FINAL CORE : [A holy dungeon-core litRPG]

What is a witch?

Let us refrain from using any dogmatic terminology, brought to us via the conditionings of politics and the religious beliefs of our common cultural narratives. Let us focus solely on the pragmatic nature of the existence of witches.

Every person has the ability to choose a primary class after reaching level five. This may be a crafting class, such as ‘Blacksmith’ or ‘Carpenter’, or it may be a fighting class, used in war and adventuring, such as ‘Fighter’, ‘Priest’ or ‘Wizard’ amongst many other choices.

A person’s core class determines their profession and how they make their living in our world.

What all of these classes share in common is that they are attributed by the cosmic system that governs our world and that they can only ever function strictly within its confines. A ‘fighter’, for example, can never break the physical barriers of reality to do things of a nature unbefitting to his role in life.

Witches, however, are born of a different force. Witches are given their class not by the cosmic-system that was created by the gods, as the Holy-Church will tell you. Instead, witches gain their power and abilities through old, primordial sources of magic that have existed before the intricate confines of modern civilization and the rules that guide us. This goes deeper than a connection to simple, natural spirits, like a shaman or a druid might have.

Witches connect to old, abstract forces that we cannot quite name in coherent words, as the words for these things simply do not exist anymore. But we can simplify and say that they gain their powers from the moonlight. Witches are strongest at night and weakest at day.

Most importantly, witches do not have a need to follow the rules of the system. Such binding things as ‘perks’ and ‘abilities’ are so easily broken via the nature of a witch’s magic that they might as well not apply at all. Witches go beyond what has been defined as being possible for each person.

This is why they are reviled in the doctrine of the Holy-Church. The church holds the cosmic-system to be a purely divine construct, a guide to life, left to us by the gods before they departed from our world. To go against this system, to ignore it, to work outside of it, is, in their eyes, unnatural and dangerous.

The witch-hunts of the recent decade have killed most of all witches on our continent and shattered the Witches’ Sect into a thousand fragments, with all of their followers returning to the shadows.

 

~ The nature of witches and what you really need to know

 

 

~ [Witch Perchta] ~
???, Female, Witch Location: The City, Smolderleaf Teahouse

 

Music plays softly in the background, overtoning the desperately crying, hoarse voice of a woman.

 

The scruffy man, dressed in several layers of brown and green fabrics that match the raggedyness of his hair of the same dirty tones, sitting across from her, leans over the table and places a large hand on her shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, Pipi,” he consoles, squeezing her. “We’re here now.”

 

Glassware clinks at the table next to theirs.

 

“It was my home!” replies Perchta, lifting her head, grabbing a towelette from the table, and blowing her nose. Water and snot run down her face.

 

— Another woman, sitting at the same table, slides her tea-cup away a few inches to keep it safe from the falling wet of various sources. She has a more tightly strict and elegant demeanor, with spider-silk white hair and an old-world dress of the same grace.

 

“I can’t keep doing this,” says Perchta. “This was supposed to be my forever-house, Gaudi,” she explains. Witch Perchta sniffles, looking down at her own tea. “It… I built this really nice washroom, you know?” she asks. “It had a big bath that was always hot and a little fountain.” Perchta leans in, spinning her fingers together. “It was always on, and you could wa-wa- wash your haaands!”

 

She howls, pressing the snotty rag against her face to blow into it.

 

“I know,” replies the man sitting across from her, Witch Gauden. Technically, he’s not a ‘witch’ via the classical definition of the phrase, as that tends to refer to casters of a female disposition. However, in regards to the system that governs the world, he has been assigned the class ‘Witch’ and is, thereby, one of them. The only man left amongst the three witches that are left alive on this side of the world.

 

The other woman, with the white hair, Spillaholle, sets down her tea-cup into her saucer.

 

“Witch Perchta. Have you considered that your tendency to overreact may have escalated the situation?” asks Witch Spillaholle, looking towards Perchta. Perchta purses her lips in annoyance, but then blows her nose into the towelette again. “You are a very emotional creature.”

 

“I follow my heart!” argues Perchta loudly, leaning in towards Spillaholle. “You don’t get it, Spindly!” yells the witch, throwing her towelette down onto her own plate.

 

“Witch Perchta. I have told you before. Do not call me that,” replies Spillaholle.

 

Perchta continues. “- You guys don’t know what the hell that thing is! It’s a freak of nature,” argues Perchta. “Imagine just… waking up one day and there’s a big tower in your garden. Then, a week later, your house is gone!” She hits the table. “It’s not fair! I lost everything,” says Perchta.

