[IC] Warren Horrors

[Crya]

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon. The church had just dismissed the townspeople. Most weren't in the worshiping mood anyway, since it was near-unbearably hot, and one of the older members of the church nearly fainted mid-prayer. The children ran through the streets, relishing the short time they had to play before their parents found them and put them to work. People returned to their shops, their farms, and their homes. Most people just wanted to wait out the heat wave, except for Young Tom Young.

Young Tom Young was the village troublemaker. Nobody really liked him, but his father, Old Tom Young, was one of the richest men in the town with his tavern. Young Tom would often get drunk and harass the elders of the town. Today it was Millicent Grant, the elderly widow who lived in the small house on the edge of town, near the forest.

Young Tom threw bottles at the old woman's house, laughing each time they shattered. "Ancient devil," he called out in a slurred speech. "She shleeps with them Shavages 'cross the forest she does! She's workin' with Shatin!" He proclaimed loudly.

Millicent poked her head out a window, trying to protect herself from the bottles. "Get away from here, you ne'erdowell!" She called. "You'll regret your actions some day, young man! I swear it by God you will!"

By now, many people around town heard the exchange and talked quietly among themselves. What should they do? Technically if a citizen accused another of witchcraft, the accused had to be put to trial. But Young Tom was drunk, and rather hated. Maybe someone should investigate?

[cthulu]

Efferea.

Sunday's, the days where she had to wear her nicest skirts and her prettiest bonnet and tame her dark locks into a fine tight braid so she might bid welcomes and goodbyes to the townsfolk before seeing to the chores her caretaker put her to. They shared the work evenly she dusted and swept while he tidied away books and cleaned the effigy's and cups. The heat was stifling but as she'd wished a god blessed day to the last of their village she'd kicked off her cotton shoes by the door and the chill of the stones rose up form the floor and cooled her feet, the length of her grey cotton skirt and petiecoats beneath it hiding -for the most part- her shoeless feet as she half danced about the empty church sweeping up leaves and blades of grass and even the odd flower head into a neat pile by the doors.

It was a beautiful church in her opinion, one of the finest in gods country, of course, she hadn't' seen others. Rough hewn stones of a dark slate grey had been plastered together and formed a squat but pleasant little rectangle on top of the only slight hill in the entire town. Wooden struts and supporting beams ran through out the structure giving it much needed balance, as god gave to the community the preacher had said, wooden slats and beams rose up holding a rather fine brass bell thats immense weight made her wonder how it got up there in the first place. They priest and her pulled the two ropes before service or in times of emergency, witch trials, deaths, illnesses and attacks and it always got peoples attention. The floor was smoother stones though the mason had given her a complete guide on how and why they were there she hadn't really paid much mind to him at the time and had wondered instead on how his hair had become so dark and if she spotted a fine silver strand among his locks.

The pews were nothing more than slats of wood crudely fit together and most people still stood, only the very old sat, the carpenters though were planning better for them but her favourite piece in the whole church was the wooden carving of Jesus Christ, the first Carpenter had made it, or so her Father had told her, back when this place was nothing but grass and buffalo and the arrows of the natives littered the ground. For a whole cycle of the moon he'd worked as a man possessed and by the time he was done there it was, time had barely aged it, though every priest took good care of it, polishing it with beeswax and keeping it free of moisture, it had still cracked though but it didn't detract from the fineness of the statue. It was a head taller than the tallest man in the village and surprisingly smooth and warm under her fingers, no that she was supposed to touch it of course.

Once she had finished sweeping the dirt from the church into the dusty streets she placed down her broom and stretched her arms out wide, closing her eyes to feel the sun upon her cheeks, its warmth like the embrace of a mother she'd long forgotten. Days like this always reminded her of them, her mother and father, oh they had disliked such days with such a passion but it was days like this that she'd steal off down to the rivers edge where the native children sometimes played and splashes in the cool muddy waters. She would get beating for sure when she returned, not least for ruining her skirts but for playing with the children there and going without their permission.

