Writing Prompt #1

Secret Santa

This was really fun to write, and was also my first time doing something like this, so for my first ever thing like this, I'm pretty happy with it. I hope my person likes this a lot :)

@writeblrcafe hosted the event

This is my gift for @kittrrrr - hope you enjoy!

A Recurring Face

Word count: 979

At first his name had been Kestrel. He’d liked it; for what reason, he couldn’t quite say, but when he first heard the word he knew he loved it. Later on, he found out that a Kestrel was a bird, but he didn’t mind it too much. They were lovely birds.

Over time that name had to change. It was only natural. As humans developed, so did their languages and the names they went by. His name would be seen as unusual or strange, and thus it had to change to something else. In his heart, though, he was always Kestrel. No matter what name he took, he was always just Kestrel.

Humans had nice literature, Kestrel decided.

They were amazing; artfully woven words into strings of sentences. Each word was carefully selected to have an intended effect. They could make him laugh or - on rare, memorable occasions - make him cry.

Some of his favourites belonged to the Greeks.

Kestrel walked through the town, his eyes wandering across the shops and men walking around him. The sun was high in the sky, its golden rays beating down on him pleasantly, if a little too hard at some points in the day. There were no clouds that would drift by. The fact made him frown a little, but he recovered soon afterwards when his attention was captured by a man arguing with a vendor.

The man was not dressed like the other men and women roving around. He wore a white button-up shirt underneath a leather waistcoat, accompanied by pinstripe grey slacks and shiny shoes. His hair was a ruddy red and his eyes bright green, like moss in a forest. The man was trying to bring down the price of an urn, to which the vendor was trying to maintain his composure whilst explaining to the man that “This urn is incredibly valuable, it cannot be sold for such a price.”

Smiling, he approached the two men slowly. His arrival caught the attention of the vendor.

“I can pay for it,” he said. Kestrel took out some drachma and handed them to the vendor, taking a glance at the strangely-dressed man beside him. “Is it enough?”

The vendor’s eyes bugged out of his head. “This is too much.”

“Consider it a bonus, for putting up with my friend’s antics.” Kestrel turned to the man with a smile, hoping he would play along. “Come, let’s go back home.”

He placed his hand against the man’s back, but not before taking the urn and handing it to him. Kestrel escorted the man away from the shops and people and down a more private road.

He stopped when they were far enough from other people that no one would overhear.

The man looked at him curiously, his gloved hands shaking a little as he held the urn. He rotated it, tilted it, looked at it from every angle imaginable, then began to smile brightly. “Thank you,” he said, “I do not think I would have made it out of that unscathed.”

Kestrel laughed. “I’m sure you would’ve managed it.”

“I’m Thomas,” the man - Thomas - held out his hand. “And who are you, good sir?”

“Kestrel.” he answered, shaking Thomas’s hand with vigour.

---

His love for Greek literature was threatened by the appearance of Shakespeare. He couldn’t help but adore the man’s craft; his way with writing and creating likeable and repulsive characters; his amazing skill for both comedy and tragedy; the way he had risen to fame and even earned the favour of the queen herself.

He had arranged tickets to see one of his favourite plays and took his seat. It was a more private area, since he found that sitting with other people was quite tedious, at times, and that  plays were far more enjoyable with less clamour.

A man walked in. “My apologies, sir, but there aren’t many more seats available. Would you mind sharing with another?”

Kestrel nodded. “I see nothing wrong with that. Tell the fellow that he is welcome here with me.”

Bowing his head in response, the man scurried away, then returned with—

Oh.

The man disappeared, and Kestrel was suddenly alone with Thomas. He hadn’t aged a day; no wrinkles, no crow’s feet around his eyes, nothing. He was just as youthful as the day Kestrel first met him.

Which couldn’t be possible, since it had been several centuries since their last encounter. Unless Thomas was also…?

“I recognise you,” Thomas said, breathlessly. “You— you’re that man. From Ancient Greece.”

“How are you still alive?” he blurted out.

Thomas’s brows furrowed in thought. His eyes took in Kestrel’s clothing, his hair - which he had to cut short, sadly - and his face, lingering a bit too long on certain features.