 

“I know,” repeats Gauden. “But life has never been fair to us, or to anyone,” says the man, stroking his long, unkempt beard. “The hunts are over, but there are still many people who will follow us,” he says. “In this city and in many others. We haven’t been forgotten, Pipi. The Witches’ Sect remains strong.”

 

“So what?” asks Perchta. “Are they going to build me my house?” She points to the window. “Have you seen that island?!” She shakes her head. “The forest is ruined. The whole thing is a mess! I can’t retire there anymore. It’s over.”

 

Spillaholle sets her tea-cup down. “Witch Perchta, have you considered that perhaps this is because you yourself have devastated the landscape?”

 

“I had to make a point!” argues Perchta. “After what happened in the north. I can’t… I just -” Feeling herself starting to well up again, Perchta breathes and exhales slowly, holding her hands out to her side. “- I just can’t do it again, okay? Not after what happened. I don’t want to move, but I also don’t want to stay here. It’s all ruined.”

 

“Witch Perchta. You do not think that you have ruined your own retirement?” asks Spillaholle. “The humans did not care about you anymore before, but now that the land is ruined, they just might.”

 

Perchta shakes her head. “Didn’t you hear, spooky-bones?” she asks. “Nobody cares about me. I’m nothing compared to the giant mountain flying in the sky. Everybody is pointing fingers at it.”

 

“Interesting,” says Gauden from the side. “— Are you going to eat that?” he asks, pointing at Perchta’s plate. There is some of the cake that Perchta had made left on it, but also her used towelette. She slides it over towards him, and he grabs the half-slice with his hand, unbothered, the crumbs landing in his beard. She made the cake, since the nice people here at the teahouse let her borrow their oven and ingredients. It didn’t turn out as nicely as she wanted it to be for her friends. But it did, at least, vaguely resemble a cake. It was even salted to a healthy amount because of her non-stop crying. “Let’s use that.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Spillaholle lifts her cup up, running a finger along it to clear the edge of spores that had landed down onto it, and then sips her tea. “I believe what Witch Gauden is trying to say is that all eyes are on the tower,” she says. “If they think the land is sundered because of it, and they think that the forest is marred because of it,” says the witch, setting down her tea-cup. “— Then what else will they think is because of the tower?”

 

“We have free reign,” says Gauden, nodding. “We’ve called the sect to gather again. We’re going to make this right, Pipi.”

 

Spillaholle grabs a small towelette by its corner and lightly dabs the corners of her own mouth clean with trained, gentle elegance.

 

Perchta blinks. “Ooooh!” says the witch excitedly. She beams and leans in, grabbing Spillaholle’s and Gauden’s hands, yanking them towards herself. “You guys are my best friends!” she exclaims, sniffling.

 

“Witch Perchta. Do not touch me,” replies Spillaholle, lifting her gaze to look at a large mushroom that is growing out of the ceiling, which is rather unusual for a teahouse in the middle of the city.

 

Perchta howls, flopping over the table and knocking glassware over everywhere as she grabs both of them in a hug and cries.

 

— Meanwhile, all of the bodies sitting at the other tables and behind the bar and in the kitchen lay silent, with fungus growing out of their eyes and mouths.

 

 

~ [Isaiah] ~

 

Isaiah lands on the roost, rain pouring down all around.

 

~ [Grand Icon] ~

The name of Isaiah has been uttered somewhere nearby.

+ 99 (399) EXP

…

 

A figure runs over from the side, waving. It turns its gaze to look at Rorate, who is stumbling across the wet grass with a journal clutched against her chest to keep it dry. Isaiah opens a wing, lifting it above her head as she moves out of the rain.

 

“You ought to be where it is dry, Rorate,” says Isaiah, closing its wings a little. Rorate pants for a moment and then shakes her arms out, getting the wet off of her body. But her long hair is soaked and sticks to her face and neck.

 

“It’s okay,” replies the dark-elf. “I’m good with water now, remember?” she asks, laughing.

 

Isaiah shakes its head. “I do not fear that you will drown in the rain,” says Isaiah, lifting its gaze to the heavy clouds that violently stream down cascades of water. “— But that it will wash you away.”

 

— Rorate feverishly scribbles into her damp notes.

 

~ [Grand Icon] ~

The name of Isaiah has been uttered somewhere nearby.

+ 102 (411) EXP

…

 

“May I ask, do you enjoy your work?” asks Isaiah.

 

“Huh?” asks Rorate, stopping. “Do I enjoy it?”

 

Isaiah nods. “Yes. Do you enjoy it?” it repeats, looking back at her. “We do not have many chances to speak these days. Life is very busy, I am afraid.”