The crash of a bottle breaking caused her to jerk from such refreshing, fond memories and flinch back a step into the embrace of the church, she drew one hand across her chest and the other hovered close to her lips as widened dark eyes hurriedly danced about to find the cause of the commotion. "Put your shoes on girl." Came the voice of the pastor beside her and with a small nod and slight dip of a curtsy she scurried across the hall to slip her shoes back on before quietly coming up beside him again.
"What is it?" She uttered as the sound of shouting and bottles breaking could be heard across town.
"Sounds like Young Tom Young again." The Pastor uttered with a goodly patient sigh, Efferea's nose wrinkled faintly in distaste before she shook such a dour -though her Indian friend had called it cute- look from her face.
"I think we should go see if we can help, don't you?" He uttered, Efferea was already half turned away, she wanted to change into her regular frock and go off to the river, maybe Red Bear would be there and they could trade gossip and trinkets, they hadn't met at all this week and it felt odd.
"Efferea." He said in that tone she couldn't deny, with a nod and another slight dip she ran off to go and get his bag, it was a simple cloth satchel and in it many a thing he used to 'scare the demons' out of the townsfolk. Handing it over to him the pair made their way towards the commotion.

Efferea gasped when she saw the mess and the drunken boy swaying about and slurring drunken words while shouting such awful accusations, her nose wrinkled again in a fashion that did indeed look rather cute. It was reasons like this she liked Red Bear, he didn't get drunk, or angry, he didn't point or shout and he certainly didn't throw around such awful accusations or bottles themselves in fact! Most boys here seemed to be rather immature compared to Red Bear and the other Native boys, no they were men for sure. Brave but gentle, compassionate yet fierce. Shaking her head lightly of the notion she glanced to the Pastor and awaited his instruction, as usual he stood before her partially covering her like a shield.
"Now Young Tom, what appears to be the problem here? Have you been supping the Cider at your fathers Tavern in this heat?"

[cerozer0]

Warren.

Sybil stood in the center of her all so familiar home town, feeling rather sleepy, heavy, and confused, pale eyes drifting over the buildings and sky and trees in the distance with obvious worry. Everything was dyed a light gray or blue, as if frozen in ice, and it was dead quiet. No children, no gossip, no wind or birds or creaking. Just silence. Sybil turned around slowly, feeling the familiar drift of a night gown brush her bare feet, and opened her mouth to call for someone, anyone, but no words formed, just air, as if she was letting out a breathless scream. Her brain groped for answers, but none came, and the thought that she was dreaming never crossed her mind. And then, as if on a cue, she was walking, wandering through the dirt roads of the blued-out town in complete silence. At first, she was calm, deciding that, perhaps, she was just a bit out of it and everything would return to normal soon, but after what felt like an hour of endless walking through a gray-scale, silent town she began to lose hope. And then she caught sight of the church, standing tall and proud against a blue-gray and still sky, and then Sybil felt her heart leap with fear. Shivers racked her body, a combination of fear and anxiety forced her eyes closed, and her mind repeatedly screamed,

"No, no, I don't wanna see, please!"

But she didn't know what she didn't want to see. Odd. Eventually, the walking slowed to a stop once again, and Sybil stood, blind and frightened, until something brushed her shoulder. Blue eyes jolted open and stared wildly to her side, and what she found was extremely odd. It was a blue shawl, worn and familiar, floating just above a thin, orange flame. The flame flickered and danced excitedly, and then suddenly spat out embers, which then formed four more flames. Then those flames spit embers and more appeared, over and over and over. Like vines on a house, the flames spread throughout the area until she was completely surrounded. The fires were not hot, and were much to small to even touch her, so Sybil took it upon herself to suddenly break from her stiff, trance-like position to inspect the flames closely. When she reached to touch them they fluttered back a few steps, and being unable to follow them she eventually gave up and returned her stare forward, catching sight of an old-looking house. Millicent Grant's home. It stood like all the other buildings, gray and silent, but Sybil soon noticed something strange about the old thing. Just outside the house was a rather large flame, and it was spitting out thousands of embers, glowing vibrantly against the still background.

