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In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Malove surveyed the room, her piercing gaze sweeping over each witch, causing them to cower. “I trust you’re not letting the weather distract you from your duties,” she said, her voice crisp. “I won’t have the coven slacking because of a little drizzle.”
Jeezel straightened, flustered. “It’s not the weather! It’s the postcards! They’re showing up out of nowhere, and no one knows who’s sending them!”
Malove raised an eyebrow. “Postcards? How quaint. And you think this warrants my attention?”
“Absolutely!” Truella interjected, surprising even herself with her boldness. “It could be a warning—or worse, a challenge.”
A flicker of ethereal light indicated Eris’s presence. “Or perhaps someone just has a twisted sense of humor.”
Frella crossed her arms, frowning. “I agree with Tru. This could be serious.”
Malove stepped closer, her demeanor sharpening. “Enough. I care not for your trifles unless they threaten the coven. What precisely have you discovered”
Jeezel pulled out one of her postcards. “This one shows a twisted tree… and a symbol I don’t recognize.”
Frella bit her lip and revealed her own card. “Mine has a raven on a crooked branch. Its gaze feels… unsettling.”
Truella’s heart raced. “Jeezel, let me look at that! I think I’ve seen that symbol before—in the book that fell off my shelf!”
Malove’s interest was piqued. “Elaborate.”
“Well, old books practically leap off the shelves at me,” Truella explained, excitement building. “And Frella had a dream that seemed connected. The really odd part?” She paused dramatically until she was sure she had their full attention. “I noticed that the book was written in the FIRST PERSON.” She gestured to the postcard with the twisted tree. “Maybe these cards are connected.”
Eris chimed in lightly. “Or they could be a distraction. Perhaps you’re sending yourself messages?”
Truella frowned, glancing at the shimmering light of Eris. “But why do you get to do distance while the rest of us are stuck here in this rain? Can’t you join us physically for once?”
Eris laughed, her voice echoing. “Someone has to keep an eye on the chaos you’re about to unleash.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The whole summer had been a blur. So much so it felt at times to Eris she’d woken up from a dream to enter another one; carefully crafted illusions as heavy as an obfuscating spell.
She could remember the fair, vaguely the Games too —each event felt like another layer of enchantment, casting a surreal pallor over everything. Indeed, the summer was a blur of fleeting images and half-remembered events, like how everyone quickly disbanded to go for a respite and a salutary holiday. Truth be told, the witches of the Quadrivium all needed it after the utter chaotic year they’d been through.
The resurgence of Malové at the fair, left unexplained, had appeared as an evidence. They all needed the tough love that only she as a head of Coven could provide, rather than the micro-management of the well-meaning but people-inapt Austreberthe. To be fair, Eris wasn’t sure Malové was still in charge or not —Eris had never as much struggled with continuity as now; she could feel they were all flipping through and sliding into potential realities opened by the incoming Samhain doorways on the horizons.
Standing on the cusp of autumn, Eris décided to prepare herself for a clarity spell under the iridescent harvest moon.
As the leaves began to turn and the air grew crisp, Eris stood poised to harness the energies of the propitious harvest moon. Preparation for a clarity spell required ascertained precision and intention waved into the elements.
Eris began by setting her space. The clearing near Lake Saimaa was her sanctum, a place where the natural energies converged seamlessly with her own. She laid out a circle of stones, each one representing a different aspect of clarity—vision, truth, focus, and discernment. In the center, she placed a mirror, a symbolic portal to the inner self and higher understanding.
Mandrake, her Norwegian Forest cat, watched with a knowing gaze, his presence grounding her as she moved through the rituals. Echo, the familiar sprite, flitted about, ensuring everything was in place.
“Mandrake, guard the perimeter,” Eris instructed. The cat slinked off into the shadows, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.
Eris took a deep breath and began to chant, her voice steady and resonant:
“By the light of the harvest moon,
I call forth clarity, swift and soon.
Let fog disperse and shadows flee,
Reveal the truth, illuminate me.”She sprinkled dried hellebores around the mirror, their protective and healing properties amplifying the spell’s potency. The hellebores, collected from Normandy, held within them the strength of her Viking ancestors and the promise of Imbolc’s rebirth. They were not just flowers; they were talismans of resilience and transformation.
As the moon reached its zenith, Eris held a vial of enchanted water. She poured it over the mirror, watching as the surface shimmered and rippled, reflecting the moonlight with an ethereal glow. The water, drawn from the depths of Lake Saimaa, was imbued with the ancient magic of the land.
