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In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Frella woke with a start. The sun peeked through the curtains of her cottage, softly lighting her room. She lay there quietly trying to hang on to the dream: the bustling fair, the strange cloak-wearing girl with the black cat who said her name was —well she couldn’t remember now—, and even Cedric had made an appearance! Now he was infiltrating her dreams as well! She may need to do a spell for that. As the fog of sleep lifted, the vividness of the dream lingered at the edges of her consciousness and she played it over a few times, wondering what the message was. The fair was months ago, funny that it was coming up in her dreams now.
Her alarm buzzed on the bedside table and a warm tone chimed: “Good morning, Frella. The time is 6:45 a.m. Today’s forecast is mild with a chance of light rain in the morning. Would you like to review today’s tasks?”
Frella snorted and waved her hand in the air, silencing the digital assistant with a flicker of magic. It was far too early for that nonsense. The alarm faded into a soothing melody and the device shifted to Dream Journal mode: “It looks as though you had a vivid dream. Would you like my help to record it while it’s still fresh?”
Ignoring the prompt, Frella sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet made soft taps on the wooden floor as she walked over to the window. She pulled apart the curtains and opened the window, letting the cool morning air fill the room. Birds called in the distance, and she smiled as she leaned on the windowsill and let the fresh breeze stroke her face.
As she turned away from the window, her eyes fell on the postcard which had arrived in the mail yesterday, still sitting on her dressing table. The edges were slightly worn as if it had travelled a very long way to reach her and the spindly writing was indecipherable even with the help of a decrypting spell. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps it was somehow connected with her dream. She picked it up and studied it again; did that signature read Arona? Wasn’t that the name of the girl in the dream!
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The fair was in full swing, with vibrant tents and colourful stalls bursting with activity. The smell of freshly popped corn mingled with the fragrance of exotic spices and the occasional whiff of magical incense. Frella turned her attention back to setting up her own booth. Her thoughts were a swirl of anxiety and curiosity. Malové’s sudden appearance at the fair could not be a mere coincidence, especially given the recent disruptions in the coven.
Unbeknownst to Frella, Cedric Spellbind was nearby. His eyes, though hidden behind a pair of dark glasses, were fixated on Frella. He was torn between his duty to MAMA and his growing affection for her. He juggled his phone, checking missed calls and messages, while trying to keep a discreet distance. But he was drawn to her like moth to flame.
As Frella was adjusting her booth, she felt a sudden chill and turned to find herself face-to-face with Cedric. He quickly removed his glasses and their eyes met; Cedric’s heart skipped a beat.
Frella’s gaze was guarded. “Can I help you with something?” she asked, her tone icily polite.
Cedric, flustered, stammered, “I—uh—I’m just here to, um, look around. Your booth looks, uh, fascinating.”
Frella raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well, enjoy the fair.” She turned back to her preparations, but not before noticing a fleeting look of hurt in Cedric’s eyes.
Cedric moved away, wrestling with his conflicting emotions. He checked to make sure his tracker was working, which tracked not just Frella’s movements but those of her companions. He was determined to protect her from any potential threat, even if it meant risking his own standing with MAMA.
As the day progressed, the fair continued to buzz with magical energy and intrigue. Frella worked her booth, engaging with curious tourists, all suitably fascinated with the protective qualities of hinges. Suddenly, Frella’s attention was drawn away from her display by a burst of laughter and squeals coming from nearby. Curiosity piqued, she made her way toward the source of the commotion.
As she approached, she saw a crowd had gathered around a small, ornate tent. The tent’s entrance was framed by shimmering curtains, and an enchanting aroma of lavender and spices wafted through the air. Through the gaps in the curtains, Frella could see an array of magical trinkets and curiosities.Just as she was about to step closer, a peculiar sight caught her eye. Emerging from the tent was a girl wearing a rather large cloak and closely followed by a black cat. The girl looked bewildered, her wide eyes taking in the bustling fairground.
Frella, intrigued and somewhat amused, approached the girl. “Hello there! I couldn’t help but notice you seem a bit lost. Are you okay?”
The girl’s expression was a mix of confusion and wonder. “Oh, hello! I’m Arona, and this is Mandrake,” she said, bending down and patting the black cat, who gave a nonchalant twitch of his tail. “We were just trying to find the library in my time, and now we’re here. This isn’t a library by any chance?”
Frella raised her eyebrows. “A library? No, this is a fair—a magical fair, to be precise.”
Arona’s eyes widened further as she looked around again. “A fair? Well, it does explain the odd contraptions and the peculiar people. Anyway, that will teach me to use one of Sanso’s old time-travelling devices.”
Truella wandered over to join the conversation, her curiosity evident. “Time-travelling device? That sounds fascinating. How did you end up here?”
Arona looked sheepish. “I was trying to retrieve a rare book from a past century, and it seems I got my coordinates mixed up. Instead of the library, I ended up at this… um … delightful fair.”
Frella chuckled. “Well, don’t worry, we can help you get back on track. Maybe we can find someone who can help with your time-travelling predicament.”
Arona smiled, relieved. “Thank you! I really didn’t mean to intrude. And Mandrake here is quite good at keeping me company, but he’s not much help with directions.”
Mandrake rolled his eyes and turned away, his disinterest in the conversation evident.