Kestrel felt his cheeks colour, and looked down at his lap. He nervously fidgeted with his hands. “Why don’t we enjoy the play?” he suggested. “Then we can talk afterwards. Perhaps go for a nightcap.”

Hesitant, Thomas sat down beside him. Their shoulders brushed against each other for a brief moment.

“I think I would enjoy that very much, indeed.”

He wanted to never see Thomas go. He wanted to learn everything he could about the man who had disappeared for centuries and then came back.

He wasn’t alone anymore.

It took a short while for that to sink in. He wasn’t alone anymore. Kestrel didn’t know what to do. He could sing, he could cry, he could dance for hours on end and never stop!

“Are you alright?” Thomas asked, a nervous smile on his face.

Kestrel beamed back at him with an expression akin to a child on Christmas day. “Yes. More than alright, in fact.”

Their attention was snatched by the commencing play as the actors rushed onto the stage.

He was not alone anymore. Maybe things would be different this time.

A Dead Canary In The Garden

Scott stared out of his window in a trance. The shimmering water of the lake was illuminated by the golden rays of light from the sun dipping below the horizon. Trees surrounded this lake in a protective circle in a desperate effort to hide the lake from Scott's clutches. That's what it felt like. But in all fairness, he wasn't exactly the best person to have around. Death and decay clung to him, shackles that he could never remove no matter how hard he tried. Maybe once he could have done it, but not anymore. Not since the one person Scott loved more than life had been taken from him.

Now he was resigned to watching the lake from a distance. He didn't trust himself to go near it. Maybe later. For now, it felt like attempting such a feat would end badly. Particularly with the lake evaporating or bubbling to the point where it would burn anyone who even tried to come near it. Almost like how Scott had tried to hide himself from the other witches. After all, wouldn't he always be the bad guy in their stories? The Necromantic Witch, who brought the undead with him wherever he went, who cursed those he deigned worthy of such burdens, who would actively seek out trouble by attacking his fellow witches or simply messing with them. Thinking back on it, he didn't even know if he was the good guy in his own story. How could he be?

Sighing to himself, Scott left the confines of his house. The walls sought to suffocate him, and that wasn't something Scott could deal with right now. But what if he let it happen? If he let the walls suck the air out of his lungs and finally allow Scott to die? Would he be happy? Would Scott finally see him again? He chuckled to himself. If the Necromantic Witch had died, he had no doubt in his mind that the others would find it amusing. The irony of it pulled another laugh out of his lungs.

Wandering slowly outside, he allowed his feet to carry him. He didn't have a particular destination in mind. As long as he was moving, he'd be fine. Movement meant he was alive. Or maybe he'd been reanimated by a different necromancer. Either way, it meant he was walking, which was good. Most of the time, death meant nothingness for eternity. Or so that's what all those books had taught him.

To his surprise, he found himself in a familiar part of the forest. One he hadn't been to since he received the letter stating he'd be partaking in a competition to become Supreme Witch. Since he had built the home they had dreamt of before-....

He shook his head.

Scott approached the back of the cabin. A small patch of grass lay behind it, distinctly out of place. It was a far brighter patch of grass than the decayed grass surrounding it. A single flower was left there along with a small headstone with lovingly carved words on its surface. Scott remembered carving it. The grief that had wracked his body almost made him mess up. Luckily, he'd managed to carve it correctly without any huge mistakes.

"Hello again Petal," Scott said quietly. He stared down at the flower on the ground. A poppy. Symbolising death and remembrance. "Do you like the flower? I'm sorry I couldn't get you more. Flowers don't seem to like me much anymore." He paused. No answer came from the grave. Only silence. "I love you. And I will get you back. I promise." He knelt down and picked up the poppy. He kissed each one of its many petals and carefully placed it back on the grave.

One way or another, he would bring him back.

The Colony

Scott could feel the mushrooms.

Every tiny nook and cranny that he could place them in wasn't safe to the eyes of his brethren. Through them he could see. Through them he could hear. Through them he could feel.

There was no privacy in the colony. Everything was shared. That way no one had to deal with things alone.

But that also meant that Scott's pain was shared with the entire colony. His anguish, his agony, his sorrow. Every mushroom in his colony felt it and resonated with it.

He hated it. Hated how miserable he made his colony feel.