Eris closed her eyes and focused on her intentions. She saw the faces of her sisters at the Quadrivium Emporium, each one struggling with their own burdens. Stalkers, postcards, camphor chests, ever prancing reindeers high on mushrooms. She saw the chaotic energies of early spring, swirling, and the potential and peril they carried. She saw Malové’s stern visage, a reminder of the standards they were meant to uphold, and a reminder to make more magical rejuvenating cream.
“Show me the path,” she whispered. “Guide me through the haze.”
The mirror began to clear, the ripples settling into a smooth, reflective surface. Images started to form—visions of the future, hints of what lay ahead. She saw herself within the coven with renewed purpose, her objectives clear and her drive rekindled. She saw her sisters working in harmony, each one contributing their unique strengths to the collective power.
The clarity spell was working, the fog lifting to reveal the roadmap she needed. Decisions that once seemed insurmountable now appeared manageable, their resolutions within grasp. The inefficiencies plaguing their organization were laid bare, offering a blueprint for the reforms necessary to streamline their efforts.
Eris opened her eyes, the vision fading yet leaving an indelible mark on her mind. She felt a surge of confidence, a sense of direction that had been sorely lacking.
“Thank you,” she murmured to the moon, to the elements, to the spirits that had guided her.
As she began to dismantle the circle, Echo fluttered down to her shoulder, a small smile on her ethereal face. Mandrake emerged from the shadows, his eyes reflecting the calm and order Eris had sought to instill.
“Well done, Eris,” Echo said softly. “The road ahead is clearer now. The harvest moon has gifted you its wisdom.”
Eris nodded, feeling ready as autumn would be a season of action, of turning vision into reality.
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
Shivering, Truella pulled the thin blanket over her head. Colder than a witches tit here, colder in summer than winter at home! It was no good, she may as well get up and go for a walk to try and warm up. Poking her head outside Truella gasped and coughed at the chill air. Shapes were becoming discernible in the dim pre dawn light, the other pods, the hedgerow, a couple of looming trees. Truella rummaged through her bag, hoping to find warm clothes yet knowing she hadn’t packed anything warm enough. Sighing, her teeth chattering, she pulled on everything she had in layers and pulled the blanket off the bed to use as a cape. With a towel over her head for extra warmth, she ventured out into the Irish morning.
The grass was sodden with dew and Truella’s feet were wet through and icy. Bracing her shoulders with determination, she forged ahead towards a gate leading into the next field. She struggled for a few minutes with the baler twine holding the gate closed, numb fingers refusing to cooperate. Cows watched her curiously, slowly munching. One lifted her tail and dropped a steaming splat on the grass, chewing continuously. I don’t think I could eat and do that at the same time.
Heading off across the field which sloped gently upwards, Treulla picked up her pace, keeping her eyes down to avoid the cow pats. By the time she reached the oak tree along the top hedge, the sun started to make an appearance over the hill. Warmer from the exercise, she gazed over the countryside. How beautiful it was with the mist in the valleys, and everything so green.
If only it was warmer!
“Are you cold then, is that why you’re decked out like that? From a distance I thought I was seeing a ghost in a cloak and head shawl!” The woman smiled at Truella from the other side of the hedgerow. “Sorry, did I startle you? You’ll get your feet soaked walking in that wet grass, climb over that stile over there, the lane here’s better for a morning walk.”
It sounded like good advice and the woman seemed pleasant enough. “Are you here for the games too?” Truella asked, readjusting the blanket and towel after navigating the stile.
“Yes, I am. I’m retired, you see,” the woman said with a wide grin. “It’s a wonderful thing, not that you’d know, you’re much to young.”
“That must be nice,” Truella replied politely. “I sometimes wish I was retired.”
“Oh, my dear! It’s wonderful! I haven’t had a job for years, but it’s the strangest thing, now that I’ve officially retired, there’s a marvellous feeling of freedom. I don’t have to do anything. Well, I didn’t have to do anything before I retired but one always feels one should keep busy, do productive things, be seen to be doing some kind of work to justify ones existance. Have you seen the old priory?”
“No, only just got here yesterday.”
“You’ll love it, it’s up this path here, follow me. But now I’ve retired,” the woman continued, “I get up in the morning with a sense of liberation. I can do as little as I want ~ funny thing is that I’ve actually been doing more, but there’s no feeling of obligation, no things to cross off a list. All I’m expected to do as a retired person is tick along, trying not to be much of a bother for as long as I can.”
“I wish I was retired!” exclaimed Truella with feeling. “I wish I didn’t have to do the cow goddess stall, it’ll be such a bind having to stand there all evening.” She explained about the coven and the stalls, and the depressing productivity goals.
“But why not get someone else to do the stall for you?”
