The maniacal laughter haunted her at every turn, the fallen twigs snapping beneath her panicked feet sharp against her haggard breaths in the deep never ending forest as she stumbled through the thickening fog and descending darkness. Her trembling fingers arched with tendrils of magic as it ran in her veins like heat but it was useless to her at the moment. Centuries of a life nestled in the laws of nature fell to dust under the hot pursuit of the thing that seemed to be everywhere and yet nowhere at once. Neither staff nor broom, neither pointed hat or swirling wand could ever capture the truth of her existence, the presence that true power posses. They were trinkets of a child's imagination, nothing more, but oh how she wished she had something more powerful than herself to fall upon.
Old men with straggled beards and hags with warts that blinked with all seeing eyes never whisper the realities of being a Witch in a world that evolves with leaps and bounds that even sages of magic cannot contain. They never warn you of the monsters that don't creep in shadows or dwell in caves but walk in the light like Golden Heroes who will be gloriously celebrated when they drop your head on a platter amongst a crowd of cheering spectators. Civilizations rise and fall like the living dead and as time rots their minds into hungers driven by fears, they always lash out at the unknown, those standing on the fringes; but they always forget about the monsters they themselves become.
She knows if she hesitates, even for a second, a blade could pierce her, its sharpened edges tearing at her flesh. They say death is a myth for her kind, life simply cycles on but the pain is excruciating and real. The way your blood seeps from your veins, pumped by your heart that is driven to betray you in its basic function as it stains the fabrics that shelter your body from the seasons around you. Your nerve endings burst with radiating needles of fire and your vision blurs as sound hollows out to a dull thundering of each slowing heart beat. It is this that she is running from the most, an eternity of torment in an unceasing moment.
Good and Evil are but distortions of deluded realities and on All Hallows' Eve as spirits roam and fair maidens flutter in their naked glory around flames of tribute, she races on, pursued by a hound of death hidden in the skin of a mere man.
Old men with straggled beards and hags with warts that blinked with all seeing eyes never whisper the realities of being a Witch in a world that evolves with leaps and bounds that even sages of magic cannot contain. They never warn you of the monsters that don't creep in shadows or dwell in caves but walk in the light like Golden Heroes who will be gloriously celebrated when they drop your head on a platter amongst a crowd of cheering spectators. Civilizations rise and fall like the living dead and as time rots their minds into hungers driven by fears, they always lash out at the unknown, those standing on the fringes; but they always forget about the monsters they themselves become.
She knows if she hesitates, even for a second, a blade could pierce her, its sharpened edges tearing at her flesh. They say death is a myth for her kind, life simply cycles on but the pain is excruciating and real. The way your blood seeps from your veins, pumped by your heart that is driven to betray you in its basic function as it stains the fabrics that shelter your body from the seasons around you. Your nerve endings burst with radiating needles of fire and your vision blurs as sound hollows out to a dull thundering of each slowing heart beat. It is this that she is running from the most, an eternity of torment in an unceasing moment.
Good and Evil are but distortions of deluded realities and on All Hallows' Eve as spirits roam and fair maidens flutter in their naked glory around flames of tribute, she races on, pursued by a hound of death hidden in the skin of a mere man.
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