"If that keeps up, Ms. Grant's house will catch." Sybil thought for a moment, and then she screamed a silent scream. The house had caught fire, and it went up quickly and brilliantly, burning hot and loud and bright. Around her, the small flames were suddenly conjoining, becoming bigger, surrounding, devouring, killing. Coolness became heat, and suddenly her flesh was burning and she was still screaming until her mind suddenly set on the blue shawl once more. Something in her head was yelling at her to protect the shawl, keep it away from the fires, it must survive and if it doesn't something bad will happen. Beside her, the cloak floated gently among it's own flame, having yet to be devoured, but just as she turned to reach for the colorful accessory it caught, and slowly ebbed away into ash and ember. And then Warren was nothing but heat and blood and pain, and then a hand clapped over her face and she jolted forward. A cool breeze met her chest and neck and face, and then blonde hair tumbled forward, obscuring her vision. Another hand patted her head three times, and Sybil slowly parted her hair and glanced up to see familiar blue eyes peering back down at her,

"Jeez, finally, you've been mumbling all morning. Get up, Dearie." her sister whine, pushing her head forward a bit as she rose up and stretched. Sybil brushed her hair back and yawned, glancing about the tight attic room. The single window was bright and glowing, allowing the morning sun to cast small shadows across the wooden room. Across from her own bed was her sister's, which has yet to be made and still looked as though it was being laid in. The room felt somewhat humid, and the cool breeze from before was suddenly replaced by the feeling of sweat forming under her nightgown. Truth leaned towards her again, brushing a strand of hair out of Sybil's face before grinning,

"Start getting ready, 's Sunday." a moment of brief confusion claimed her mind, and she stared down at her covered knees for a moment, thinking about the significance of Sunday until the idea of church finally broke through.

"... Right." Sybil finally sighed, kicking off the quilt wrapped around her lower body and standing, heading to her dresser to prepare for the long morning ahead.

---

Church was over and done with eventually, and the Barwicke family slowly exited the large building with the rest of the townsfolk, standing silent as everyone sighed against the heat and fanned themselves with tight hands and the occasional note. Sybil stared ahead, mouth a gap as sweat dripped from her her brow and formed underneath the layers of her outfit. Beside her, Truth let out a loud whine and threw her head back, staring up at the brilliant sky with sun-strained eyes, the blue shawl around her shoulders fluttering,

"Hot, hot, hot! It's hot, right, Syb?" she cried, shaking her sister's shoulder roughly. Sybil smiled slightly and nodded, fanning her sister with an outstretched hand. Mrs. Barwicke turned suddenly, giving the older sister a hard slap on the back of the head,

"Don't make a scene. Your father and I are heading back home to start work." she told the two, standing tall despite the obvious sweat that gleamed on her forehead, "I expect you home within two hours." and then she was gone, pushing through the crowd quickly with her much taller husband in tow. Sybil turned to glance up at her sister, who stared at the back of their parents with narrowed eyes. Just as she opened her mouth to say something, though, the familiar sound of drunken speech cut her off short, and the two turned to find Young Tom Young, throwing bottles at Millicent Grant's house, shouting out accusations of the old woman being a witch. Truth, obviously interested by the scene, moved forward slightly in the crowd, blue eyes wide with excitement. Meanwhile, Sybil stood painfully still, feeling a strange and painful sort of deja vu at the sight of Ms. Grant's house.

Finally, Truth let out her low, girlish laugh, pulling her shawl hood over her tightly tied hair as she turned to a girl on her left, muttering a quick, "Ya hear that? Millicent is working for Satan! Think it's true?"

Sybil broke out of her trance and opened her mouth to protest against her sister's rudeness, but was quickly over powered by the crowd's murmurs of concern and curiosity. Some simply thought it was just Young Tom's drunken behavior, and others earnestly believed the mysterious old widow was guilty of witchcraft. Henrik, who was standing nearby while waiting for his brother spoke with a loud, stern voice overshadowing the other villagers’ murmurs,

"It matters not. The council shall investigate it and it is up to the magistrate to decide her fate." Sybil turned her wide eyes to the man, but remained silent as Ursula, the fiery Livingstone girl, let out an incredulous scoff at the glacial Magnusson heir.

