a-fenstanton-witch-blog

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

Foreign Parts

"I don't hold with it, these foreign parts." "You've been to Limsa Lominsa and Ul'dah and even Idyllshire. That's foreign!" "That's not foreign parts. That's just--a long way off, that's not foreign. Foreign parts are where they gabble at you in strange lingo and eat foreign muck and worship--you know. Objects," said Gannet Fenstanton, good-will diplomat. "Foreign parts can be quite close too if you're not careful." The witches all looked at the red-haired man, who was self-assuredly stirring the cauldron. Gannet had been in a bleaker mood than usual ever since he'd gotten back from helping those Agents with that last job, the one where they went to help some man named Gideon or some such get free from having his soul taken by his old tutor. Gannet was an excellent sulker, he'd nearly turned it into a profession he could charge for; at the present, however, he was turning it all inwards which was never a good sign. Of course, they all knew why he was acting this way. He'd had to reveal he wasn't nearly as terrifying as he wished people thought he was, or rather, not in the way he wished they did. Gannet was a firm believer that respect was a dish best served with a side of fear and most everyone thought a witch consorted with the demons of the Hells and could turn a man into a toad with a word. That last part was true and while the first might be for others, no real upstanding witch with half a mind would consort with Voidsent--they simply knew Voidsent were nothing to be afraid of was all. Unfortunately for Gannet, he had been forced to admit aloud that he had no such pacts with any such beings which, naturally, left him feeling as exposed as a streaker in Ishgard--cold, humiliated and like important parts were about to fall off. "I don't think it really matters if its foreign or not," said Missus Pinte, a middled-aged wise-woman that had made her name by being the best chocobo witch in this side of the Wall. "It's just another place that has things that need doing and so someone needs to go do them." Gannet loathed her. She was simplistically practical when he didn't want to be. "And you're the only one that really has anyone what can take you over there, my lad." Brother Mars, who had been reservedly quiet during this entire discussion and coven so far finally spoke, turning his bound eyes towards (and by towards, it should be clarified as 'downwards') at Gugubu Gubu, the lalafell that acted as the sole representative of that race in their collection of witchcraft (though none of them held that against her). "Did you bring the biscuits?" "Well now, I thought I'd forgotten something! I'll lose me own head next...!" the elderly woman of a lalafell mumbled, fishing in her pockets for the biscuits she knew weren't there. "I have a toffee. It's only been in my pocket for a week or so...!" Gugubu had the habit of speaking loudly at first and then trailing off into an almost inaudible mumble by the end. "It's not like it was my turn to bring them anyroad, that's what I'm saying....It ain't like it was my turn, that's all I'm saying..." "That's alright. I was asking merely for information," Brother Mars calmly replied. Gannet's brow quirked at that--information was lethal in Brother Mars' hands. When you didn't have eyes, you had to make up for it elsewhere. "Gannet, I don't think you need to speak ill of foreign lands. I actually was going to say that I'd prefer you didn't go. It's best you remain here and keep an eye on things." "What?" The entire coven fell silent, the gossiping and rumor-mongering screeching to a halt. Everyone knew you didn't tell Gannet what he could or couldn't do. "I am saying that you will be better served to remain here instead of travelling to foreign parts. As a matter of fact, I'm forbidding you to go." There was a pregnant pause before he added, "And don't think of going to your Agent friends for help on it either. This is my final word on the matter. I'll get someone else to go for us." Everyone knew you didn't tell Gannet not to go somewhere. It was the fastest way to see to it that he did go there or did do the thing just to spite you. As it had been explained to them once by Brother Mars, it was a matter of 'psycholology' or 'Mindomancy'--that his eggo wouldn't stand for being told what he could or couldn't do. It had always worked for Brother Mars in the past and he saw no reason to stop now or any time soon. "Well. Fine then. I suppose I'll just go home and start packing." "I believe I just told you--" "Oh I heard you. And I ain't packing for foreign parts. I'm packing for--closer parts. Parts that are--you know. Not-foreign." Gannet tugged on the brim of his hat and turned, leaving the fire and the cauldron and the coven behind on their little spot on the hill in the forest and made his way back to his home. "He really does have a big eggo," Missus Pinte remarked as he disappeared from view. "I mean, he's sharp as a tack but that eggo of his..." "It's what makes him such a good witch, Missus Pinte. You need a will like that to get done the things that need to be done," Brother Mars remarked, taking up his mug and drinking a long draught of his tea from it. "It ain't like it's my turn to bring them....ain't been my turn in three moons..." mumbled Gugubu to herself, jabbing the fire with a stick, sulkily. @astralagents

