The Witch Eternia

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The Witch Eternia

Post by Zerifachias on Tue Sep 16, 2014 8:55 pm


There is a certain beauty to magic that cannot be matched. Ever since I was a little girl, I loved to see magicians come to my father's mansion and performs petty tricks. I thought it was magic. It was not until I turned thirteen that I saw real magic. My father had only recently died of disease, and mother was never in the picture. All of my father's possessions, all of his wealth, passed down to me. I had no clue at the time to do with all the expensive tapestries and spinning wheels. Weaving never interested me as it did my father, and he was the best in the country.

An older woman in a hooded cloak came to my door and requested to see someone called Yeva. I told the old woman that there was no one of that name in my deceased father's home. That was the first time I heard that name, but it turned out to be my mother's name. If not for the age difference, the old woman may have suspected me to be Yeva.

When the old woman told me that Yeva was my mother, she put down her hood and allowed her true face to be seen. She was quite possibly the ugliest woman I had ever seen in my life. Her face was riddled with bright red lumps and mutations. Her left eye was sealed shut from the swelling on her face. Her nose appeared to have been eaten off by something. At the time, I thought, 'no wonder she hides her face with a hood,' but it turned out that was not the case.

Her ugly appearance was a test. The old woman knew that I was Yeva's daughter somehow, even though I had no knowledge of my mother. The magic the old woman used changed her appearance to become that of a beautiful, young woman, she told me. I did not believe her, of course, for she appeared to me as a grotesque and ancient woman. That was because I held an enormous affinity towards magic, or so the old woman explained. She could not prove herself other than to take me around the city where I lived with her hood down.

I was absolutely stunned at the number of men who gave her glances or whistled at her, all the while ignoring the thirteen-year-old girl whose father had only just died. I still wore black mourning dresses, for it had not been a month yet. The typical responses I got were condolences or pitying looks, both of which I detested by the second week. But not a single man even bothered to take notice of me. Even the woman on the road, who were usually the one handing out condolences like cheese in a bar did not spare me a second glance. Everyone's attention was on this craggy hag limping next to me with her frayed and dying hair, crooked back, and enormous feet that refused to keep themselves hidden beneath the folds of the woman's midnight blue robes. The staff that clanked noisily next to her went unnoticed, and her hoarse voice grated at my ears, but men melted at the slightest sound.

The old woman proved her power was real, though I could not see it. She told me that, with time, I could learn to see the falsehoods of magic, as well as the true faces of men. All I would need to do is forsake my earthly possessions, my individuality, and my very life, and join the old woman when she returned to the Order of Magi.

The Order of Magi is no ordinary group of wizards and witches. It takes a certain aptitude to be a magician, but it takes a personal invitation from one of the Magi from the Order to become a part of the most powerful group of mages in the world. Even after the initial invitation, there are countless aptitude tests that determine whether or not one would become a Grand Mage. There are no second chances in the Order of Magi, fail one test, you are banished from the Order. Very few ever make it past the first week, or so I've heard, and even less voluntarily stay after a month. The lure of material possessions or love capture the hearts of countless mages, and these are not things that a student of magic is allowed to have. It distracts from one's main purpose. I felt that I could forsake my life, I had no direction, no guidance. I did not own myself. I did not even own my father's possessions.

At first, I believed that to be an easy thing to do, forsaking all of the things that once belonged to my father. But when I returned to my home, I could see these beautiful tapestries hanging from the walls for what they really were. My father spent his entire life weaving. Every single patch of cloth in this house was made by his hand. To discard them would be akin to discarding my father. It feels silly, my father is dead, already discarded over the fire. To discard all of his work...that was something I could not do, or so I thought. I could not destroy my father's blood and sweat, but I could give it away. And that is what I did.

The day after the old woman gave me a visit, I “discarded” all of my father's possessions. I took every bit of cloth, every tool, everything I could find in the confines of my home, put it on a cart and left a sign on it. The sign read:



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