“Let those pompous wretches handle this? Why, so we can condemn another woman to death?” The redhead hissed. Henrik snickered as he heard the young Livingstone from the crowd -

"These 'pompous wretches' are the ones who run this city. You should spend less time sleeping and more time coming to the city assemblies.”

"You're a filthy piece of work, Henrik! You're prepared to hand a possibly guiltless woman over to arrogant dolts who don't even care!" Ursula argued. Henrik could feel the blood rushing to his head. He glared at Ursula, but before he could rebuke, Ezra was already on his way out from the church and was gazing at him intently, as if telling him to calm himself down.

“I doubt the council will listen to the words of the town drunk,” he scoffed. “Yes, and that poor woman has already been through enough. She’s lost her husband and has no one to help her,” Ezra’s voice was rather soothing compared to the rest of the crowd. Sybil felt herself nod, only slightly, and Truth scoffed at the argument, turning to converse with a small group of girls as the others continued.

He glanced at Ursula and flashed a smile,

"Arguing with Henrik again? You should know by now he's a stubborn old moose," he quipped. Ursula returned the grin, her lips curling at Ezra’s presence when she remembered the situation and it slipped off.

“He’s a vile toad; someone should put him in his place.”

“Why you ignorant little-,” Henrik almost shouted, but Ezra grasped his shoulder and pulled him away, “Henrik, we’ve much more important things to deal with. Your father is expecting a report for this month.” Henrik eased his tense shoulders and started to walk away with Ezra by his side. Ezra turned and waved at the crowd, “Oh, Ursula. Be careful not to trip and hurt yourself when looking for herbs today,” he winked as he signaled to her their secret code. Henrik glanced at his cousin and shook his head as he grimaced. “My dear cousin,” he said in a low voice, “do be careful when choosing the women you associate yourself with. You are, by blood, a Magnusson after all.”

“I will the moment you stop being so picky about your choice of women,” Ezra retorted as he smirked.

“In any case, I think it’s worth investigating Miss Grant’s house,” he continued in a more serious tone, “Tom Young is known for being quite bothersome, but he has never accused anyone of witchcraft.”

“You shouldn’t concern yourself with such things,” Henrik cautioned, “else you might end up being accused yourself.”

“We wouldn’t want that on our hands, now would we,” Ezra sarcastically replied. Henrik already knew that Ezra would not heed his warning, but he spoke nothing more of it. Sybil watched the two men off with curious eyes, but once out of sight she returned to glance around for her sister, who had vanished into the gossip as she normally did. Meanwhile, the Pastor and Efferea were approaching Tom Young, obviously trying to calm the drunk down.

'Oh dear.' her mind sighed, 'looks like something troubling is about to happen.'

[Apokalipse]

Ursula watched Ezra walking away, her heart palpitating and she wiped her perspiring hands onto her cotton skirt nervously. She approached her friend, Sybil, and said, “Syb, why don’t we collect some herbs for my pa? I haven’t talked to you in awhile.”

Sybil turned, slightly, and smiled at the idea of going to collected herbs was announced and she thought about it for a moment, leaning back and forth. Going into the woods would mean getting out of the heat, and it was true that they haven’t talked for awhile. Mother was expecting her home in under two hours though…Ah, well. Finally, Sybil turned and nodded, “Yes, that would be fun. Let’s go.”

Whilst ranting, Ursula had taken to the dirt path that was littered with tiny rocks and crawling bugs. The duo left the widow and her house behind them as well as the displeasure that Henrik’s presence brought Ursula, though irritation and fury still remained. There was something about the cold man that made Ursula’s skin itch and she would prefer it if he stayed as far from her as he could.