“It’s such short notice and I don’t know anyone here. It’s an idea though, maybe someone will turn up.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
It made sense to go to Ireland during the hot Andalucian summer, and it hadn’t taken much to convince Truella to take a break from her dig and her research. Thousands of years of history would still be there waiting for her when she got home, and it would be a pleasure to see some green lawns and fields. Maybe it would rain, indeed, it was likely that it would. And by the time the Roman Games were over, there would be less of the hot summer at home to endure. Still, it was a nuisance to have to get her winter clothes down out of the attic. She was sure to find it chilly, even cold.
Truella was not fond of water sports (or any sports, but particularly those involving water) and unfortunately the focus of the games seemed to be on swimming and boating. But one of the events has captured her interest. A miniaturisation spell was required, which contestants had to provide themselves, for the Puddles in Potholes races. The worst road in Limerick would be cordoned off and all the potholes filled with water (if they weren’t already full of rain water, which was likely). When Eris pointed out that a miniaturised person could drown in a puddle as easily as a full sized one could drown in a lake, Truella was ready with her answer. If she was drowning, she would immediately reverse the spell and resume her full size. Eris had raised an eyebrow, remarking that she had better make sure her spell was up to scratch, unlike her incense spells had been. Jeezel had wanted to know why she couldn’t just make an enlarging spell and just swim in the river, to which Truella has replied that she didn’t know how deep the river was and how much enlarging would be required. Snorting, Frella said she obviously didn’t know how deep the potholes in Limerick were.
Austreberthe had put their names down for the donkey chariot races, for which they had three days when they arrived to construct the cart and make the costumes. Luckily Frella had plenty of local contacts, and had willingly taken charge of assembling all the materials.
The Booths of the Gods would require some thought. Which Roman god would she choose to be? Which special godly power could she make a spell for? Truella sighed, and went to find her book of Roman gods and goddesses.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
It was good to get a break from the merger craziness. Eris was thankful for the small mercy of a quiet week-end back at the cottage, free of the second guessing of the suspicious if not philandering undertakers, and even more of the tedious homework to cement the improbable union of the covens.
The nun-witches had been an interesting lot to interact with, but Eris’d had it up to her eyeballs of the tense and meticulous ceremonies. They had been brewing potions for hours on, trying to get a suitable mixture between the herbs the nuns where fond of, and the general ingredients of their own Quadrivium coven’s incenses. Luckily they had been saved by the godlike apparition of another of Frella’s multi-tasking possessions, this time of a willing Sandra, and she’s had harmonized in no time the most perfect blend, in a stroke of brilliance and sheer inspiration, not unlike the magical talent she’d displayed when she invented the luminous world-famous wonder that is ‘Liz n°5’.
As she breathed in the sweet air, Eris could finally enjoy the full swing of summer in the cottage, while Thorsten was happily busy experimenting with an assortment of cybernetic appendages to cut, mulch, segment and compost the overgrown brambles and nettles in the woodland at the back of the property.
Interestingly, she’d received a letter in the mail — quaintly posted from Spain in a nondescript envelop —so anachronistic it was too tempting to resist looking.
Without distrust, but still with a swish of a magical counterspell in case the envelop had traces of unwanted magic, she opened it, only to find it burst with an annoying puff of blue glitter that decided to stick in every corner of the coffee table and other places.
Eris almost cursed at the amount of micro-plastics, but her attention was immediately caught by the Latin sentence mysteriously written in a psychopath ransom note manner: “QUAERO THESAURUM INCONTINUUM”
“Whisp! Elias? A little help here, my Latin must be wrong. What accumulation of incontinence? What sort of spell is that?!”
Echo appeared first, looking every bit like the reflection of Malové. “Quaero Thesaurum Incontinuum,” you say. How quaint, how cryptic, how annoyingly enigmatic. Eris, it seems the universe has a sense of humor—sending you this little riddle while you’re neck-deep in organizational chaos.
“Oh, Echo, stop that! I won’t spend my well-earned week-end on some riddle-riddled chase…”
“You’re no fun Eris” the sprite said, reverting into a more simple form. “It translates roughly to “I seek the endless treasure.” Do you want me to help you dissect this more?”
“Why not…” Eris answered pursing up her lips.
““Seek the endless treasure.” We’re talking obviously something deeper, more profound than simple gold; maybe knowledge —something truly inexhaustible. Given your current state of affairs, with the merger and the restructuring, this message could be a nudge—an invitation to look beyond the immediate chaos and find the opportunity within.”
“Sure,” Eris said, already tired with the explanations. She was not going to spend more time to determine the who, the why, and the what. Who’d sent this? Didn’t really matter if it was an ally, a rival, or even a neutral party with vested interests? She wasn’t interested in seeking an answer to “why now?”. Endless rabbit holes, more like it.