As Frella and Truella led Arona to a quieter corner of the fair, Cedric Spellbind observed the scene with growing interest. His eyes were glued to Frella, but the appearance of the time-travelling girl and her cat added a new layer of intrigue. Cedric’s mission to spy on Frella had just taken an unexpected turn.
In reply to: Smoke Signals: Arcanas of the Quadrivium’s incense
Frella at Herma’s cottage – looking for magical clues in the mysterious camphor chest.
In a quaint cottage on the coast of Ireland, with salt and simple spells, a modern witch blond and looking like Tilda Swinton opens a big camphor chest carved with runes. Behind her is the owner of the cottage, wondering what is Inside, and if protected by magical spells. Inside they find ancient documents, letters, and a peculiar item—a black feather of a blackbird, delicate and shimmering with a faint magical glow. The feather is a quill to reveal hidden messages on the postcard with a stamp featuring an ear of maize.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
At the end of the undertakers’ speech, conversations surged, drowning out the 14th-century organ music. Mother Lorena, who seemed to have taken the expression lines to a deeper level, gave imperative angry looks at her nuns who swiftly moved to meet with the witches.
“Hold your beath,” said Eris to Jeezel. “That Mr ash blond hair is coming for you.”
“Sh*t! I don’t have time for that,” said Jeezel looking at the striking young man. Meticulously styled to perfection and a penchant for tailored suits, she knew that kind of dandy, they were more difficult to get rid of than an army of orange slugs after a storm. She stole a champagne flute from Bartolo’s silver tray and flitted with a graceful nonchalance towards the buffet.
“Hi Jeezel! I’m sister Maria. You’re so beautiful,” said a joyful voice. “You want some canapés? I made them myself.”
Jeezel turned and almost moved her hand to her mouth. A young woman wearing the austere yet elegant black habit of the Roman Catholic Church was handing her a plate full of potted meat and pickles toasts. She had chameleon eyes busy looking everywhere except to what was in front of her. The white wimple covering her red hair seemed totally out of place and her face made the strangest contortions as she obviously was trying not to smile.
“Hi, I’m… Jeezel. But you already know that,” she said. The young woman nodded too earnestly and Jeezel suddenly became aware the nuns certainly had files about her and the other witches like the ones Truella gave them. She looked at the greasy canapés and refused politely. She just had time to notice a crimson silk handkerchief in a breast pocket and a flash of ash blond hair closing in.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I just remember, I have to go speak to my friend over there,” Jeezel said noticing Truella with a nun in a Buddhist outfit.
She left the redhead nun with a laugh that twinkled like stardust.
Truella’s friend didn’t seem too happy to have Jeezel barging in on their conversation. She said she was called sister Ananda. Her stained glass painted face didn’t seem to fit her saffron bhikkunis. And the oddest thing was she dominated the conversation, mostly about the diversity of mushrooms she’d been cultivating in the shade of old cellars buried deep in the cloister’s underground tunnels. Truella was sipping her soda, and nodding occasionally. But from what Jeezel could observe, the witch was busy keeping an eye on that tall, dark mortician who certainly looked suspicious.
Young sister Maria hadn’t given up. She joined the conversation with a tray full of what looked like green and pink samosas. Jeezel started to feel like a doe hunted by a pack of relentless beagles.
“You need to try those! Sister Ananda made them for you,” said the young Nun. Her colourful lips showed she had just tasted a few of them.
“At last,” said Garrett with a voice too deep for such a young handsome face, “you’re as difficult to catch as moonlight on the water. Elusive, mesmerizing, and always just out of reach. One moment you’re dazzling us all with your brillance, the next…”
“As usual, you speak too much, Garrett,” said Silas, the oldest of the morticians who just joined the group. The old man’s voice was commanding and his poise projecting an air of unwavering confidence. He had neatly trimmed grey hair and piercing hazel eyes that seem to see right through to the heart of any matter. “May we talk for a moment, dear Jeezel? I think we have some things to discuss.”
“Do we?” she asked, a shiver going up her spine. Her voice sounded uncertain and her heart started beating faster. Did he know about the sacred relic she was looking for? Was he going to ask her on a date too?
“The ritual, dear. The ritual we have to perform together tonight.”
“Oh! Yes, the ritual,” she sighed with relief.
Silas took her hand and they left the group just as Truella was asking a Garrett: “Won’t Rufus join us?”
“I don’t think so,” he answered coldly. But his eyes were full of passion and his heart full of envy as he watched Jeezel walk away with his mentor in a secluded lounge.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Adjusting the crimson silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, Garrett swanned into the reception hall, his piercing pale blue eyes scanning the room. The walls were hung with colourful but faded tapestries, shabby enough to be genuinely ancient. The furniture was heavy and blackened with age, but it was the floor that caught his critical eye. In the centre of the old terracotta tiles floor was a mosaic, mostly hidden under a large conference table. Garret was no expert on Roman mosaics but it looked like the real deal. He would return to this room later for a closer inspection, he could hardly go crawling under the table now. It was a mercy, at least, that the ancient building hadn’t been decked out in ghastly modern furnishings as so many charming old hotels were these days.
He turned his attention to the few occupants. A ravishing raven haired beauty had just wafted in from the covered cloister beyond the open doors. Her silver mantilla shone in the sunlight slanting down into the courtyard for a moment, for all the world looking like an angelic medieval halo. As she slippped into the shadows the halo vanished, her ebony tresses showing beneath the gauzy lace. She settled herself in a low armchair, smoothing the burgundy folds of her gown. Garrett watched, spellbound. What an enchantress! Perhaps this weekend wouldn’t be such a bore, after all.