The walk through town was short and sweet, seeing as the church was already so close to the woods and Sybil walked just a few paces behind Ursula, eyes staring down at her feet. It was silent, until Ursula finally seemed to erupt, complaining about Henrik.

Ursula began to walk leisurely towards her favorite collecting spot, her face still flushed from the dispute between her and Henrik. “Ugh, that annoying maggot! He’s so pretentious, don’t you agree, Sybil?”

Sybil smiled, just a bit, then shook her head, “I’m sure he’s a good person deep down, Ursula, he’s just a bit…” she paused, thinking for a good word to describe the cold man, “obedient.”

“Right,” Ursula chuckled, “obedient, heartless, and a waste of space. If anything, he’s the witch! You’re words are too kind for such a despicable man.”

“Ursula!” Sybil gasped, silvery eyes widening at her friend’s sudden accusation, “yes, he may be cold but he’s a person as well. Accusing him of witchcraft is wrong and you know it.” She felt her voice rise a bit, feeling much warmer than before. Around, the town’s gray and brown colors faded away into thick greenery, and the earth below became softer. The air was much cooler as well, and Sybil took a deep breath of the forest wind, trying to calm her nerves just a bit.

They finally arrived in the tiny spot in which the abundance of Warren’s herbs grew. It was a small area with tall, yellow grasses and shading trees that gave relief from the sun. The herb spot was dotted with plants such as rosemary and sage which could be used later medicine at the apothecary that Ursula’s father manages.

Ursula bit her lip, slightly ashamed. “Yes, I know. I didn’t mean it, but how is my accusation crueler than his willingness to throw Millicent to the magistrate?” The freshness of her anger began to dissipate as it fell into discomfort and she began to pick up herbs, placing them in her lap. “I mean…how could Millicent be a witch? She’s just a kind old woman who has been through too much. Do you think she is a witch?”

Sybil sighed and kneeled beside her friend, shifting through the grass with a knowledgeable hand. She remained silent for a while, listening to Ursula rant with open ears until her mind began to drift about Millicent as well. That poor widow, she was indeed secretive, but Sybil’s mother had often said not to judge a book by its cover. There was something, though, about the Grant house that had made her feel somewhat uncomfortable, she just couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Eventually, Sybil was pulled from her thoughts and turned to stare at Ursula, who had asked what she thought about the accusation, and she lowered her head and whispered, “I…I don’t know really. I want to say no but…” Sybil felt her fist tightened around a clump of sage, “I just got a strange feeling when I saw her house before. It’s got to be nothing, though.”

Ursula shifted uncomfortably, thoughts of the aged Millicent circling around her head. The woman had never done anything wrong, so why were so many people willing to even entertain the thought of her being a witch? The towns have fallen into chaos with these foolish witch hunts! Have all the women this town convicted really witches? Were there even such things as witches anymore? This wasn’t the first time Ursula had such thoughts, she doubted it would be the last. As it is, there is no solid proof of their existence and the trials would kill innocent women otherwise. The population was dwindling, birth rates falling; this town was enveloped in horror. “If that is what you think.” Ursula said instead of all the thoughts swirling around her head. What a beautiful, horrid day.

Sybil sighed, staring down at her dirt-covered lap with tired eyes. She thought back to the scene with Tom Young and then felt herself thinking about what Ezra had said. The black-haired boy was obviously interested in investigating the house, Sybil could see it in his eyes, and she turned to face Ursula, smiling just a bit. “Your friend, Ezra, looked as though he would be looking into the issue.” She said in her small voice, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Ursula smiled to herself, thinking of the diverse boy. “He’s a little too curious for his own good.” If it wasn’t true, then she had wings. Then, she noticed belatedly, that Sybil had acknowledged their friendship, something that was best kept small lest someone were to get an idea. “And we’re just acquaintances.” It was a pathetic lie that would be effortlessly seen through by her close friend.