 

“It’s my favorite thing!” replies Rorate. She opens her damp journal, showing off her notes. Isaiah tilts its head, looking at the pages. They’re full of intricate scribbles, lines, and drawings. “I’m really thrilled that I get to have this,” she explains. Rorate closes the journal and rubs the tip of one of her long ears for a moment. The wind howls and presses in across the landscape, shaking the boughs of the very-big-tree above their heads. “I was really lost for a while there, you know?” she asks. “So…” She thinks for a while, her eyes drifting up towards the rain.

 

“— So you’re like a big fire,” explains Rorate. “You and the tower.”

 

~ [Grand Icon] ~

The name of Isaiah has been uttered somewhere far away.

+ 246 (985) EXP

…

 

“A fire?” asks Isaiah, not understanding.

 

“Mm,” replies the dark-elf. “And it’s really cold outside all the time, and I get to be the person who shovels wood and charcoal onto the fire to let it grow hotter and brighter,” she explains. “So that more people can see it and can come out of the cold.” She thinks for a moment. “That’s a good one. I should keep that one for later.” Rorate reopens her journal, scribbling something down, and Isaiah watches her work, tilting its head.

 

It is satisfying.

 

It is satisfying, watching the strange person scribble and work so fervently with a gaze that is lost not in the sky or in it, but rather, in the sight of the thing that brings her joy in life.

 

Ah.

 

Perhaps this is what motherhood feels like?

 

The wind howls. Isaiah closes its wing some more, and Rorate steps closer. The two of them stay there beneath the tree.

 

“I fear that we will come unto dark times, Rorate,” says Isaiah, staring out towards the land. She lifts her gaze from her work. “Sometimes, fires burn those who come near to them.”

 

— The furious scribbling continues.

 

“When the storm passes,” says Isaiah. “I need you to go down to the soldiers, to the people, as my emissary,” it says. “The effects of the mushroom brew will be wearing off soon.”

 

“Me?” asks Rorate. “I’d really love to. I never get to leave the tower anymore. But why not send Red?” she asks. “She’s already done this stuff outside before.”

 

“To steal your metaphor,” says Isaiah. “Red burns too brightly, perhaps with the flames of kinship and love, but too brightly nonetheless.” It looks her way. “I have need of someone with a warmer, gentler heart to show these people the way,” says Isaiah. “It cannot be me. My presence causes problems. Of the ones who I trust the most, that leaves you, Rorate.”

 

~ [Grand Icon] ~

The name of Isaiah has been uttered somewhere far away.

+ 272 (1089) EXP

…

 

The dark-elf thinks for a moment and then nods. “Okay,” she agrees. “But, uh…” The elf grabs her ear again.

 

“Yes?” asks Isaiah.

 

“Can I stay here until then?” she asks. “Until the storm is over?”

 

Isaiah tilts its head. It had actually wanted to get some work done now that power has finally come to it. It has dozens of new abilities and perks to choose from. The island must be fortified and protected. The witch will make her move soon in some fashion, and it too must be prepared. The humans will not give up so easily, and it, too, must be prepared for this. As soon as the storm is over, it must prepare a message to speak to all of the people on the island and in the territory, to make clear the nature of their presences here.

 

— Water runs down the dark-elf’s head, some left-over from the rain that she was unguarded from. This sight alone is enough of an argument to dispel all of those thoughts. Isaiah realizes that it may have a weak spot.

 

The entity looks back out over the lands that the rains wash down over with heavy intent, as if meaning to wash away all of the grime and darkness in the world. “Very well,” it replies, having no grander words to use. A chirping chick has asked it for something directly, which is a very rare thing indeed. It is difficult for it to say ‘no’ to such a simple request.

 

Something unusual happens, however, and Isaiah isn’t really sure what to make of the sensation. It looks back down towards the dark-elf, seeing that she’s wedged her body against its side and has grabbed its torso with her arms, wrapping them around it.

 

Isaiah tilts its head, unable to see her face because she is looking away, towards the inside of the wings that it closes a little tighter around her to keep away the storm.

 

Ah.

 

Its eyes gaze out over the heavy rains.

 

It feels warm.

 

A heart beats against its.

 

The reward of being a parent, a guide, is often immaterial, as it has found. These are often things such as joyful moments of pride or satisfaction and help, well delivered, on a community task. It has never received anything of this physical, tangible nature before as a reward.

 

– A rare joy indeed.

 

The witch and the humans will just have to wait, at least until the rain stops.

 

For now, this takes the highest priority.

 

 

Razmatazz

Wholesome chapter! *-*