In reply to: Smoke Signals: Arcanas of the Quadrivium’s incense
The Morticians Guild:
Nemo Tenebris, and let me tell ya, he’s a character straight out of one of those dark romance novels. Tall, brooding, with tousled hair somewhere between charcoal and mahogany, he’s got that rugged charm that makes even the bravest witches’ hearts skip a beat. His hands are like an artist’s, always deliberate and precise, whether he’s handling ancient texts or, well, more corporeal tasks. His personality? Think intense and enigmatic, with occasional bursts of biting humor. He’s the type who’ll share a grim tale and then light the room with a grin that makes you question your reality. Don’t underestimate him – he’s a master of necromancy and has an uncanny sensitivity to life’s deepest mysteries.
Silas Gravewalker. An older gent, he looks as though he’s always expecting a foggy night – grey cloak, even greyer hair, and eyes the color of storm clouds. His demeanor is gentle but don’t mistake it for weakness. He’s the wise old guardian of the Guild, carrying centuries of rituals, chants, and incantations within him. Silas is a remarkable blend of grandfatherly wisdom and hidden strength, and he’s a calming presence in the midst of chaos. His sense of humor is dryer than the Outback in summer, subtle yet striking at just the right moments. When Silas speaks, you listen, because his words are often tinged with layers of arcane meaning.
Rufus Blackwood: Enter Rufus Blackwood, the stoic guardian of the guild. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with a presence that commands both respect and a shiver down the spine. His hair is a dusty shade of midnight black, streaked with the occasional silver – probably from the weight of the secrets he carries. His eyes are a pale grey, like the fog rolling off a moor, always scanning, always measuring. He’s perpetually clad in a long, leather duster coat that sweeps the floor as he glides across the room.
Personality-wise, Rufus is the strong, silent type, but when he speaks, it feels like ancient tombs whispering forgotten wisdom. He’s got a dry humor that surfaces in the most unexpected moments, like a ray of moonlight in a pitch-black night. He’s fiercely protective of his coven and guildmates, and there’s a sense of old-world honor about him. Underneath that granite exterior is a surprisingly tender heart that only a select few have glimpsed.
Garrett Ashford: Now, Garrett Ashford, he’s a bit of a dandy, as far as morticians go. Picture a man of average height but with presence larger than life. His hair is a striking ash blonde, always perfectly coiffed, and his attire is meticulously sharp – tailored suits, often in dark, rich fabrics with just a hint of eccentricity, like a red silk handkerchief or a silver pocket watch. His eyes are a sharp, pale blue, twinkling with a touch of playful mischief.
Garrett’s got a personality as polished as his appearance. He’s charismatic, with a knack for easing tensions with a well-timed joke or a charming smile. Though he might come off as a bit of a showman, make no mistake – Garrett’s got depth and a sharp mind. He’s a skilled embalmer and incantation master, knowing just the right touch to handle even the most delicate of cases. His flair for the dramatic doesn’t overshadow his competence; it complements it. He’s the kind of bloke who can discuss the darkest of topics with a light-hearted grace, making him a bit of a paradox but undeniably captivating.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The Quintessivium Cloister Crafts was busying getting ready to complete this year’s midsummer fashion tour.
Mother Blaen (Lorena in private), started to clap bossily to line up all the sisters for the rehearsal.
“Yes, Sister Maria, you start, Black habit and white wimple, Roman Catholic timeless elegance, perfect. And think to wipe that smile off your face. You need to show spirit of devotion.”
She swiftly moved to her right.
“Now, Sister Ananda.”
Sassafrass was starting to argue about the naming convention that felt a bit too Actors studio for her taste, but was promptly shushed. Mother Blaen took a closer look, adjusting her half-rimmed glasses. “Oh… dear, I thought for a moment you’d gotten fat. Must be the lighting. So, in the vibrant orange of bhikkhunis, you glide gracefully… well, as much as you can. Peace and calm, that’s you. Yes, and don’t make a scene please. Be content I’m not asking you to shave this hair to get more in character with the robes.”
She pursued:
“Sister Amina!”
Penelope Pomfrett raised her hand silently, visibly displeased too at the name.
“Good, now. Mystical and poetic nature of Sufism, that’s your cue. Beautiful, beautiful. That modest and pure white chola and headscarf will be resplendent on the catwalk.”
After she went through all the attires in detail, down to the long black riassa and epanokamelavkion of the Eastern Orthodox nun garb, all were getting ready for the grand finale.
“Now, all of us, walking together to symbolize the unity and diversity of spiritual paths. One, two, one two. Sassafrass! Focus please!”
Mother Blaen clapped, visibly pleased at the full on display of their Coven’s couture arts. That would put a good show for the smoking witches. She thought “Let them bring the money, but one thing is sure, we bring the talent.”
In reply to: Smoke Signals: Arcanas of the Quadrivium’s incense
Penelope Pomfrett
From the Quintessivium Cloister Crafts brochure:
A sisterhood with a taste for all world nuns styles:
- Roman Catholic nun in a black habit and white wimple,
- Bhikkhunis nun in an orange robe,
- Sufi nun in a modest white chola and headscarf,
- Sannyasini nun in a saffron sari with a shaved head,
- Zen Buddhist nun in a simple black kesa and robe,
- Anglican nun in a black habit with a veil,
- and an Eastern Orthodox nun in a long black riassa and epanokamelavkion.