But as quickly as it'd come, the hatred would dissipate as the mushrooms soothed him with gentle words. His mind would be lulled into silence with their tender tune of love and adoration; because why wouldn't they adore him? Not many fungal mages roamed the lands anymore. They were few; a tiny sub-populace, a dying minority that would fade away.

The colony couldn't let him be destroyed by his sadness. He was the one spreading their power across the world. So they treated him like the blessing he was.

Scott sat on the mycellium outside his house, one hand tenderly stroking the ground and humming a small melody.

"How are you settling in? Hmm. That's good. I was worried that Martyn's Dollop would be a bit hard to adjust to. It's nice to know you're doing well. Oh? Don't tell me you just learned about the Coliny. They're nice, I promise. Yes, I know, you'll be fine! They aren't competition. They are just... frozen creepers? Yeti creepers? Something like that."

The mycellium around him spoke in a mixture of tones and voices.

"Oh no, I doubt Martyn will find you too quickly. He'll take a while at least. Probably a couple weeks. Maybe some months. He isn't as dense as I'd like him to be, but he's dumb enough."

He felt their worry. Their fear of discovery. And at that he shook his head and tutted.

"Don't fret, my babies. If he does try to uproot you or hurt you..." He trailed off and glared at the sinking sun. "I'll show the fury of the colony. Every single one of his colins shall fall."

It was a promise. The sun, the moon and the blinking stars were his witnesses.

"What's this about killing my colins?"

"Oh. Martyn." Scott stood up and greeted the chillager. "How are you? Is there something you need?"

"Nah, just passing through," Martyn waved him off. "Although, what happened to your last origin?"

"I died."

"I know that! What are you now? How'd you die?"

He shrugged. "Fell. But now I'm even better! I'm a fungal mage!"

Martyn tilted his head like a puzzled puppy. "What's that?"

Scott didn't give him an answer. "I'm not alone now. I have my colony! No matter where I go, as long as I have mycellium, they are with me as well. It's wonderful! Nothing is private anymore! I don't need to worry about secrets! Or going through things alone!"

"I-"

"You'd love it Martyn. It's like never losing your inner child. Like always being able to cling to the parts of you that you love most. I have help for every problem!"

"This doesn't seem healthy." Martyn stepped forward and placed his hand on Scott's cheek. "Are you sure you're alright?" His touch was cold, but it didn't bother him. Scott leaned into it.

"Perfectly fine!"

Martyn's lips tugged down for a second, but returned to a thin line of indifference.

"I'd best be off."

"See you later!" Scott smiled, waving as his friend went away.

---

"He's not okay."

"What do you think it is?"

"He kept mentioning a colony. Acted as if he had a psychic connection with them as long as he had mycellium."

"Hmm. Check everyone's bases. There might be stuff there."

"You sure? What if we're just, y'know, overestimating this? It might just be harmless."

"I doubt it."

"Fine. I'll start looking."

Ballad of Secrets

The Canary fell, but was not the first

An age of deceit, a broken curse

Slain at the hand of his ally another time

The light of The Stars has dimmed, gone past its prime

The Moon has set, a new era come

As The Sun shall rise, all pain undone

And as Mars died in a final war

Putting an end to the blood and gore

The Slayer's sword fell from her hand

And she joined the chorus, the rest of her band

And as Earth stood at the Secret Keeper

Ready to meet the grim reaper

He was not yet done

He never would be

But Earth was among them now

Now, and for all eternity

Fire Brings Death

Joey was getting stronger.

He took pride in knowing this. After that dungeon, he was slowly getting more and more powerful. And yes, Scott had killed him and tormented him in his own home, but the two were now at some kind of weird truce that Joey didn’t really want to break. He didn’t feel like risking it now. Not after what he saw what the Necromantic Witch could do.

Gathering more Inquisitive Gems from Bertha, he turned to go up to his tower and use the gems for more spells and tools. If the other witches were getting upgrades, so should he. He couldn’t risk being seen as inferior. Not when his competition was so obviously weak in comparison to him. And perhaps that was his ego talking, but it was true! He won the first dungeon. That counted for something. Not if your only competition for that dungeon was Lauren, his mind replied. Joey sighed in annoyance and sped up. 

