A wicked witch!
[OOC: For heroes who've heard of the wicked witch of the west woods, for lost damsels and innocent young things... for those wood nymphs she's feuding with... make yourself at home.]
In the Dark and Dangerous Woods outside of the city, there is a Dark and Dangerous Path that leads off into the west wood.
In crabbed, faded letters, five signs warn of the danger ahead.
Along this path
| Lives a witch who's no good
I wouldn't go further
| But maybe you would.
Burmashave
By the dark little cottage at the end of the path, the wicked witch was rousing her vile homonculi.
"Drat you dratting florafiends," Rathlina shrieked, shaking a fist at her miniature servants. She'd asked them to dig her vegetable garden, because what was a witch without a first-grade garden to grow rapunzel and pain's ease and other things to tempt hapless passers-bye. "You're not rotten enough at all!"
Her nettles and nightshade, her deadly amanita. Horrible little fiends!
Or they had been until that wretched good fairy. Now they were digging her garden. And dancing. To a spritely tune.
What was a witch to do, when her homonculi couldn't injure a mortal-- nor even, if you can believe it, by inaction allow a mortal to come to harm?
HONESTLY.
One of her loyal broomlings sensed her distress and gave her a pat on the shoulder before it resumed carrying water from the brook.
In the Dark and Dangerous Woods outside of the city, there is a Dark and Dangerous Path that leads off into the west wood.
In crabbed, faded letters, five signs warn of the danger ahead.
Along this path
| Lives a witch who's no good
I wouldn't go further
| But maybe you would.
Burmashave
By the dark little cottage at the end of the path, the wicked witch was rousing her vile homonculi.
"Drat you dratting florafiends," Rathlina shrieked, shaking a fist at her miniature servants. She'd asked them to dig her vegetable garden, because what was a witch without a first-grade garden to grow rapunzel and pain's ease and other things to tempt hapless passers-bye. "You're not rotten enough at all!"
Her nettles and nightshade, her deadly amanita. Horrible little fiends!
Or they had been until that wretched good fairy. Now they were digging her garden. And dancing. To a spritely tune.
What was a witch to do, when her homonculi couldn't injure a mortal-- nor even, if you can believe it, by inaction allow a mortal to come to harm?
HONESTLY.
One of her loyal broomlings sensed her distress and gave her a pat on the shoulder before it resumed carrying water from the brook.