Together crafting beautiful items in our peaceful cloister setting, surrounded by colorful stained glass windows and wooden shelves filled with various materials.
In reply to: Smoke Signals: Arcanas of the Quadrivium’s incense
Penelope Pomfrett: Let’s start with Penelope, shall we? She’s a statuesque woman with a sharp, angular face that could cut through butter – not unlike an Egon Schiele painting, if you’re familiar. Her hair’s a spun silver waterfall, always meticulously pinned up but with just a touch of wildness trying to escape, like she’s taming a tempest on top of her head. Her eyes are a piercing cerulean blue, always calculating, always observing; she’s the type who looks right through you and into your deepest secrets.
Personality-wise, Penelope’s got the demeanor of a headmistress crossed with a lioness. She’s precise, a bit of a perfectionist, never suffers fools gladly. But beneath that stern exterior, she’s got a heart of gold, especially when it comes to her coven sisters. Stern loyalty and high standards, that’s her in a nutshell. And she’s got this dry wit that’ll catch you off guard and have you chuckling before you know it.
Sandra Salt: Now Sandra, she’s a different kettle of fish altogether. Think earthy, grounded; she’s got that warm, approachable vibe that’s almost tangible. Picture her with curly auburn hair, always escaping its braids to frame her face in a halo of fiery ringlets. She’s got freckles smattered across her sun-kissed cheeks and a smile that feels like coming home after a long journey. Eyes? Warm hazel, like caramel with a hint of green, always twinkling with some hidden mischief or gentle wisdom.
Sandra’s personality is as grounded as the soil she loves to dig her fingers into; she’s the heart and soul of the crew, with an infectious laugh that could light up the darkest of days. She’s nurturing, perceptive, and has an uncanny knack for making everyone feel at ease. But don’t mistake her kindness for softness – she’s got a spine of steel and can summon a fierce storm if she’s wronged.
Audrey Ambrose: Now, dear Audrey, she’s a bit of a mysterious beauty. Think raven-black hair that falls in silky waves down her back, always perfectly styled without a hair out of place. She’s got porcelain skin, smooth and almost ethereal, like moonlight itself took her under its wing. Her eyes are a deep, striking emerald, always seeming to know more than she lets on. Add to that a penchant for elegant, vintage clothing, and you’ve got yourself a picture of classic, timeless beauty.
In terms of personality, Audrey’s a quiet storm. She’s enigmatic, often found lost in thought, with a deep, contemplative nature. While she may come off as aloof, she’s deeply empathetic and has an old-soul wisdom that guides her every action. She’s the sort you turn to when you need profound insight or a steady hand in times of chaos. And that wit – it’s as sharp as her fashion sense, subtle, and spot-on.
Sassafras Bentley: Lastly, let’s paint a picture of Sassafras. She’s vibrant and flamboyant, tall, thin and athletic, with hair dyed in shades of a peacock’s feathers – blues, greens, purples – ever changing with her whims. Her outfits are always eclectic and bold, but practical. She’s got a long hatchet face, and eyes that are a sparking topaz, full of zest and life ~ and secret undercurrents.
Sassafras is the party animal of the lot, always bringing fun and chaos in equal measure. She’s got a joie de vivre that’s downright infectious, a real firecracker with boundless energy. Her natural charisma draws people in, and her laugh – oh, her laugh! – it’s the kind of sound that warms the soul and invites everyone to join in her revelries, unless she’s being rude, aloof and secretive. Underneath all that sparkle, though, she’s fiercely protective of those she loves and more insightful than she lets on.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
At least the weather was nice in Brussels. The trip to the International Witch Bank of Grungebotts, in the quarters of Ravenstein was luckily a day trip this time, rather these week-long offsite workshops they’d been submitted to in the previous months.
It had not taken long to Austreberthe to send some of the Quadrivium witches to do her errands.
Eris was summoned in the wee hours of the day, in order to do a check-in with the bankers. The state of finances of the Quadrivium had been under scrutiny already at the time of Malové, but probably even more now during this power vacuum period.
Austreberthe had insisted Eris could be there to join with a few of the Witches of Compliance who would handle most of the discussion, while she would present the business side of their last ventures. Apparently Malové had only hinted at the secret missions she’d given some of the witches, without sharing any detail to her head of Finance.
Malové was apparently very used to these exchanges with the bankers, having struggled for a while to keep the Incense venture afloat. The presentation had been very expertly put together, and Eris for her part was mostly here to embody the seriousness and practicality of the business; in truth the bankers themselves, some greying end-of-career wizards, were obviously just here to do their job, and not eager to find fault that would require a more heavy-handed audit approach.
Within two hours of confident presentation, soft discussions on the state of international witches and wizard affairs, the political state in the union, and the incoming Worldwide Roman Games, with the help of a few madeleines dipped in black coffee, it was quickly done.
“How did it go?” Austreberthe anxious message was already flashing imperiously on her device as she boarded the return magical train. Eris distractly showed her ticket to the lady controller with the red lavallière and the strangest red octopus brooch, while struggling to answer.