“Gah!” He turned around to see where the noise had come from. To his own surprise, Balthazar had seemingly tripped upstairs. Joey rushed to go help him. The stairs were oddly slippery today. Almost as if someone had covered them in butter. Maybe that was another witch? Wasn’t one of them an Illusionary Witch? They sounded like one for pranks.

Once he reached the top of his tower, his suspicions were confirmed. Balthazar had in fact taken a nasty fall, and his robe had torn at the base to reveal a bloody gash on his leg. Joey helped him sit comfortably. Handing Balthazar a healing potion, he thought on what to do next. Healing potions were handy, but they couldn’t solve absolutely everything in an instant. They took time. And unfortunately that meant Balthazar was going to be immobile for a couple of hours. Which normally wouldn’t be too bad if not for the fact that Joey was about to trade with him. But that could wait. He wasn’t in a rush. A few hours would be fine. He’d waited a lot longer in the past, and he could wait. After all, his friend was injured! Joey was many things, but he wasn’t very cruel. But you betrayed Lauren in that dungeon when she was meant to be your friend, was yet another unnecessary comment from his brain.

Other things grabbed his attention. Like how someone had appeared in Spawn! He could go talk to them for a bit, and then go check back up on Balthazar again. By then his wizened wizardly friend would be fine. With his miniature plan in his mind, Joey leapt back down the stairs, remembering to tell Balthazar he’d be back later. 

Spawn was a nice area. It was where Bertha was, the mysterious trader who’d trade anything for Inquisitive Gems, as long as there was a decent amount of the item. Joey never fully understood what Bertha was, but he had theories. An enderman being one of them. They had most of the right qualities, from the eyes to the way that their hood concealed most of their face, which could allude to them being an enderman but not proud of it. Joey was happy to theorise stuff like this. It didn’t matter in the end, but it was awfully fun to muse on.

Stood in the centre of Spawn, wandering about with a distant look in their eyes was none other than the curse-providing mischief-loving Necromantic Witch Scott. Joey gritted his teeth at the mere sight of the man. To say they weren’t fond of each other was an understatement. Joey resented him for those nuisances of curses that Scott practically handed to everyone at any opportunity, plus the fact that he’d died several times to the necromancer’s hands.

“Hello,” he greeted.

“O-oh.” Scott didn’t say much else. Joey frowned. Normally Scott would jump at the chance to mock, belittle or use sarcasm directed at Joey, but for some reason, he wasn’t speaking.

“How have you been after you, uhh, chased me around my own home?” He tried. It was sort of pitiful from an outside observer’s perspective. A good attempt, but not enough.

“Fine.” Scott turned away after his quiet response. Joey’s frown deepened. There was something off. Not that he cared or anything, but if he was meant to be competing then his opponent clearly wasn’t in a good condition. How was Joey meant to prove himself if his competitors weren’t in a good enough mindset to put up a decent fight? 

“Do you want to spar?” The words fell out of Joey’s mouth. For a second an expression of shock passed over Scott’s face.

“You? Want to spar? With me?” Scott was slow, enunciating each word in disbelief.

“I-I- sure? But no magic. Or weapons. Good ol’ hand-to-hand combat.” Joey was careful in his continuation. He didn’t really fancy going up against Scott, magic and weapons and everything. An even fight would be best.

“Hmm.” Scott gazes at the floor. Joey worried that Scott would turn him down. Or laugh at him. Or just walk away. “I’ve not done it in a while, but I suppose…eh, sure. I have the time for it.” The Necromantic Witch grinned, and Joey could’ve sworn that Scott’s teeth were sharper than normal.

“A-alright! Follow me.” Joey quickly walked off, checking Scott was still behind him. 

He didn’t know where he was going. This was just a random idea he blurted out by accident. But by whatever gods existed he was going to go through with it. So he found a random open space somewhere close to Spawn. Removing his hat, Joey prepared to fight.

Scott took a bit longer. The Necromantic Witch removed his hat, but also undid the clasp of his cloak and tossed it to the side. Scott’s bare arms were on show and Joey couldn’t help but stare. Mild muscle, likely from having to dig up graves and relocate corpses and such. His right arm was blackened from the shoulder to the wrist, and if Joey squinted, he could see something like souls trapped in permanent screaming expressions swirling underneath, like with soul sand.

