Monthly Archives: March 2005

Cutting doorways betwixt worlds is a skill that not every Wytch possesses. On the Fortunate Isle it was perhaps one of my more accomplished skills. So much so that I attracted the attention and the note of those creatures and beings that feed upon both human and Fae Flesh. What happens when you find that you can cut a doorway from the world of the living into the very gaping maw of Hell? How does a young inexperienced Wytch deal with coming face to face with the very darkest of human belief in the form of Lucifer Himself?

Afraid of the Dark?

I am dissatisfied with the fact that there are very few with whom I can relate. If anything, I consider myself to be amoral. But to hear anyone else talk, that amorality is interpreted most often as immorality. Even those who have the absolute least right to cast judgement upon another do so. It does not matter whom they rob or kill or lie to, whenever they find you are a Wytch, you are always worse than they are. You might as well have the mark of the Beast tattooed somewhere on your person, with most expecting it to be either on your breast or your arse. I am dissatisfied with having to explain, defend, or to fight. I’faith, I’d just as soon be left alone to my own devices. But then, when you are a Wytch, those devices are the very thing that many people, fear the most. If you are left alone to mind your own business, somehow, some way you are making mayhem and trouble at everyone else’s expense.

And if you are unrepentant, and unapologetic for any of things, as certainly I am, then there are even fewer who understand this.

Muse: Fanny Fae
Fandom: Original Fiction, Legend and Folklore
Word Count: 195

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*scoffs*

You talk of ‘Hell’, and ‘damnation’. What know you of either of those things? I see more, far more than you want me to see. Maybe the powers of observation are what make a Wytch that much more threatening than any other woman. What is a Wytch? A lowly old hag with green skin, missing teath, scarred, tattered and threadbare. No, she is merely a woman who does what another would not dare to. She obeserves, she listens, she thinks, and by the Goddess, she knows.

You want the end so badly, it would seem. Well….do you? Come closer – if you do truly desire it, I would be happy to oblige and tip you headlong into the abyss that you desperately seek. I can, you know. And as your body lay spilling out it’s life’s blood at my feet, I would step over you with nary a thought. You would have asked, after all. Yes?

Oh, I know that look. How can a woman do that? How can she be as cold as a man when she kills?

Shall I tell you?

Why not. It’s the least I can do. What difference does the sex make when a person takes the life of another? None, really. When I was seventeen, and a young priestess, I was set to perform the most serious ritual of our People on the Fortunate Isle. I was to take a young man, give him my maiden’s blood and at the end of it all, slit his throat. After that was done, I was to open his chest, cut out his heart and take it back to the High Priestess of the Isle. He was to give up his life, normally it would have been a willing sacrifice. But instead, I spared him, and substituted the heart of a stag for his. Do you think I went soft? No. He was worth far more alive to me than he was dead. Dead, through his blood he would have propped up a regime on the Isle that I wanted to topple myself. Alive, he would live to see another day, and in time it would be a blood favour that I could recall. And so I did recall it when the proper time arrived. It was a real bargain considering that I grabbed the very power that I sought, even though I left the Fortunate Isle and got much more out of the accord.

Does any of this make me evil, or as one man once called me, “Machiavellian” ? I don’t know, and find myself not worrying too overmuch on the opinions of others. Judge me if ye will, but please excuse me if I do not sigh nor wring my hands over what you might be thinking.