She was too tired to overthink it. She tapped in quick taps the answer “All good for now. We should be in the clear until the next one.” and reclined back to get some needed rest.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
There was an odd sight today.
Eris sat in the deserted courtyard area of the brand new Quadrivium office, Malové’s latest folly. She could savor the quiet that Fridays often brought, most of her colleagues from the coven preferring to work from home, leaving the usually bustling space tranquil and almost meditative. She took a bite of her sandwich, listening distractedly to the complaints of another witch sitting nearby, while her own mind still preoccupied with the myriad responsibilities and recent events that seemed to pile around like a stack of clothes due a trip to the laundry.
As she chewed thoughtfully, her eyes were drawn to an odd sight. A blackbird was performing a strange dance in front of the mirrored walls that lined one side of the patio. It hopped back and forth, its beak tapping on the surface, its feathers shimmering in the afternoon light, as if it were courting its own reflection or perhaps trying to feed it with a worm it had in its beak. Eris paused, intrigued by this peculiar behavior. What could it mean?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a series of sharp, melodic chirps. She looked around and spotted another bird perched nearby in the foliage of hanged planters lining the walls —a female blackbird, easily identifiable by her distinct brown coat. The female watched the male’s antics with a mix of curiosity and detachment, her chirps seeming to carry a message of their own.
Eris felt a shiver run down her spine, a familiar sensation that often preceded a moment of magical insight. The blackbird’s dance wasn’t just an oddity; it was a sign, a message from the universe, or perhaps from the magical currents that flowed unseen through the world.
She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, trying to connect with the energy around her. The image of the male blackbird, tirelessly courting its own reflection, seemed to mirror her own recent struggles. Had she been chasing an illusion, trying to nourish something that could not be sustained?
The female blackbird’s presence added another layer to the message. She was grounded, present, and observant—a contrast to the male’s futile efforts. Eris thought of her recent decisions, the dismissal of the cook, the strained relationships within the coven, and the cryptic postcards from Truella. Was the universe urging her to find balance, to ground herself and observe more keenly before taking action?
She could almost hear Elias whispers in her ears: Birds, in general, often represent thoughts or ideas flying about in our consciousness. The blackbird specifically, with its stark contrast and distinct presence, can represent deeper insights, truths, or messages that are coming to your awareness. The mirror, as a reflective surface, implies that these insights pertain directly to your perception of self or facets of your identity that may be emerging or needing attention. Putting this together, the imagery of the birds and their interactions could be nudging you to pay closer attention to your inner reflections. Are you nurturing the parts of yourself that truly need attention? Are there aspects of your identity or self-perception that require acknowledgment and care? The presence of the brown-coated female blackbird might also be a reminder to appreciate the varied and multifaceted nature of your experiences and the different roles you embody.
She opened her eyes, feeling a sense of clarity washing over her. The birds continued their vivid dialogue and unfathomable dances, unaware of the impact they had just made, although her insistent gaze had seemed to snap the blackbird out of its mesmerized pattern. He was now scurrying away looking over its shoulder, as if caught in an awkward moment.
Rising from her seat, Eris felt something. Not some sort of newfound sense of purpose, but a weight of a precious present, luminous and fragile, yet spacious and full with undecipherable meaning. She glanced one last time at the blackbirds, silently thanking them for their unspoken wisdom. As she walked back into the office, she knew that the path ahead would still be fraught with challenges, but she was ready to face them—grounded, observant, and attuned to the subtle messages that the world had to offer.
In the quiet of the Quadrivium office, on a deserted Friday afternoon, a blackbird’s dance had set the stage for the next chapter of her journey.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Sure I’ll help you, said Frella and Herma smiled gratefully.
“You’re a dear.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a postcard and waved it at Frella. “It’s my eyes, I can’t make it out, all scrawled it is.”
Frella reached for the card. On the front was a silhouette drawing of a blackbird on a tree branch. She turned the card over and studied it closely. “It doesn’t make any sense,” she said at last. “I think it is written in code.” She held the card to her nose and a prickly, spicy smell just about overpowered her. It was achingly sad and sweet and nostalgic and a great lump formed in her chest.
Herma leaned over and patted her knee gently. “What is it?”
Frella gave herself a little shake. “Camphor,” she said at last. “Is there a camphor chest somewhere? I think it’s the key to this.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“Of course I know,” said Eris, looking worn out by the excess of social interaction, or maybe that was her latest goth make-up. “Have I been the only one paying attention?”
“Shtt, don’t speak too loud, my head is pounding…” Jeezel moaned softly. “And what is happening with us?”
“You haven’t got it, have you? Should I spell it out loud?” Eris glanced sideways, wary of Malové being within earshot. “It was all a test… but I don’t see us getting in the good graces of the Coven with was has transpired so far.”
Truella tugged at Frigella’s sleeve, as she went to refill her plate and had noticed the impromptu discussion which was suspiciously conspirational. Frigella groaned “don’t wake up Yikes, look how cutie pooh he is.”
Truella motioned for them to join Eris and Jeezel, who grimaced at the sight of Truella’s questionable cheese selection. “What’s going on? We want in.”
Eris sighed. “Fine, but not here. Let’s get some fresh air.” As discreetly as a herd of elephant in a dry savanah, they made their way to the terrace, escaping the breakfast room which was getting crowded, to bask in the morning sunlight.