The only conundrum she was left with was to decide whether to keep the pesky glittering offering, or just vacuum the hell of it, and decide if it could stand the test of ‘will it blend?’. She wrapped it in a sheet of clear plastic, deciding it may reveal more clues in the right time.
With that done, Eris’ mind started to wander, letting the enigmatic message linger a while longer… as reminder that while we navigate the mundane, our eyes must always be on the transcendent. To seek the endless treasure…
The thought came to her as an evidence “Death? The end of suffering…” To whom could this be an endless treasure? Eris sometimes wondered how her brain picked up such things, but she rarely doubted it. She might have caught some vibes during the various meetings. Truella mentioning Silas talking about ‘retiring nuns’, or Nemo hinting at Penelope that ‘death was all about…”
The postcard was probably a warning, and they had to stay on their guards.
But now was not the time for more drama, the icecream was waiting for her on the patio, nicely prepared by Thorsten who after a hard day of bramble mulching was all smiling despite looking like he had went through a herd of cats’ fight.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
As soon as Eris had left the room, Truella thought for a moment she was hallucinating, as Eris popped back right in through the entrance.
“So, what did I miss?” Eris asked, looking exactly the same if a little worn out.
“What do you mean what did you miss? You hardly missed anything, since you’ve just never left!” Truella protested, as the absence of sleep wasn’t cause enough to make her doubt her senses.
“Ah… I see… Those time-travel shenanigans. Hard to wrap one’s head around sometimes.” Eris said matter-of-factly. “No matter, glad to be back, well… so soon… by your standards. Let’s get back to business then? When’s the next ritual? Don’t we have to brew a potion or something?”
“No, no, no… Not so fast! What happened to your trip? you have to tell us all, and TIME TRAVEL! Where, when, how, with whom? We want to know all, n’est-ce-pas ma petite Jeezel?”
“Tsk, tsk. For another time. Suffice to say, I was gone for longer than I wanted, and clearly that nun-witch portal had been tempered with, sent me right in the middle of the darn Middle-Ages. But I can’t tell you more here…” Eris said with an air of mystery. “Stone walls are thick, but not as deaf as Mother Lorena, that’s for sure.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Frella opened her eyes. She felt rather woozy and very peculiar and it took her a moment to work out that she was sitting on the camphor chest in Herma’s shed with Herma and that awful Cedric Spellbind looming over her, their faces close and large. Too close. She looked from one anxious expression to the other.
“And what the devil is he doing here?” She nodded towards Cedric.
Cedric straightened himself. “I am here on official business,” he said stiffly. “Investigating this AirBnB for potential Witch Violations. And lucky I turned up when I did because you gave Mrs McCarthy here quite a turn with the way you were carrying on.”
Herma shook her head crossly.” Violations my foot. I told you lot last time your people came sniffing around, there’s none of that carry on here.”
“Why have I got salt all over me?” asked Frella.
Cedric rolled his eyes. “Now THIS, THIS is what I am talking about. SHE,” he pointed at Herma, “threw salt all over you to break the evil spell she said.”
“What nonsense!” said Herma, her face colouring. “But you had gone all odd, sort of not-here like and I couldn’t get any sense out of you.” She considered her hands for a few moments and then raised her head and beamed at Frella. “Why don’t I go and make you a nice cup of tea?” With that, she scurried off.
“Well, you’ve done what you came for. You can go now,” said Frella glaring at Cedric. She stood up and turned pointedly away from him, wondered how much he had seen and hoping she didn’t fall over. She silently cursed the other witches for their crazy shenanigans and desperately hoped that Herma would not get in trouble with the Authorities.
Cedric’s thoughts had taken quite another turn, mostly something about how beautiful the Witch was when she was angry. “Frigella,” he said.
She swung around. “It’s FRELLA,” she hissed.
“Frella …. “ Now it was Cedric’s turn to colour and he looked at the ground, so many thoughts jumbling through his head and he couldn’t make sense of any of it.
“Damn it Man! Spit it out, will you!”
“I just want to say that I know what you are.”
“And what am I exactly?”
Cedric met her gaze. “I know you’re a Witch and I’m not going to turn you in.” He shrugged. “I can’t.”
“And why can’t you, then? Something wrong with you, is there?”
Cedric’s hand reached under his shirt. “Look,” he said. He was holding a small round device. “It’s a listening device. We are supposed to wear them whenever we have a suspected Witch Violation or Interaction.” He threw the device to the ground where it bounced a couple of times. Then—rather dramatically in Frella’s opinion—he stomped on it.
