher pats her deflating companion on the back.
Wick Thatcher drew herself up, which was quite a feat because both members of her audience were under the impression she was already standing straight. She clears her throat, and crinkles her eyes such that, even with her mouth obscured, it seemed as if you were witnessing the point of view of a particularly unbruised orange bowl during an autumn sale.
---
Meanwhile, a little ways away from this heart of the forest - but not too much - a building perches at the edge of that sleepy suburb known as Fivewood Glen. It was a tall and geometric thing, and in its heyday it might have impressed a decent level of respectability. Now, covered in rusty metal, peeling paint, and clothes strung from a nearby electric pole, the only impression it gives is that whoever lives inside might be a particularly ornery, widowed, grandmother.
They'd be wrong. She wasn't the only person in the building.
You're jolted awake in the middle of the night, an altogether annoyingly familiar feeling. It feels like a slow thing, the process of pulling yourself out from sleep's crusty clutches, rubbing your eyes, stretching your shoulders, and sitting yourself up. face illuminated by the startlingly iconic moon outside. But then you look at your phone.
You catch the time being midnight, on the dot, before your phone's clock ticks forward to 12:01. The witching hour, your mind supplies, though you still haven't figured out what it means to "witch" something. You shake your head, trying to get it in the game.
You click your phone to the camera app to use it as a makeshift mirror as you get your hair into place. The sleep-drunk, messy-looking human that stares back up at you through half-lidded eyes is, of course, yourself. Your name is...
[ ] ENTER NAME.
... And you're, well... kind of a weirdo, to be honest. Not even just because twice a month, give or take, you end up waking up at literally midnight sharp.
You're somewhat of a loser, only getting to live in this old lady's out-of-the-way snack food store through the virtue of the good old "work in a shop live in the shop" arrangement. You do your best to avoid her gaze most days. Uh... you've liked stars and constellations ever since you were a kid. You like to look and feel of glass... uh. You hate pizza. Like, really hate pizza.. What else...
[ ] What's one of your biggest fixations? Feel free to be a little general with it. (Write-in)
... Wait, why are you introducing yourself to yourself? You hop off your bed onto the fake wood paneling of your tiny room. You stare out at the night sky over the sleeping suburb of Fivewood Glen.
The moon is bright. The stars wink back at you, as they always do, and if you were so inclined you could while the night away tracing out four dozen odd constellations, pointing out every star you know will come out tonight.
You don't. You don't, because the fact that you've been awoken right at this moment means that *magic* is happening, somewhere. You've known that magic was real and more importantly was a consistent influence on your life for a good while now, though you're still a little unsure what it really... means. But that isn't what makes tonight special - like you had previously said, this has been happening two or three times a month for almost as long as you can remember. No, what makes tonight so special... is that this is the first time since *they* disappeared.
You frown at the view of the town again. Nearly a month ago, your friend, Flicker - real name or not, it's the one you know them by - managed to vanish into thin air. They were pretty big on anonymity, so only a handful of people even noticed or cared. You're part of that handful, and you're also the only one you know who knows they were - are, a *witch.*
Witches stick together, you know this. If anyone knew where Flicker went off to, it had to be them, right?
But witches are also reclusive. You haven't been able to find any just randomly searching for them, day or night. But with this feeling of magic ringing through your being, you know they're *convening,* somewhere. You just need to look for where...
[ ] The forest. You feel it in your heart, in your soul - you're called to the woods. No - you're being guided to the woods. By something else, something in the air. Or the sky, maybe. (Path of the Intrinsic. Driven and strong-willed, stubborn and reckless. Intuitive magic.)
[ ] The forest. You're not a particularly good investigator. But you're a good listener, and when Flicker said things you've always listened. Whenever witches meet up, they do so in the forest. You know this because they told you so. (Path of the Mediary. Clever and emphatic, brusque and intrusive. Good at talking to people.)
[ ] The forest. You just have a feeling. (Path of the Astrologer. Idealistic and open-minded, naive and... slightly dim. Despite your circumstances, you've always been just a little bit lucky.)
Mind set, you tear yourself away from staring out the window melodramatically like the theatre kid you are, and step up to your wardrobe. You should probably get something a little warmer than heading out in public with just an undershirt. Oh, right...
... Which of these do you feel like wearing right now?
- [ ] This is how I usually present.
- [ ] This is just the current Mood™.
Plan votes for now, please!
Currently writing this entirely too late/early, fueled solely by a glass of milk and a banana. This quest is a labor of love, emphasis on labor. Thank you for checking it out, and please enjoy these silly little witch kids!