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

Hence, for example, the Way of Mrs Cosmopolite, very popular among young people who live in the hidden valleys above the snowline in the high Ramtops. Disdaining the utterances of their own saffron-clad, prayer-wheel-spinning elders, they occasionally travel all the way to No. 3 Quirm Street in flat and foggy Ankh-Morpork, to seek wisdom at the feet of Mrs Marietta Cosmopolite, a seamstress. No-one knows the reason for this apart from the aforesaid attractiveness of distant wisdom, since they can't understand a word she says or, more usually, screams at them. Many a bald young monk returns to his high fastness to meditate on the strange mantra vouchsafed to him, such as 'Push off you!' and 'If I see one more of you little orange devils peering in at me he'll feel the edge of my hand, all right?' and 'Why are you buggers all coming round here staring at my feet?' They have even developed a special branch of martial arts based on their experiences, where they shout incomprehensibly at one another and then hit their opponent with a broom. Currently Magrat was finding herself through the Path of The Scorpion, which offered cosmic harmony, inner one-ness and the possibility of knocking an attacker's kidneys out through his ears. She'd sent off for it. There were problems. The author, Grand Master Lobsang Dibbler, had an address in Ankh-Morpork. This did not seem like a likely seat of cosmic wisdom. Also, although he'd put in lots of stuff about the Way not being used for aggression and only to be used for cosmic wisdom, this was in quite small print between enthusiastic drawings of people hitting one another with rice flails and going 'Hai!' Later on you learned how to cut bricks in half with your hand and walk over red hot coals and other cosmic things. Magrat thought that Ninja was a nice name for a girl.

'Witches Abroad' by Terry Pratchett

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

Going nuts–or, rather, not going nuts–was the soul and centre of witchcraft, and this was how it worked. After a while, a witch, who almost always worked by herself in the tradition of witches, had a tendency to go… strange. Of course, it depended on the length of time and the strength of mind of the witch, but sooner or later they tended to get confused about things like right and wrong and good and bad and truth and consequences. That could be very dangerous. So witches had to keep one another normal, or at least what was normal for witches. It didn’t take very much: a tea party, a singalong, a stroll in the woods, and somehow everything balanced up, and they could look at advertisements for gingerbread cottages in the builder’s brochure without putting a deposit on one.

Terry Pratchett, I Shall Wear Midnight (via discworldquotes)

@a-fenstanton-witch

(via eyesoftirnoch)

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

It’s cleaner than it looks.

Theme Aesthetic: Swamp Witch

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

OOC: Gannet’s going to step out for a little side-quest to snag a pact with someone...or something. Here’s a little sample of things that are coming down the line!

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

A little voice-work for Gannet!

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

“Do you have any scars?” 

It was a simple question Gannet had asked, but Uruwashi felt not truly inclined to indulge him with an answer. Not like she was ashamed or trying to hide anything, but the roegadyn did not feel she needed to answer a question that had really only one answer. 

‘we all have scars, some physical others not so much…’

((Just a small blurb to go with the picture, was a question she was asked in roleplay to! Enjoy the art of my femroe samurai.))

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

My reaction whenever someone asks 'Do you use a broom to fly...?'

