Information
Maeva has a minion!
the Bramblewhelp
the Bramblewhelp
Maeva
Legacy Name: Maeva
The
Common SerpenthOwner:
ChristopherAge: 11 years, 6 months, 1 week
Born: October 16th, 2012
Adopted: 11 years, 6 months, 1 week ago
Adopted: October 16th, 2012
Statistics
- Level: 1
- Strength: 10
- Defense: 10
- Speed: 10
- Health: 10
- HP: 10/10
- Intelligence: 0
- Books Read: 0
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Unemployed
Maeva was a witch. There was no way to skirt around this fact, no flowery descriptors or made-up names for her craft. She was a witch, plain and simple.
Despite the label of witch, Maeva did not fit the stereotype that had been placed upon her kind: an old hag, warty with a crooked back, who spent all day hunched over a cauldron in the dark woods. She was a beautiful woman, with deep tan skin and hair the color of obsidian that she took to wearing in a plait down her back. Despite her beauty though, she was nearly two centuries old. And with her age came knowledge. And with her knowledge came power.
The beauty of the witch was well-known, but also was the danger of meeting her. Stories had been told of her, though they were far from the truth. They told of her as a succubus who lured men in with spells and devoured them, bones and all, never leaving a trace. But that was simply not true. She had never needed to use a spell to lure a man to her. Her beauty was enchanting, and when men saw her they were drawn to her like bees to a flower. Unfortunately, the last bit of the stories were true, and the men who encountered her were never seen by their loved ones again.
But Maeva didn't hurt these men. She loved them. Many nights she would spend hours cooking meals for these men, telling them stories, and sharing her bed with them. But these men were mortal, and Maeva was not. When she saw the slightest bit of age on a man's face, she would panic. Her loves would not be lost so easily to her.
While the men were asleep, Maeva would cast a spell on them. A few seeds from a flower, a pinch of dry earth, and a drop of water. And the men would change. Their bodies would turn green and shrink, their arms widening into flat shapes. Their faces would change into beautiful colors before splitting open, multiplying, and folding in on themselves. After the spell was complete, where the man slept would lay a single flower, freshly pulled from the earth. Maeva would take these and press them quickly into a leather tome, immortalizing her lovers before they could wither away. Under each flower she wrote the name of the man who they used to be.
One man, however, escaped this fate. This man was clever, despite being lured in by stories of the witch. And while he still fell in love with her at first glance, he kept his wits about him. One day, while Maeva foraged for herbs in the forest, the man discovered a leather tome. Curious, he opened it. At first, he was unsure of what he was looking at, thinking they were merely tokens of affection from the men listed. Until he recognized one of the names, that of a man in his village who had disappeared. On the next several pages were more men from his village, all of them chalked up as being victims of the witch. When Maeva returned, he questioned her about the flowers, and she told him of what she'd done, quite proud of her work.
That night, the man fled. He crept from the small cabin in the woods and ran back to his home village. He awoke the elders, and told them of the woman in the woods and where her home was located. The elders assembled a mob of people, bearing pitchforks and torches. Still nighttime, the mob approached the witch's cabin, and burnt it to the ground. Her screams reverberated throughout the forest, and the people clasped their hands over their ears to drown out the din. The villagers left, one by one, until the hut was no more than a smoldering pile of ash in the glow of the moonlight.
When the villagers visited the next day, there was no ash, no remains of the hut: only a clearing thick with wildflowers and bees.
Despite the label of witch, Maeva did not fit the stereotype that had been placed upon her kind: an old hag, warty with a crooked back, who spent all day hunched over a cauldron in the dark woods. She was a beautiful woman, with deep tan skin and hair the color of obsidian that she took to wearing in a plait down her back. Despite her beauty though, she was nearly two centuries old. And with her age came knowledge. And with her knowledge came power.
The beauty of the witch was well-known, but also was the danger of meeting her. Stories had been told of her, though they were far from the truth. They told of her as a succubus who lured men in with spells and devoured them, bones and all, never leaving a trace. But that was simply not true. She had never needed to use a spell to lure a man to her. Her beauty was enchanting, and when men saw her they were drawn to her like bees to a flower. Unfortunately, the last bit of the stories were true, and the men who encountered her were never seen by their loved ones again.
But Maeva didn't hurt these men. She loved them. Many nights she would spend hours cooking meals for these men, telling them stories, and sharing her bed with them. But these men were mortal, and Maeva was not. When she saw the slightest bit of age on a man's face, she would panic. Her loves would not be lost so easily to her.
While the men were asleep, Maeva would cast a spell on them. A few seeds from a flower, a pinch of dry earth, and a drop of water. And the men would change. Their bodies would turn green and shrink, their arms widening into flat shapes. Their faces would change into beautiful colors before splitting open, multiplying, and folding in on themselves. After the spell was complete, where the man slept would lay a single flower, freshly pulled from the earth. Maeva would take these and press them quickly into a leather tome, immortalizing her lovers before they could wither away. Under each flower she wrote the name of the man who they used to be.
One man, however, escaped this fate. This man was clever, despite being lured in by stories of the witch. And while he still fell in love with her at first glance, he kept his wits about him. One day, while Maeva foraged for herbs in the forest, the man discovered a leather tome. Curious, he opened it. At first, he was unsure of what he was looking at, thinking they were merely tokens of affection from the men listed. Until he recognized one of the names, that of a man in his village who had disappeared. On the next several pages were more men from his village, all of them chalked up as being victims of the witch. When Maeva returned, he questioned her about the flowers, and she told him of what she'd done, quite proud of her work.
That night, the man fled. He crept from the small cabin in the woods and ran back to his home village. He awoke the elders, and told them of the woman in the woods and where her home was located. The elders assembled a mob of people, bearing pitchforks and torches. Still nighttime, the mob approached the witch's cabin, and burnt it to the ground. Her screams reverberated throughout the forest, and the people clasped their hands over their ears to drown out the din. The villagers left, one by one, until the hut was no more than a smoldering pile of ash in the glow of the moonlight.
When the villagers visited the next day, there was no ash, no remains of the hut: only a clearing thick with wildflowers and bees.
Pet Treasure
Red Lotus
Melting Kettle
Belladonna