Frella giggled. She couldn’t help herself
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
After the meeting, Jeezel and Silas agreed on what the six rituals would be. The integration rituals were designed to unite the groups symbolically and spiritually. They were multifaceted ceremonies that combine elements from each group’s traditions to forge a shared sense of purpose and harmony, mediated by the mortician’s guild. Given the diverse nature of the witches, nuns, and morticians, these rituals needed to be both inclusive and meaningful, drawing on the unique strengths and spiritual practices of each faction.
The program they distributed to each participant was as follow:
Under the guidance of the Ancient Telluric Forces of the Dragons
1. The Invocation of Unity
Purpose: To call upon the spiritual and magical forces that guide each group and seek their blessings for the union.
Components:- Witches: Incantations and invocations to elemental spirits and deities.
- Nuns: Hymns and prayers invoking divine blessings.
- Morticians: Rituals honoring the spirits of the departed, seeking their guidance and protection.
Symbolism: This ritual emphasizes the shared respect for higher powers and the mutual desire for harmonious collaboration.
2. The Weaving of Fate
Purpose: To create a physical symbol of their intertwined destinies.
Components:- Witches: Magical threads imbued with protective charms and blessings.
- Nuns: Sacred textiles woven with prayers and religious symbols.
- Morticians: Ribbons representing life, death, and the transition between them.
Symbolism: By weaving these threads together into a single tapestry, the groups create a tangible manifestation of their unified path forward.
3. The Concordia Cauldron
Purpose: To brew a potion that represents their collective energy and intent.
Components:
- Witches: Magical herbs, crystals, and other mystical ingredients.
- Nuns: Holy water and sacred relics.
- Morticians: Ashes from ritual fires and symbols of purification.
Symbolism: The potion, once blessed and distributed, serves as a means of internalizing the collective spirit and shared goals of the unified group.
4. The Harmonious Choir
Purpose: To blend their voices and energies in a powerful, resonant harmony.
Components:
- Witches: Chants and spells sung in unison.
- Nuns: Choir hymns and sacred music.
- Morticians: Melodic recitations of ancient rites.
Symbolism: The act of creating music together represents the harmony they strive to achieve in their collaboration, with each voice contributing to a greater whole.
5. The Altar of Convergence
Purpose: To create a shared sacred space where offerings and symbols from each group are placed.
Components:
- Witches: Ritual objects, such as wands, crystals, and candles.
- Nuns: Holy relics, icons, and prayer books.
- Morticians: Mementos of the deceased, symbolizing the continuity of life and death.
Symbolism: The combined altar serves as a focal point for their united efforts, a place where they can come together to seek guidance and reaffirm their commitment to the union.
6. The Ceremony of Reflection and Projection
Purpose: To reflect on the past, acknowledge individual and collective strengths, and set intentions for the future.
Components:
- Witches: Scrying mirrors and crystal balls for reflection and foresight.
- Nuns: Candles representing illumination and enlightenment.
- Morticians: Artifacts representing the cyclical nature of life and death.
Symbolism: This ceremony encourages each member to contemplate their role within the new union and visualize the path ahead, fostering a sense of shared vision and purpose.
Supervision by Jeezel and Silas
Jeezel: With her deep connection to magical energies and her knack for emotional resonance, she will ensure that each ritual maintains its mystical integrity and spiritual depth. She will guide the participants in channeling their energies harmoniously and with clear intent.
Silas: His analytical mind and authoritative presence will bring structure and order to the rituals. He will ensure that each component is meticulously planned and executed, maintaining the balance between tradition and innovation.
Together, Jeezel and Silas will oversee the integration rituals, blending their unique approaches to create a unified and cohesive experience that honors the diverse traditions of the witches, nuns, and morticians. Their combined leadership will ensure that the rituals not only symbolize but also spiritually solidify the union of these distinct groups.
Now, all that remained was to ask for volunteers or to assign the roles in the rituals to everyone. And for Jeezel to reveal the hidden mission to her three friends.
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: 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
A little unwilling to proceed, and privately wishing she was back on the comfy sofa with the fat cushions, Frella took a moment to center herself. She reminded herself that being a witch was a high calling and often what we need will find us. It sounded like a lot of Malove’s baloney to be honest but she took a deep breath and muttered a few words of wisdom from Lemone, which often worked better than any spell:
“The key to unlocking mysteries is often found within, where the mind meets the heart.”
“You wait here, Herma,” said Frella holding a warning hand in the air. “I don’t know what magic this is yet but I sense something amiss from that shed.”
Frella approached the ominous shed with caution but renewed determination. The shed door creaked open without resistance and she saw the chest immediately though it was piled on top with boxes. After carefully removing the boxes and putting them to one side, she examined the chest looking for any inscriptions or hidden compartments that might give a clue to its origins. She sensed the camphor chest was from a very old witch family and therefore may contain protective spells and traps. Best to proceed with caution.