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

Cleaning Up

He had never given much thought to his appearance. There were certain things you just simply didn’t have time for when you were doing the various things he was doing--primarily delivering babies and making anti-venoms. But there was something he was quickly learning, the more time he spent with people--they definitely seemed to all agree he looked rather dirty. Some things he couldn’t help; he spent time in the swamp collecting herbs and mushrooms and things like that and so of course he would get dirty. He also spent a lot of time walking around--dust clings. He washed and bathed but...maybe not as much as he should.

He didn’t comb his hair much either but that was because it didn’t like it. Even so he forced the brush through the long strands, willing it to undo the tangles and knots and finally getting it relatively neater and free of leaves and twigs. His grandmother had insisted that it was better to let people fear you and give them something to fear--they wanted to see a witch so let them see a witch. But then he was at the Runestone and the Seadog and the Agent’s house and he always...well everyone else always looked so clean and presentable (even if a number of them remarkably lacked shirts or properly fitting trousers).

New clothes were expensive--fabric was expensive. He had only bought enough to make the rough homespun shirt he now wore. Jewelry and things were expensive too--and his new boots were not quite so new and the key around his neck was something he’d found while fishing around in his corners for his hairbrush.

“I’m still ‘Me’. Just cleaned up. It may not be what everyone thinks is perfect but--well it’s better than wearing mud, I suppose.” He looked at his hands, feeling an odd satisfaction in seeing them free of dirt under his fingernails. Koh had looked at least presentable--Grinningwolf and Sterr and all of them were all nicer to be around for being cleaner too.

“I’ll try this. Just for right now. If it doesn’t work out I’ll just curse them all and be done with it...” he nodded to himself, satisfied with the out he’d provided in the event this didn’t work (though it likely wouldn’t happen anyway).

@astralagents

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

I ship it.

ㅋ ㅋ ㅋ ㅋ ㅋ ㅋ ㅋ ㅋ ㅋ ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ세피라바 파세요 Sephirot x ravana

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

The Bluebird of Happiness Pt. 1

He would curse him. It wouldn’t be difficult. The egg was in his hand, the name scrawled on it with ink.

Berrod.

He had humiliated him in front of everyone. You don't do that, not when a witch was trying to simply talk. To make conversation.

He had broken several eggs trying to write the name on the shells before this, mind you.

He went into the lichyard that night, after the incident at the Sway and stood there as the rain began to pour down, roaring into a thick curtain that made him nearly invisible in the torrential downpour. There could be no moon visible when the hex was cast and there would be no moon now.

This is what you get for trying to talk to people. This is what you get for trying to make friends. Mortal people will never tolerate you. Never trust you--and you will never be like them. You can try and try and try but you'll always have a wall.

"I CONJURE YOU OH LUMINARIES OF HEAVEN AND EARTH!"

His hands trembled as he held onto the egg in his fingers, making sure the water and rain didn't cause him to drop it or let the ink run off the brown shell. He could hear the words in his mind, the voice that told him exactly how things were. A wall between you and them--maybe Berrod didn't want to talk about it...or maybe he hates you. Who cares? He dared.

He dared!

No one humiliates a witch!

"AS THE SKY IS SEPARATED FROM THE EARTH SO TOO SEPARATE BE--BERROD AND HIS HUSBAND!"

The cold rain was causing his fingers to grow numb and he lifted the trembling egg a bit higher for the next bit. He had felt his words faulter in his throat and he bit them back and pressed on--he needed to make an example. Who cared about the hows or the whys!? This is what you get...! This is what you get!

This is what you get when you cross a witch!

"BY THE TWELVE HOURS OF THE DAY AND THE THREE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT AND THE SEVEN DAYS OF THE WEEK AND IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER ETERNITY!"

He need only break the egg and drink the yolk. As the storm raged around him in the darkness of the night he would finish this curse and watch that man that he had tried to sympathize with suffer for making him suffer! Returning his scorn three times over! It was less than what he deserved! This is what you get. This is what you get..!

CRACK.

This is what you get when you try to make friends.