Sybil turned and smiled at her friend, “I hope you realize I don’t believe that for a second.” Laughter bubbled from her chest and she turned her blue eyes upwards, “he’s cute, isn’t he?” She teased, a mischievous smirk dominating her normally politely emotionless face. Around them, the forest bustled with life, insects, animals, wind, and Sybil thought for a moment that they were in their own little world, chit-chatting merrily, where nothing bad could happen, but was then dragged back to reality when something sharp snagged her finger while digging through the grass patch and the flesh split, allowing blood to spill. A curse rose and fell as she quickly lifted her pointer finger up to her mouth and began sucking on the wound.

A compliment towards the man she was friendly with died on her lips upon seeing the red dribbling from flesh. “Are you okay? I think we have enough for now, we should head back before your parents grow angry.” Ursula ripped a piece of her sleeve off and gave it to Sybil to wrap around her bleeding finger.

Sybil accepted the sleeve with a bow of the head and quickly tended to her bloody finger before gathering up her apron and standing. The herbs in her lap slowly shifted and settled within the make-shift carrier of her apron, and Sybil made sure to dust off her backside before they began wandering back towards town. A comfortable silence settled between the two, and the coolness of the forest very quickly faded back into Warren’s blistering afternoon. Sybil stared ahead at the brown path, feeling somewhat dreamy without knowing exactly why, and when they reached the center of town she turned to Ursula and smiled, holding out her apron so the other girl could take the herbs that would be no use to a farm girl like herself, “Today was fun. I’ll see ya ‘round. And,” she leaned in close and whispered, “good luck with Ezra.” Before turning to walking home, leaving a blushing Ursula behind.

[Crya]

"Away from me, woman!" Young Tom pushed Efferea away. "I'm tellin' you all, thish woman be a w... witch. I shaw her shpreadin' her legs for the devil, I did. I demand that her house be burned to the ground." Tom continued to throw bottles against the house. "I'm going in there!" He shouted loudly, so that the entire village could hear. "Who's with me? She's a witch and you all need to see it for yourselvesh!"

Within moments, the Pastor approached the scene. Pastor Van Dale had been one of the first settlers in Warren. He had first preached in the Netherlands, but quickly took up the cause of the British protestants, and then the Colonial Puritans. "Someone has to do something!" He announced. "Where is Old Tom Young? He needs to control his boy!"

One of the Pastor's friends shook his head. "I think he's out hunting, Pastor." Van Dale just shook his head and muttered under his breath. Van Dale was perhaps the oldest man in the village, but it did not stop him from taking an active role in the community. Often time he even helped the farmers, taking up a plow and doing the work himself in his spare time. Some of the townspeople affectionately called him the "Old Bull".

"Did he even go to church today? I didn't see him. I will pray for all the Youngs today," Van Dale sighed. "I do not believe for a second that Millicent could be a witch. Get him out of here."

Some of the gathered townspeople began to talk. "I hear strange sounds coming from her home at night," one whispered. "She was stricken with grief from the loss of her husband. Maybe Satan was her only comfort," and even "The Pastor is an old friend of Millicent. He is blind to her wrongdoings."

"Silence, everyone! I will not have the reputation of being soft on the doings of Satan. No one will say that Hieronymus Van Dale ever let witchcraft even threaten the town of Warren. I'll lead the charge myself you people want me to! God forgive me."

[cthulu]

Efferea.

As Young Tom pushed her away she stumbled over the hem of her skirt, catching under the heel of her shoe and tumbling towards the broken glass, shielding her head as she fell rump first onto the remains of broken bottles hurled by the drunkard she managed to prevent serious injury as another bottle shattered and rained down glass which pattered against her skirts and shirt. As he prattled off his hate she lowered her arms and brushed from her hair and bonnet shards of glittering white, brushing them also from her skirt, it didn't feel like she'd been cut, luckily and so she carefully put down one hand to pull herself back up to her feet. Brushing the remaining dirt and glass from her skirt she felt an odd twinge in the palm of her left hand, glancing to it she could see the red already beading under the surface and sighed lightly with a faint pout.