“Like what you see?” Scott asked playfully. If he was feeling well enough to do that, then whatever tiny thing Joey was doing at the moment was working.

“Eh, it’s not bad,” Joey shrugged. “Let’s do this.” He lowered his body slightly and balled his fists. Scott remained upright with a confident smirk. 

Joey was first to attack. That was expected. With a fiery nature, of course he’d begin. He charged forward and small sparks of fire licked at his heels. It stung his feet slightly, but not so much from the actual fire. More of the feeling that it should have hurt. Scott easily side-stepped with practised grace. The Necromantic Witch kicked him sharply in the back and Joey stumbled. He quickly regained his footing and swung around. Scott threw a punch. Joey jumped backwards to avoid it. The dance continued, an attack, a dodge, perhaps a little stumbling here and there, rinse and repeat. It was a cycle both witches fell into quite easily. 

Scott brought his knee up and hit Joey in the gut. The Fire-Frost Witch staggered, caught off guard. He’d thought Scott would punch him instead. With Joey off guard and struggling to recover, Scott swept his legs and Joey fell to the floor. Scott planted his boot on Joey’s chest. The Necromantic Witch leaned down until their faces were barely inches apart.

“I win.” He whispered into Joey's ear. Joey’s face went bright red. Why did he find that kind of hot? Scott laughed and stood up, taking his foot off of Joey’s chest. He offered him a hand in standing up. He took it, somewhat reluctantly. “You’re not that bad. Could use a few pointers though.” Scott remarked.

“Yeah, yeah. I just went easy on you.”

“Oh really? Why? Because you think I’m too weak to take you on properly? Or are you saying that just to defend your ego?”

“Now you’re asking for it.” Joey clenches and unclenches his fists, then tackles Scott to the ground. The Necromantic Witch kicks up into Joey’s abdomen and shoves him off. Joey rolls over and scrambles to his feet. Both men stood at the same time.

“C’mon then,” Scott said, throwing his arms wide and rendering himself an open target. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Running Again

Scott hated this. He hated having to run. It was tedious after a short while. He couldn't go to anyone; not when everyone was a Red, prepared to kill him in order to gain more time and extend their own lifespan.

Only Martyn could be trusted. No one else.

He braced himself, hearing Joel's shouts from the distance behind him. Scott had time. Well, not really, but there was still an inkling of spare seconds he could use to think. It would be getting harder and harder to avoid those on Red. Yellows like him were pretty much non-existent. So he was alone whilst Martyn was gone. Martyn couldn't help him right now.

Clenching his fists, Scott sighed to himself. His breath was cold, turning to wisps of condensation. It twirled as it flew up and away. Unlike Scott, the wind was free. He envied it with every fibre of his being. There'd been times when everyone had been peaceful. When everyone on the server had been Green or Yellow. Those times, however unsteady or fragile they were, were the only times that Scott was able to live without as much of a target on his back.

Now he was practically a walking advertisement for time. An easy target.

He was tired. And since he was tired, anyone could just swoop down and kill him. It didn't even have to be Joel. It could be Grian. Scar. Cleo. Etho. Impulse. Maybe even Martyn, if he was desperate and bloodthirsty enough. Scott wouldn't have the comfort of safety. Not while he was Yellow.

Secretly, he hoped no one could get the time. The thought was present at the back of his mind. It started off as a mere passing idea that wouldn't hold any value. But slowly that small idea began to build and build, growing taller and taller until it was almost a fully fledged out plan. It wouldn't be hard either. He just had to jump. Maybe poison himself with a pufferfish first. So many options. So many methods.

"Scott!" Joel yelled, running around aimlessly. But he was beginning to spot him. And if Joel spotted him, Scott was as good as dead.

It was now or never. Give Joel the hours, or nobody gets them.

He took a deep breath.

Why was he hesitating?

Scott's hands gripped the pufferfish bucket tightly. He dumped it onto the ground, and waited until he felt the pufferfish poison him. Scooping it back up into the bucket, Scott stared down at the ground beneath him. If he did it right, then he could die.

That was what he needed. To die.