As they settled in, Eris began to explain. “I think it’s a side-effect of my memory spell, that unexpectedly, I still remember most of it.”
“Spill it already, they’re about to close the buffet, and the morning sessions are starting soon, and we can’t be late,” Truella urged, fidgeting impatiently.
“You see, that’s exactly it, Tru’. None of us have been ourselves. And do you really think that baby is a coincidence?” She nodded towards Frigella, who was cooing over the sleeping infant.
“First off, have you noticed, this workshop is meant for the top brass. Only the high-rank witches of the Coven have been invited, and you don’t even think twice about why we’re here. Malové has been setting us to a test amongst her next in line. We’ve been in competition since the start with the other witches, and you didn’t even notice! They were apparently more prepared than us lot. They managed to honeypot Frigella with a baby which I’m pretty sure is nothing more than a transformed rodent. As for Truella, the spell on her must have started on the Octobus; not sure you’ve noticed, but when we stopped on our way to collect the other ones, that’s when she started to get sick and get all sorts of strange cravings.”
“But… what’s the point?” Jeezel asked, still bewildered. “Is that why I can’t get my hair right, and my eye makeup is a disaster, and… and…” She choked back tears.
“These witches are fiercely competitive. And probably less skilled that us, which is why they will not play fair; we’ve got to step up ladies. Otherwise, we’ll be on tuspellware duties for years until some opportunity like that happens again.” Eris was getting fired up, an unusual sight for someone generally mildly interested in office politics.
“Truella!” Eris called out as Truella was starting to gorge on the cornichons she’d piled up next to the fromages assemblage. “You’re presenting in the morning session! Malové is counting on you to update us on the vaping venture… new sales channels, market studies, double-digit growth, you know the drill.”
Truella seemed to snap out of her daze. “Don’t tell me,” Eris sighed, “you forgot… Luckily, I have a memory for all of us, and I brewed some ginkgo potion this morning.” She produced an orange flask with black tea stains around the edges, and poured it into glasses she conjured.
“Now bottoms up, ladies. We’ve got a presentation to nail and some witches to put in their place.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
An unexpected result (or was it an intentional one?) of the octobus ride was a profound appreciation for the arrival at the destination. Not one of the witches had been truly looking forward to the event, but when they entered the building they were deeply grateful for the smooth hard floors and walls and sharp minimalism, if that is what the sparse clean decor was called.
“This place is sorely in need of some steampunk hats,” remarked Truella. “And some Victorian clothes.”
“Beats the hell out of that gross octobus, though,” Jezeel said, who was swanning grandly around the large entrance foyer, her boots making a neat thud rather than a revolting sucking sound.
“I rather like it,” said Frella, “Steampunk hats wouldn’t fit in here at all. Are you sure that party is being held here?” For a moment, she felt a ray of hope. She was feeling that it might be possible to remain unnoticed and unbothered in the vast clean space if she sat somewhere looking serenely vacant and unapproachable.
Spotting the shiny black grand piano in the corner, Jezeel glided majestically over to it and hopped onto the back of it, striking a glamourous pose. Naturally everyone took flattering photos of her as was expected.
Eris had rushed off to find a lavatory, and eventually emerged holding a strange awkward bundle.
“What on earth is that and where did you find it?” Frella noticed the look of alarm on Eris’s face. Truella was still taking photos of Jez from various angles, much to Jezreel’s delight.
“What does it bloody look like!” Eris said in an exasperated tone, “It’s a baby, someone left it in the loo! Go and ask at the desk, find out who lost a baby. I think it’s nappy needs changing.”
Frella went off to ask, returning shortly with surprising news. “There is nobody checked in here with a baby, Eris. Nobody knows whose it is. Here, give it to me, the poor thing.”
Eris handed over the smelly bundle gratefully.
I can stay in my room with this baby, Frella thought, It will be the perfect excuse not to go to the party.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
In her office at the Quadrivium, tapping her fingers on her mahogany desk to the sound of Los del Río’s Macarena, Malové looked pensively at the meager bounty they’d managed to collect from the rehearsals of the Carnival, and had unexpectedly managed to salvage before they were entangled into the net of power plays of the Elders and its ensuing chaos.
The phial on her desk was the only part they could salvage. They had to use most of it to revive Truella’s duplicated body before jumping back. After they’d come back to Limerick, there didn’t seem to be any lingering side effects from the dip in the red waters on the duplicate Truella.
Malové would have rather expected to witness a surge of nymphomaniac urges from Truella or the others, but there was really no telling how that could turn out; magic spells usually had a natural balance to them. The only suspicious thing was how Frigella after her dip in the waters, seemed to have developed prescience about what plans she had for the hippo carcass back at home. Magic sometimes worked in mysterious ways.
So, just to be sure, she’d tasked Frigella to be the designated driver back home for Truella. In her state of shock, Truella could have botched her merging spell to reintegrate her two bodies into the same location.
Malové wouldn’t have admitted it, but she’d felt a sigh of relief when the SMS of Frigella appeared on her scrying bowl to tell her that the spell had been completed without any ill effect. Well, maybe Truella’s partner would have the time of their lives tonight.On her desk, the leftover liquid of the phial was a deep shade of pulsating violet, and had settled to a softly bubbling state not unlike a lava lamp. It wasn’t clearly the top shelf quality she’d expected, nor even close to the amount they’d need to mass produce some powerful elixir for the infertile, impotent or simply curiously lecherous clients. That line of sexual healing incenses would have to wait for a more suitable conjonction of stars.