He looked down at his hand. The egg yolk dripping with the rainwater and egg shell shards between his digits. A small sound left his throat and he sunk to the ground, hat brim touching the earth and hair sliding into the mud. He cried then, just a little. IT was impossible to hear and impossible to see and impossible to really even pick out the tears from the rain but they were there. It had been a long time since he'd done this and it left him feeling awkward and ashamed which of course made him slam his yolk-dripping fist into the mud a few times to show his displeasure.

Mortals are idiots. You don't need them. You're too important to let them make you feel that way.

You're wrong. I do need people. And people need me. I'm their witch whether they like it or not.

They do need you. Don't let them take advantage of you, though. Don't let them make you feel like shit.

"I don't understand people..." he mumbled allowed to the voice. He knew it was one of them--but he figured no one could care by now.

Toughen up. If you're gonna try and figure them out, you'll need it. People hurt each other all the time--even if they don't mean to.

"I know...I know."

He wiped the mud from his face and the water from his eyes and pulled his hat back onto his head. He looked a mess, he knew. He needed sleep but--maybe--maybe if he just went to the Quicksand he could get a bath. He was drunk--well as drunk as he'd ever been and there was no good in throwing around curses when you were drunk. You'd likely end up wasting a curse on a person that you could afflict better and cheaper ways anyway. With this in mind, he rose and made his way towards the city...

@astralagents

@berrodarmstrong

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

The Buggre Alle This Enchiridion

The book was commonly known as the Buggre Alle Enchiridion. The lengthy compositor's error, if such it may be called, occurs in the book of Evelixious, chapter 48, verse five: 2. And bye the border of Dan, fromme the east side to the west side, a portion for Afher. 3. And bye the border of Afhter, fromme the east side even untoe the west side, a portion for Naphtali. 4. And bye the border of Naphtali, from the east side untoe the west side, a portion for Manaffeh. 5. Buggre all this for a Larke. I amme sick to mye Hart of typefettinge. Master Biltonn if no Gentelmann, and Master Scagges noe more than a tighte fisted Southwarke Knobbefticke. I telle you, onne a daye laike thif Ennywone half an oz. of Sense should bee oute in the Sunneshain, ane nott Stucke here alle the liuelong daie inn thif mowldey olde By-Our-Lady Workefhoppe. @*"AE@;!* 6. And bye the border of Ephraim, from the east fide even untoe the west fide, a portion for Reuben. [The Buggre Alle This Enchiridion was also noteworthy for having twenty seven verses in the third chapter of Creation, instead of the more usual twenty four. They followed verse 24, which in the King Thordan version reads: "So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Nophica Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life," and read: 25 And Halone spake unto the Angel that guarded the eastern gate, saying Where is the flaming sword which was given unto thee? 26 And the Angel said, I had it here only a moment ago, I must have put it down some where, forget my own head next. 27 And Halone did not ask him again.

 Paraphrased from the incomparable ‘Good Omens’ by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman and adapted for Eorzea because I’d like to believe somewhere along the line Gannet’s ancestors did something like this.

@forever-halone

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

“Your average witch is not, by nature, a social animal as far as other witches are concerned. There's a conflict of dominant personalities. There's a group of ringleaders without a ring. There's the basic unwritten rule of witchcraft, which is 'Don't do what you will, do what I say.' The natural size of a coven is one. Witches only get together when they can't avoid it.”

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

The birds are an added bonus.

He was a cat.

He had been one for a long time and in his professional opinion he was a rather remarkable cat. Despite whatever new name the mortals had decided to call him this time around–that part changed with every generation.

First it had been Grissle.

Then it had been Vinegar Thom.

Now it was Grimalkin.

Did the monikers mean anything to him? Not really–so long as food was on the table when he wanted it (and the mortals were so awful about knowing when he wanted his meals), then the cat didn’t care if they called him ‘Get out from Underfoot’.

The current mortal he let take care of him–what was his name? Gannet, yes, that was it. He was the stupid one. The one that liked to wander around instead of staying put and letting the world come to him…so very unlike a cat.

The feline stopped, looking down towards its other end–his unfortunate addition was twitching at him. His tail–gods how he hated it. He knew it was down there plotting his demise, simply waiting, biding its time…

But where was he? Yes, his mortal.