Joel had almost reached him. He'd found Scott and rushed forward with fiery desperation in his eyes. Scott could almost see the blood on Joel's hands. The bloodthirst. There was something sinister about him in the way that only Reds could be sinister. A hidden malice that none could obtain unless they had the urge to kill coursing through their veins.

With a glimpse up at the moon and a nod, Scott leapt off the edge.

Gaia's Curse

The vines dug into his skin sometimes. An unhelpful reminder of what he had lost.

They were like chains, in a way.

He tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about how his hair changed; from a bright cyan to a pale ivory tainted with blotches of red.

Every time he passed a body of water and gazed at his reflection, he couldn't help but think he looked familiar. He remembered fangs, long and pointed and sometimes uncomfortable in his mouth. He recalled how similar his cloud jump was to abilities he'd long forgotten; sometimes he'd jump up into the air and think about switching places with an angel.

But, as far as he knew, no one on the server was an angel. No one he knew closely.

Sometimes he would feel hungry. Phantom-hunger, if you will. Because he didn't need to eat anymore. But he'd still wish he could eat.

He'd probably kill to be able to enjoy the taste of cabbage rolls or pumpkin soup.

Would probably kill himself in order to get it.

As he sat on the balcony of his house, staring at the starry sky, he remembered.

He didn't remember anything specific; all the memories were murky, and most of the faces were blurred to the point where they couldn't be recognised. But he took note of other details. Like cod, cats called Norman, fields of poppies. Kingdoms of snow and golden antlers. Of rat tails, attics and giant feline catastrophes. Of necromancy, loneliness and dances with time.

They all mixed together in a strange cocktail of memories that both were and weren't his.

Scott clutched at an ache in his chest; a yearning for knowledge.

He sighed and looked up at the sky. Running his tongue along his teeth, he could almost imagine feeling fangs. But they weren't there. Because he was a fungal mage.

His hands itched. The pain of hurting a mob - he couldn't be bothered to remember which one - pulsed through his veins. Gaia had cursed him in that moment. He'd hurt someone, betrayed being a 'peace keeper' and paid the price for it.

How many people had he upset in the past?

Gaia, goddess of the earth. Mother Nature. She had given birth to the Titans and Giants. A powerful entity that was not to be messed with under any circumstances.

There were others, too. In a past life long ago, he'd killed an angel. And as a result, he was cursed to burn in the sun.

His own patron god, Aeor, and his brother Exor. How long had he been a devoted worshipper of the Stag Gods? How much of his life had he dedicated to following Aeor's wishes, to pleasing him, to keeping people safe, for nothing? Because he did everything in the end. He was the one to seal the demon away at the cost of his own life. And neither of the gods batted an eye.

He'd upset Them, too. Hundreds of pairs of eyes that Watched eternally. They despised him because he refused to play Their games properly. So he was made to constantly outlive his closest allies. Other than one.

Scott was a danger. To himself and to everyone around him.

The vines - nay, chains - dug into his skin.

He deserved them. He deserved the chains, for they were keeping him from hurting others. A criminal, a thief, a killer - all of those titles belonged to him - deserved the chains that kept them contained. That shackled them to their crimes.

He took a glance at the moon, and the stars surrounding it.

The moonlight shone down on him in a warm embrace. As did the stars.

The stars seemed to form a halo around Scott's head.

Scott curled up and allowed his eyes to droop shut.

Gaia's curse, as all the other curses placed upon him, would never leave him.

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Legal Rights and Murder

This wasn't good.

Not in the point of view for the court, anyways. Killing the person who decided to sue you wasn't a good look. At all. It just made him look really guilty and...pretty much made him lose any chance he'd had of avoiding being sued.

Ah well.

To be fair, he usually marked lots of things, and he'd completely forgotten about...that. It just wasn't very memorable! The guy sued him for counts of murder (that weren't accurate, he'd killed more animals than that) and for having a scottish accent, as well as a lack of empathy towards animals.

Well, he was sorry for the creatures that had to put up with him. Sorry for the animals that everyone on the server practically kidnapped and shoved into a pen to breed until it wasn't good enough, and then slain.