She went to the shed door and waved at Herma, shouting for her to go and get some salt. While she waited for Herma’s return, she examined the chest further. It had a lock, but no obvious key; clearly a bit of witchy ingenuity was going to be required. A simple unlocking spell might suffice, or if spells fail, perhaps Herma knows an old trick or two for picking locks!
Herma returned with the salt and Frella sprinkled it liberally on the chest, chanting a protective charm to ward off any nefarious spells. “There,“ she said with satisfaction. “Fingers crossed that ought to do it.”
The chest seemed strangely willing to reveal its secrets for the simplest of opening spells worked. Once it was opened, they sifted carefully through its contents, mostly old documents and letters, looking for anything which might hold the answer to the postcard.
“Look for anything bird-related—feathers, sketches … “ instructed Frella.
“By golly!” cried Herma triumphantly holding up a postcard. “It’s the same one!”.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
It was a relief to them all that Truella was muted.
Jeezel had found the whole thing exhausting enough without Truella making matters worse. It was a jarring interruption to Frella’s relaxing holiday, and Eris’s delicious sense of clarity and purpose was floundering between drive and duty, and an alarming urge to flee. The effect of Malove’s long winded and over dramatic, not to say downright bossy and overbearing, address to the coven had the undesired effect of irritating eveyone and scattering their attention over dozens of new ideas all at once.
It was a great looking map though, they all agreed. And one or two of the points sounded interesting enough. But it was summer, surely they could glide gently into the new path in a more leisurely and pleasant way.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Once again, the Quadrivium headquarters buzzed with an undercurrent of tension and anticipation. Malové stood at the helm, her gaze as steely and unwavering as ever. The coven’s regular meetings had taken on a new urgency in the face of mounting market pressures and the ever-accelerating pace of competition.
The witches assembled in the grand hall, each carrying the weight of their individual concerns and collective anxieties. A large screen was projecting the agenda in flashy neon colours with a glamourous photo of their leader. The event was broadcast across many locations, not all witches able to join physically as the ongoing Worldwide Roman Games preparation and the 333th celebration of the Treaty of Limerick ending the Williamite War, had made the city impenetrable due to the convergence of world leaders.
Not only for those present, all of them seated in-person, or remotely connected had felt the tremors of change, the subtle yet insistent push towards transformation. Yet despite their best efforts, a cohesive vision for the coven’s future remained elusive.
As the last witch took her seat and the various technical glitches got sorted, Malové stepped forward, her presence commanding immediate silence. With a flick of her wrist, a spectral map materialized before them, shimmering with points of light that represented their past achievements and future challenges.
“Listen well,” Malové began, her voice echoing through the hall with the gravity of an ancient spell. “We stand at a crossroads, a juncture where our past accomplishments meet the demands of an unforgiving future. Our strength has always been in our unity and our mastery of the arcane, but now, we must also master the art of transformation.”
She paused, allowing her words to sink in. The witches leaned forward, their eyes locked onto their formidable leader.
“Transformation,” she continued, “is not merely a matter of adapting to external pressures. It requires a boldness of spirit and a willingness to steer the deepest currents of our inner selves. It demands that we break free from the confines of tradition without losing our core essence.”
Malové waved her hand, and the map shifted to reveal a complex network of interconnected pathways. “Our path forward will not be linear. It will be a labyrinth, requiring both cunning and courage. But fear not, for I have charted a course that will lead us through.”
She pointed to three glowing nodes on the map. “First, we shall innovate. Our magical incense blends have always been our hallmark, but we must go beyond. We will delve into new realms of magic, combining our ancient practices with cutting-edge techniques. Each of you will be tasked with researching and developing a new blend that can transform not just our coven, but the world.”
The witches exchanged glances, a mixture of excitement and apprehension flickering in their eyes.
“Second,” Malové continued, “we must strengthen our alliances. The world is vast, and we are not alone in our quest for magical mastery. We will forge new partnerships with other covens, magical beings, and even those who walk the line between the mundane and the mystical. Together, we will create a network of power and influence that none can rival.”
The map expanded, showing potential allies and strategic locations across the globe. The witches nodded, recognizing the necessity of this bold move.
“Lastly,” Malové said, her voice softening yet losing none of its intensity, “we must look within. Inner transformation is the crucible in which true power is forged. Each of you will undergo a rigorous process of self-examination and growth. You will face your fears, confront your weaknesses, and emerge stronger and more resilient. Only then can we hope to lead others through their own transformations.”