So very unlike a cat. Judgmental yellow eyes looked up at the witch as he sat there by the fire, reading from one of his books when he should have been petting the cat. How annoying. The cat coughed politely, to get his attention. The mortal didn’t look up. The cat coughed again, this time including a low sort of call.

Not even a glance.

It was all those people he was so fond of spending time around. Those noisy, noisy people. The foolish little girl (though she was at least better smelling than most) and all those awful big mortals. You know the ones. Sea-Hells or Hell-Mongrels or whatever they were. Those ones. The ones that liked to play magic while they darest were even worse than the big loud ones. Not that his own mortal was any better but he did put food on the table so he deserved some modicum of respect. However his inability to notice when the cat wanted for a pat on the head would need to be…corrected.

“GODS-DAMN YOU!”

The mortal was on his good foot, examining the bite mark the cat had left in the other. The cat looked up at him from where it sat, tail swishing back and forth, yellow eyes glowing in the firelight. He gave the witch a look that said it very plainly–he’d spared the rod this time; next time it would be a dead mouse in the bedclothes. But the mortal needed him and the cat needed the mortal and so here they were.

“Very well…” Gannet knelt and took the cat up in his arms, moving across the stone floor towards the table–the cat purring contentedly. Dinner time too. Very nice. After this he would be going out for his evening constitutional–perhaps through to the ‘House’ that he’d claimed as his (for it was his house no matter what the large green mortal and his associates might say otherwise). Perhaps the loud one and the painted goose had left scraps on the roof again…

@mikhasunthistle @albinomiqote

[a-fenstanton-witch-blog]

He was a cat. He had been one for a long time and in his professional opinion he was a rather remarkable cat. Despite whatever new name the mortals had decided to call him this time around--that part changed with every generation. First it had been Grissle. Then it had been Vinegar Thom. Now it was Grimalkin. Did the monikers mean anything to him? Not really--so long as food was on the table when he wanted it (and the mortals were so awful about knowing when he wanted his meals), then the cat didn't care if they called him 'Get out from Underfoot'. The current mortal he let take care of him--what was his name? Gannet, yes, that was it. He was the stupid one. The one that liked to wander around instead of staying put and letting the world come to him...so very unlike a cat. The feline stopped, looking down towards its other end--his unfortunate addition was twitching at him. His tail--gods how he hated it. He knew it was down there plotting his demise, simply waiting, biding its time... But where was he? Yes, his mortal. So very unlike a cat. Judgmental yellow eyes looked up at the witch as he sat there by the fire, reading from one of his books when he should have been petting the cat. How annoying. The cat coughed politely, to get his attention. The mortal didn't look up. The cat coughed again, this time including a low sort of call. Not even a glance. It was all those people he was so fond of spending time around. Those noisy, noisy people. The foolish little girl (though she was at least better smelling than most) and all those awful big mortals. You know the ones. Sea-Hells or Hell-Mongrels or whatever they were. Those ones. The ones that liked to play magic while they darest were even worse than the big loud ones. Not that his own mortal was any better but he did put food on the table so he deserved some modicum of respect. However his inability to notice when the cat wanted for a pat on the head would need to be...corrected. "GODS-DAMN YOU!" The mortal was on his good foot, examining the bite mark the cat had left in the other. The cat looked up at him from where it sat, tail swishing back and forth, yellow eyes glowing in the firelight. He gave the witch a look that said it very plainly--he'd spared the rod this time; next time it would be a dead mouse in the bedclothes. But the mortal needed him and the cat needed the mortal and so here they were. "Very well..." Gannet knelt and took the cat up in his arms, moving across the stone floor towards the table--the cat purring contentedly. Dinner time too. Very nice. After this he would be going out for his evening constitutional--perhaps through to the 'House' that he'd claimed as his (for it was his house no matter what the large green mortal and his associates might say otherwise). Perhaps the loud one and the painted goose had left scraps on the roof again... @mikhasunthistle @albinomiqote