She had, on the whole, completely ignored the entire finger pointing ritual, a drunk man stirring up the suspicions of the towns folk. These accusations always disappointed her, whenever the word 'witch' was spoken aloud out came the peoples true ugliness, even if it were true they showed no shame or remorse, they became nothing more than beasts. The girls gossiping earlier reminded her of a native story Red bear told her, the boisterous, pompous boy flaring up his chest like he was a prize turkey looking for a hen to peck. Was this how god really wanted his people? Fighting among themselves, whispering behind each others backs, turning friend against friend and family against family, had everyone they'd had these 'witch trials' for even been witches? It was enough to bring tears to her eyes, such deep thinking was for men and those of the cloth not for girls like her and yet she seemed to be one of the few with a level head here.

It didn't matter Van Dale would bring the people back to their senses, fair and true he was in her eyes, he'd taken her in when her parents died before the question had fully left the elders lips on where she would go. He'd saved her hours of uncomfortable silences and worried glances, uncertain murmurs and quiet excuses, the people here were good people most of the time but tragedy and devilry bought out the worst in them. A smile appeared on her face, small and sweet as Van Dale announce that people ought to calm down and so she took to looking at her palm and spotted the small slither of glass sticking from it now caked in red as blood slipped between her fingers. As she gently gripped the slither though her heart froze as the people questioned his judgement, he was fair and just but that worked both ways and he would not allow his faith in god to be questioned.

Sure enough as she looked up he spoke of leading the charge himself and her face crumbled, her smile disappeared and she clearly fought back tears as something akin to disappointment filled her eyes. Efferea knew she should be scared of witches, perhaps even hate them, she should be gossiping with the women and standing behind Van Dale and ready to charge into the woman's home, drag her out and see the devil for herself. All she could feel though was pity for Millicent and incredible sadness, if she was a witch she had a horrible fate awaiting her and hell for her actions was the least of her worries, if she was innocent she would get to watch everyone who'd ever smiled at her or wished her a good morning turn against her, anyone who'd ever shown her compassion become the first to throw stones against her and even if she survived the trials long enough she'd see the people she'd watch grow up sneer and jest as she died. There would be no tears for her, no compassion, no face among the crowd to offer her strength and courage for what she was going to go through, just a sea of hate and snapping, barking dogs.

The first tear rolled down her cheek before she could stop it or swipe it away, these trials were ripping her home apart but she couldn't openly support Millicent now that even Van Dale was turning against her, she'd be the next target for trial if she tried to talk sense into her guardian. She could hear Ursula and Sybil muttering between themselves now, 'you know what they say about witches' they'd say, giggling inanely to each other as if they were so smart and so virtuous. God taught forgiveness and understanding not hate, hate was how Jesus died, hate was how every war had started, hate turned people black inside and made them sick, if Millicent was a witch she deserved to go to hell for sleeping with demons and finding succor in Satan but she still could only feel sadness and pity for the woman not hatred. Never hatred.

"Excuse me, I suddenly do not feel too well." She half muttered to herself, pulling the splinter of glass from her hand and dropping it to the ground, "I think I'll go pray." Her head lowered now so she could hide her tears that were not solely for Millicent but for their entire community, everyone in the town was a part of her family, especially since she'd lost her true parents and it broke her heart every time she had to witness this. Damn Satan and his witches to the seven hell's they belonged in, she was sure he was getting more entertainment out of their suffering than god was getting gratitude for their work in his name. Gathering her skirt in her undamaged hand to avoid tripping a second time she hurried away back up the path to the church trying to put this whole business out of her mind. She'd have to clean the wound first and wrap it and then maybe she'd go to her room and pray for Millicent's soul and the souls of the town while she was at it.

[cthulu]

Remember.

She had woken from a nightmare with a start, not as those books she ought not to read portrayed, there was no night sweats or sudden bolting upright, there wasn't even a scream. Her eyes just flickered open and within a few moments adjusted to the gloom, whereupon her mind reordered it's thoughts and recognized the chair, the table and her parents sleeping area. Such a bizarre dream but they usually were these days, her mother put it down to her not praying enough and sometimes her father put it down to her being too busy daydreaming. Either way it usually meant it was a busy day that followed so with a stretch and a sigh she put all images from her night time aside and washed them away as she washed up that morning. While occasionally her mind drifted to the memory of Millicient and the things that had followed she was quick to shake them off with a little prayer to god.