She paused, meeting the eyes of each witch in turn. “I will be with you every step of the way. My role is not just to lead, but to guide and support you. We will hold workshops, retreats, and one-on-one sessions to ensure that every member of the Quadrivium is prepared for the journey ahead.”
Truella, who had tuned in remotely, winced softly behind her screen – she quickly checked. Phew, she had been on mute the whole time.
Malové’s voice grew softer still, almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of an ancient prophecy. “We are the Quadrivium. We are woven together by threads of magic and destiny. Our future is not written in stone, but in the stars. Together, we will reach for those stars and make them our own.”
The hall was silent, the witches absorbing the magnitude of Malové’s words. Slowly, a sense of resolve began to build, a collective determination to embrace the path laid out before them.
As the meeting drew to a close, Malové turned back to the spectral map, her eyes reflecting the myriad possibilities that lay ahead. “Remember this day, for it marks the beginning of our grand transformation. We will not be merely a coven. We will be a force of nature, a symphony of magic that weaves through time and space.”
With a final wave of her hand, the map vanished, leaving only the echoes of her words and the indomitable spirit of the Quadrivium, and throngs of witches left more confused as they exited the halls in hushed tones.
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
Jeezel was stirred awake by the unsettling sound of someone throwing up. Her phone said it was 3am.
“Luminia? Are you ok?” she croaked, her throat so sore she wondered if vocal fry was that painful.
“That’s nothing,” said Luminia licking her muzzle. “You can go back to sleep.”
“Nothing, it didn’t sound like nothing.”
She got up and stepped into a warm, wet puddle.
“I’m shedding,” said Luminia as if it explained everything. “I didn’t want to bother you after your bouts of fever. I would have cleaned it before you noticed.”
“Well now I’m awake and my foot noticed. At least I didn’t dream of Concordia potion and missing willow wand.”
Jeezel hopped on one foot to the bathroom, gracefully avoiding any slip on the sleek, newly refinished hardwood floor. She washed her feet and consulted her phone while relieving herself of her evening herbal tea. She smiled at the 557 messages she got from her fellow witches. She didn’t recall where they had been but they seemed to be having fun. She was a bit sad she couldn’t join, but still glad to be able to enjoy it by proxy.
She particularly enjoyed the video tour Truella had made of the ruins she’d discovered in the garden where they were staying. And she sneezed when she saw a picture of Frella with that other woman. Did she just smelled camphor? Eris had written “Frella and Herma” under it. Jeezel wondered who that Herma was. She would have enjoyed meeting new people for real. Her cough reminded her it would have to wait. And she had some cleaning to do. At least she had a renewed sense of being alive.
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
I honestly don’t know what made me do it, it took me by surpise when I did it. It was bugging me that I couldn’t remember, and before I knew what was happening, I’d asked Malove.
Ah, the Caryatid Characteristics of a Case, a subject that requires both discernment and a keen eye for detail. In essence, the phrase “Caryatid Characteristics” refers to the fundamental attributes and peculiarities that support the overall structure of a particular case or situation, much like how caryatids—those graceful, sculpted figures in classical architecture—bear the weight of a building’s entablature on their shoulders.
To break it down into pragmatic terms, identifying the Caryatid Characteristics involves an in-depth analysis of the following elements:
Structural Integrity: Just as caryatids ensure the stability of a structure, the core components of the case must be sound and unwavering. This includes the key facts, the primary evidence, and the foundational arguments that hold the case together.
Aesthetic Nuances: Caryatids are not merely functional; they are also artistic. Similarly, the subtleties and nuances of a case—such as the motives, the intentions, and the underlying themes—add layers of complexity and depth, transforming a simple matter into a multifaceted situation.
Historical Context: Caryatids often reflect the cultural and historical context of their time. Understanding the background, the precedents, and the situational history provides a richer perspective and informs the current dynamics at play.
Symbolic Significance: In architecture, caryatids symbolize strength and beauty. In a case, the symbolic elements—the metaphors, the symbols, and the overarching message—must be identified and interpreted to grasp the full scope of its significance.
Resonance and Impact: Lastly, caryatids have a visual and emotional impact on observers. Similarly, the case’s broader implications, its potential consequences, and the emotional resonance it evokes must be considered. This is where the true weight of the matter lies, affecting not only the immediate parties involved but potentially a wider audience.Applying these characteristics to a case requires a blend of logical analysis, creative thinking, and intuitive insight. It is not merely about assembling facts but about understanding how each element supports the whole, much like the elegant yet sturdy caryatids in timeless architecture.
Now, if you’re asking how this applies to our current predicament with our spring cleaning of collective energies, well, one could say the caryatids in our situation are the core rituals, the seasoned wisdom passed down through the coven, and the precise incantations in our incense blends. Each component must be scrutinized and perfected to ensure we uphold the structural and spiritual integrity of our craft.