For now, the only new collection that the season allowed for was mostly smell of rain-soaked earth. She hated it. Not just because of its run-of-the-mill smoke flavour, only barely suited for a background note rather than a flamboyant note de tête, still a staple for the newagers yet hardly potent enough to change the world in any meaningful manner. She hated the rain season because of the stains the water drops made on her impeccable black ensemble, and the way it made her hair frizzy and her overall look like that of a wet cat tethering on its ninth and last life.
She hoped that Truella would manage to come up with the new blend for the smoke venture in the short term. Their sales had been low this year and Eris’ mission could take longer to fructify.
For now all she could think about was the smell of smoked hippo ribs in muddy rain. Swamp Serenade in Hippo Major. Hardly the recipe for a smashing success.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“The very image of a spy from a cheap novel. Perched behind his newspaper, peering through holes like a child with a telescope. He’s a creature of shadows, blending into the background, always watching, never seen. He thinks himself clever, but he’s as subtle as a cat in a fishbowl. He’s drawn to Frigella like a moth to a flame, but can’t shake off his ingrained caution. Intrigued yet wary, like a mouse sniffing a piece of cheese in a trap. He needs to make up his mind before his tail gets caught.”
“What’s on your mind, Needles?” Frigella inquired of her hedgehog familiar.
“Nothing,” replied the hedgehog cryptically, returning happily to his strawberry snack. “But you’ll soon find out…”
Cedric Spellbind found himself woefully unprepared for what was coming after the jump into the weird glowing vortex. On a hunch, he’d followed the enigmatic Miss O’Green. Something about her, her diaphaneous looks…
His wool tweed cap wasn’t the best attire for wherever he had jumped into. The damp smells, the warm humid air filled with electricity —something told him he wasn’t in Limerick any more,… but where.
The group Ms Frigella was with had moved swiftly, nonchalantly going in the streets after the boisterous tall figure with the black curly wig had made a string of light glow on the ground, evanescent trail they followed unhesitant to somewhere only them seemed to know.
He was struggling to keep the pace. At some point, the blue-haired one had turned suspiciously casting her glance, and he’d managed to dart in a nearby alley. They’d resumed their stroll, but she’d done something after that, some sort of dark magic that made their group seem to disappear in a fog, the sounds they made suddenly all muffled.
Accustomed to tracking witches, he’d discreetly put a findmystuff tracker on the bag. Wherever that bag would go, he would follow. He opted to let them proceed unhindered, for now.
He checked his phone. He couldn’t catch the signs in the streets during his shadowing. His phone had started buzzing as soon as he’d emerged from the vortex, so he was surely in another country. The SMS he’d received confirmed that hypothesis: he was in Brazil.
5 missed calls. His mother… He couldn’t call her back now, it would cost him a fortune, and his witch tracking wasn’t exactly paying the bills. She would hate him for it, but she would have to wait. Maybe a bit of worrying for him wasn’t bad. One could hope.
His last witch hunt hadn’t been the most successful. Bulgarian witches were fierce. To be honest, it had been a fiasco, and he was posted in Limerick as a consequence —on desk job only. He knew there were worse places to be, but he was missing the action of the field… He shouldn’t have followed these witches, but again, following orders had never been his strong suit.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Truella had already left for that monkey hunt in the Mediterranean. Eris had to go back before nightfall, which was quite early at this time of year as she had chosen to live in such a remote place in the midst of a frozen forest. Jeezel only thought it romantic because of the icicles that would form on your eyelashes and brows, making you the perfect avatar for the Snow Queen musical. And Frigella… She said she was tired but from the sight of her aura, she undoubtedly was onto something fishy.
Jeezel looked at her dress. Once a divine creation, it has turned into a disaster. Irremediably stained with soot, it’s foul smell would make any dragon lose their appetite. She felt a mix of sadness and guilt for all the murex that gave their shells for that unique shade of purple she was so proud of.
She wasn’t sure even Teddy Steambolt could muster his magic to save the divine creation. She imagined his eyes widen as saucers when she entered his Palace of Pristine with the lifeless garment in her arms. He would most certainly swoon and gasp at the same time.
“Oh, The tragedy!” he would wail, his high-pitched lament resonating in the cathedral ceiling of his atelier of cleanliness. “What calamity hath befallen this exquisite creation?”
“Teddy, dear,” she would say, “It was indeed a tragedy. I lost seven of my nails and my hair was ruined. You’re the alchemist of cleanliness, you’re my only hope for a miracle.”
And he would take her dress and perform his magic from which it would emerge reborn, and all those murex wouldn’t have lost their home for nothing.
She was about to follow the others when Malové reminded her: “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
A broom and a bucket of black soap were floating on her right.
Her sigh would have made a blue whale blush with envy. Her role tonight would not be the Snow Queen, but Cinderella, another of her favourite diva.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Head witch Malové must have been used to it, for having seen that magic at play a number of times… there was nothing like the strange serendipity of chaos.