He certainly wasn't the worst person on the server. After all, Jimmy had put his sheep in his already-cramped house, as well as replacing parts of his floor with dirt and using it to grow crops. He'd helped fWhip and Sausage with grabbing those villagers! A tiresome affair really, especially with all the countless teleporting he did.

Maybe, if he played his cards right, he could find a way around this like he could with getting out of sticky situations. Mark a few people, do enough scare-teleports and perhaps he can get some friends to help him out. Forcibly, if the need arose.

He wasn't going to let himself go down that easy.

---

He was furious!

The darkness had suffocated him, a stark contrast to where he'd been before. The squelching sculk underfoot clawed at his ankles in an angered grasp, squeezing and scratching. The Warden barrelled towards him, the souls trapped within its chest pulsing brightly.

He felt his body practically disintegrate. Within moments he was dead and buried. All because he'd been unlucky. Because he'd made the mistake of letting someone mark him, and he'd paid the price for it. He should've kept himself at a distance. Should've made a glass barrier between them. Anything to prevent being marked.

But who was he kidding? The guy gave him gifts before reading the book saying he'd be sued! He'd gulped down the lump of guilt in his throat as everything conspired.

He wouldn't let himself make that mistake a second time. Not again. No, when he respawned he'd be far more careful. If he wasn't, then he may be the first to die permanently. How many lives did he even have left? How many did everyone have left? How much longer did everyone have to live, lives to use up, before inevitably perishing?

He didn't know.

The darkness had suffocated him and spat him out.

Deathly Suspicions

Bertha couldn't quite place something about Scott. Something seemed...different, about him. They watched him take out a demon with complete ease, unlike Pris or Tiff. Scott also mentioned that he'd fought several demons before.

Which made sense, really. But the 'demon thing' wasn't what had puzzled Bertha.

No. It was something else.

They'd taken note of all the subtle differences of the Necromantic Witch. The first thing was how sickly Scott appeared. His skin was incredibly pale with an almost green tint in some places, cold and lifeless flesh clinging to his bones. If Scott was put next to a corpse dressed like him, Bertha knew they'd struggle telling the two of them apart. Scott looked as if he were an inch from death; like an old man waiting for death to knock on his door and take him away.

The second thing was the exposed rib. Scott's clothes had torn ever so slightly, but enough to reveal one of Scott's ribs. That was concerning. The skin surrounding that rib was so pale that Bertha could see every small detail of that rib. No one was meant to have skin that thin unless they were a heavily-decomposed zombie or a skeleton with a thin layer of skin clinging to it like a lifeline.

The last thing, not quite visible, was just Scott in general. He just seemed off. Sinister and malevolent even when they were talking calmly with each other. It was an unrelenting aura of malice that descended upon all in his general vicinity.

So Bertha decided to do some friendly snooping. Because, if they wanted to bring back their sister to undo the curse, they had to ensure that none of the witches were catching on. Or getting to a point where they'd be too powerful for Bertha to take down, even once they got the curse lifted.

Scott ran around the summoning circle outside his house, drawing lines of chalk on the ground. Bertha hid in a nearby tree, careful not to touch any of the leaves. The leaves that, somehow, were still attached to the trees despite being almost certainly dead.

"Come on, come on..." Scott muttered. Bertha noticed the salt on the ground, and how Scott was avoiding it like the plague. Leaning forward, they held their breath. What would happen if they dropped salt onto Scott?

"Careful...careful..." They whispered to themself, rummaging through their pockets. Once they found the salt, Bertha slowly began to tip it down. The salt landed on Scott's shoulder with a sizzle.

"Crap!" Scott cursed, clutching his shoulder. Letting out a cry of agony, the Necromantic Witch sunk to their knees. Demonic growls and whimpers escaped Scott's mouth. Thick and sticky black blood stained the necromancer's hand. The skin around his shoulder bubbled, the flesh blackened and sickeningly inhuman. "Damnit, damnit, damnit!" The demonic voice cried out. Scott tried to stand and failed. His head whipped around, glowing green eyes looking for the source of the salt.

Bertha swiftly retreated away. Hopping from tree to tree, they mentally stored the information they'd gathered in their brain for later.

Now they knew what was up with Scott. At least, now they had their suspicions.

Scott was a Lich.

And now Bertha knew, maybe there was a chance that they could gain some leverage here...