Let’s not dawdle; the orchestra in this zoo waits for no one.
Who will rise to the occasion?
Who indeed? I asked her if we all sent each other postcards, would it help?
Postcards, my dear, are more than mere scraps of paper with hastily scribbled words and picturesque scenes. They are tangible connections in an increasingly ephemeral world. Sending each other postcards won’t just help; it will create ripples of intention and resonance that can weave us closer together, despite the physical distances.
Consider the following:
Anchoring Intentions: Each postcard carries the sender’s energy and intention. When you pen your thoughts, wishes, or even riddles, you imbue the postcard with a part of yourself. The recipient, upon receiving it, senses this connection. It’s a form of sympathetic magic, drawing us closer through shared symbols and messages.
Physical Mementos: In an age where digital communication reigns supreme, holding a physical object—something that has traveled miles to reach your hands—grounds you. It anchors you in the physical world and provides a break from the transient nature of digital interactions. These postcards become talismans, reminders of our connections and shared journeys.
Ritualistic Value: The act of writing, sending, and receiving postcards can be ritualistic. This ritual can strengthen the bonds within our coven, reaffirming our commitment to each other and our shared goals. Each postcard becomes a symbol of our collective energy, our shared purpose, and our mutual support.
Cultural Exchange: Postcards often carry images or symbols from different locales. Sharing them can broaden our horizons, offer new perspectives, and remind us of the diverse tapestry that makes up our coven. It’s a gentle nudge to appreciate the wider world and the myriad experiences within it.
Mystical Conduits: In our magical practice, objects can serve as conduits for energy. Postcards, having traversed the globe, carry the imprints of various energies and places. They become more than just messages—they are carriers of the world’s pulse, connecting us to the broader rhythms of existence.So, yes, sending each other postcards will help. It will infuse our lives with a tangible sense of connection, a reminder of our shared purpose, and a touch of magic in the mundane. Let’s make this act a part of our practice, a testament to our enduring bonds and our collective strength.
Who will be the first to send a missive across the miles?
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The sound of music wafting through the open window was distracting. Where was it coming from? It sounded like someone was having a party in the distance, but who? And on a Wednesday night?
It was hard enough for Truella to try and glean enough information to cobble together an entry for Frella’s diary from the meagre morsels she was able to gather, without these interruptions.
And if these were the hand drawn postcards that she’d promised, who was going to make any sense of them?
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Eris looked at the meme on her phone, the one with a picture of tarts and the caption “the tarts are here, let the games begin,” and couldn’t help but chuckle despite the weight of relentless recent events. The humor was a brief respite from the jiggling thoughts bouncing in her mind since the treasure hunt and the increasingly intricate seminars which felt like a boiling cauldron evaporating her wits under Malové’s stern guidance.
The postcards from Truella had been a welcome enigma, doubled with piquant inspiration —a collection of images featuring the dramatic promontories of Madeira, with cryptic notes about a witch-friendly host named Herma. An inspired soul would have found the idea of such a sanctuary enticing, but Eris’ mind was in many places, and patience for obscure cypher lacking context didn’t register long enough to stick in the midst of the other activities demanding her attention. But of course, the underlying messages in Truella’s words seemed to hint at something more profound, something Eris had to trust would come fully revealed, if only in Truella’s own mind ever.
She had just fired the cook, who was lazy at her job, and mean towards the baglady whom Eris had asked her to feed. But the shopkeepers liked her well; they’ll surely commiserate, and she wouldn’t be long to find another placement. Even with justification, it didn’t make Eris’ decision easier. Power and responsibility often came with such burdens, that was the way of the wheel.
As Eris tried to piece together the meaning behind Truella’s postcards and the events at the coven, she felt a returning familiar sense of urgency. The coven was at a critical juncture; Malové’s tests had shown that they were not as united or prepared as they should be. The competitive nature of the other witches, their underhanded tactics, had revealed vulnerabilities within their group that needed addressing.
“The tarts are here, let the games begin,” she mused again, this time contemplating the deeper implications. Was it a call to arms? A reminder that they were in the midst of a game far more complex and perilous than they had realized?
Everyday, Eris had to remind herself that in the midst of uncontrollable changes, it was important to focus on the core, one’s own inner balance. At the moment, there was no point in getting carried away in conjectures.
It was about the game. All she had wanted was to participate, add a piece, and that would be enough.
Regardless of what the silly robot that Thorsten had setup for her (she called it Silibot) which always tried to appeal to her sense of drama in the story. Put that to rest Silibot — that’s the message in the tarts: there’s power in the game, and that’s well enough.