After the smoke had finally cleared, Malové couldn’t bear to stand amidst the wreckage of their once impeccably arranged ritual space. She looked at the mess, the sheer ridiculousness of it all, and decided to go for a brisk walk in the streets of Limerick. The light drizzle and sharp sting of the winter air brought back some pink to her pale face. To cover her perfectly coiffed head, he wrapped her shawl, black and shiny as a dung beetle, and moved swiftly cutting through the crowds effortlessly, parting the human congeries like Moses did the Red Sea. She was never unnoticed; her tall lean silhouette, accentuated by the sleek robe noire, the vertigo of her stiletto, the cheekbones so sharp they could kill — there was nothing common about her frame; and after the years, and all the side glances, she’d clearly lost practice on how to give a damn.
It was at the turn of a dark corner illuminated by the neon sign of a Chinese local eatery under which the delivery guy was having a break that the synchronicity stuck her. A slow smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. From chaos, clarity had emerged.
Vaping, hookah, e-cigarettes —all the rage among the mindless masses. And there, in the plumes of artificially flavoured smoke, was their opportunity. A new way to infiltrate the consciousness of the people, to subtly attune their energies and guide them towards emotional management —or at the very least, less stupidity.
She imagined their Incense —the sacred concoctions of herbs and essences, entwined with potent spells— being drawn into eager lungs, seeping into the bloodstream, entangling with the very atoms of their being, a sweet balm better than the usual deleterious micro-plastics. The witches wouldn’t just be casting spells; they’d be weaving their magic into the fabric of life itself, one puff at a time.
The more she thought about it, the brighter the idea seemed. It was audacious, unconventional, bordering on scandalous. A few days ago maybe, she would have balked at the mere thought. But desperate times called for this… elegant, simply perfect. For the witches of the Quadrivium Coven of Mystiques, she had even less doubts or concerns about warming them up to such iconoclastic idea. She knew a group of them, those black sheep never to shy away from a little controversy. And if they could use the vaping trend to spread their influence, then why not? Enough with surviving on the Chinese New Year only, the whole world was ripe for extended incensing.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“Would you be looking for me?”
Cedric jumped. Where on earth had she come from? It was the blond witch from the cafe, but what was she doing sneaking up behind him when he’d seen her rushing off down the street not a minute before! And yet here she was, smirking at him like butter wouldn’t melt!
He studied her. She wasn’t conventionally pretty he decided, with her thin, sharp features. And she had no meat on her bones. Cedric liked women who were soft and had a bit of something he could squeeze. And she was so … white … almost like one of those albinos … still, there was something he found strangely compelling about her.
She’s a witch, he reminded himself. “What on earth gave you the idea I was following you?” He twisted his mouth into an amused sneer, hoping it showed the contempt she surely deserved.
“You’re not then?” Her gaze was unswerving and Cedric had to look away, pretending to take a great interest in a black poodle peeing on a nearby lamp post. Cedric liked dogs and up until six months ago had a miniature schnauzer called Mitzy. Thinking of Mitzy, he felt the familiar little squeeze in his chest.
“I’m Frigella O’Green,” she said, still studying him intently.
Reluctantly he pulled his gaze back towards her. “Oh, ah … Cedric … just Cedric.” He’d nearly told her his surname which didn’t seem a good idea, all things considered. Out of habit, he raised his hand to take hers, then remembering, thrust it awkwardly in his jacket pocket.
“Well, just Cedric, if you’re not looking for me, I’ll be off … I’m in a bit of a hurry.” Then she smiled at him, properly this time, and Cedric wondered why he hadn’t thought she was pretty a moment ago. “Nice hat by the way, Cedric. Stylish.” She turned then and Cedric watched her stride down the street until she was no longer visible. Distractedly he brushed the wool tweed of his cap.
Frigella O’Green is a witch, Cedric, he told himself sternly.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“If it’s nae Frigella O’green! Fancy seeing ye ‘ere!”
Frigella stiffened. She’d know that accent and the dank tang of peat moss anywhere. She’d have smelt it sooner if it weren’t for the brewing coffee. She must be getting soft … or maybe it was the sour smell of smoke clogging up her nostrils; she’d not been able to shake the stench since the debacle that morning. Turning away from Aaron, the pleasant young barista serving her, she willed her lips into a smile – no harm in being civil! It was a long time since all the Scottish shenanigans and word amongst the witches was the Scots Coven were trying to tidy up their act.
“Well, If it’s not Aggie Bog now!” Frigella leaned in for a cool peck on the cheek. “And what brings you to these parts? Let me buy you a coffee and we can catch up?”
Aggie sniggered. ” Ye pay for it?” She pushed Frigella aside and approached the counter. Aaron’s eyes widened and Frigella had to admit Aggie cut a striking figure in her tiny black top and leather leggings. As a child she’d been taunted and called fat, but now she was best described as Rubenesque, and clearly had learned how to use her assets.
I bet those pants squeak when she walks.
Aggie leaned forward and Aaron’s gaze flicked toward her abundant cleavage. “A double black insomnia fur me, on the hoose.” As Aaron started to protest, Aggie waved several plump fingers towards his face and Frigella saw his eyes were now dark and glazed. “Whirling ‘n’ twirling a muckle puff o’ rowk,” crooned Aggie. “Ye’ll dae as ah say or caw intae a ….”
Frigella clasped Aggie’s wrist. Thank god the lunch crowd had gone and the cafe was nearly empty apart from an older man reading his paper by the window. “Aggie Bog! Shame on you! That’s not the way we do things here.”