By the time Sunday service was over she had forgotten most of her dream and it was time to return to their home, it was a relief in some small ways, her head always seemed to hurt when she was stuck up close with everybody like she was at church. Sometimes she heard whispering too, which in itself was rude at church but they were things that no one ought to say out loud, let alone in a place of god. Though no one else seemed to mind them and so she remained on the whole quite quiet about the whole thing. She didn't speak to her parents about it anymore, it only upset them and while she had a few people she counted as friends, Sybil and Ursula among them perhaps even Henrik and his brother too, she couldn't speak to them about it either.

She was sweeping the wooden stairs that lead to their home when the first shatter of glass rang out through the town, reverberating and diminishing like a shadow broken up like glass. She turned briefly to spy her parents, settling down to lunch and conversation, they seemed not to have noticed a thing. "Please dear god, please please, not again." She whispered to herself, screwing her eyes up tight and clenching tightly to the brooms handle until she had thought she'd willed the sound away. When the sound stopped she had hoped it to be willed away by the grace of god and with a gentle sigh she continued to sweep the steps leading to the porch and the front of the house. As she was finishing the last few planks she heard giggling and quiet words involving witch craft and how someone, she couldn't make out the voice, thought Henrik to be a witch? Though as Remember glanced up she saw no one before her and only her parents silently eating behind her. 'Our Lord who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven...' Mother had said prayers would help and as she quietly recited the Lord's prayer over and again in her head she found she couldn't hear the voices anymore and was glad for it.

As Henrik came into view, coming from the direction of the church with Ezra behind she had an awful sense of foreboding in her stomach which made her feel quite unwell. She remembered the church bells ringing and people shouting, the priest was there at the head of it all and they were calling for... that was just her dream but even still she dropped her gaze and hurried inside the house, part closing the door as the boys went passed and closing it fully once their backs were too her. She had wanted to call out to them, to ask them what was happening but she was uncertain, Mother didn't want her speaking with boys, even nice ones as they seemed from a distance. Papa didn't want her or her mother around other people where it could be helped. Today would be a good day though, perhaps he wouldn't hit them at all if she just remained good and pious. She watched the two from the window a moment longer wondering if they'd even speak with her if she were allowed.

A loud 'bang' against the table signaled Papa's anger and she turned from the window to put the broom aside and shuffle to the tables side.
"You've upset him now Remember. You know Papa doesn't want you speaking to boys." Her mother uttered in a low cold voice, a hesitant flinch as she hovered her hand above her husbands.
"I am sorry Mama. Papa. I meant no disrespect, I just thought that Hen- I mean the Magnusson boy looked upset. I th-th-"
"You thought?" Her father uttered, his fist rising from the table and knocking away the mothers hand as he rose from the table. Her mother copied the motion but with a more worried look than the quiet anger in her fathers eyes.
"Go to your room and pray and do not move from there until I call you for supper, do you understand?"
"Yes Mama, Papa. Forgive me, I shall go pray."

Before her father could react she was off and up the stairs her skirts swishing as she took them quietly, her mother had done her a great favour but she was certain she would not be able to block out the sounds of the argument to come, they'd stopped having them so loudly but the house was as small as the village and it was impossible not to hear the raised voices or the sound of something being hit, or her mothers whimpering. While saved a beating of her own she still sat trembling upon her knees at her beds edge, hands clasped before her and her head bowed as she uttered her quiet prayers, all the while with tears rolling down her cheeks and flinching as the sounds drifted to her from below.

[cerozer0]

The walk home was long, as always, and Sybil used the time to steal glances at the townsfolk, taking note of their whispers and side glances at each other and their neighbors houses. Lately, everyone seemed to be on edge, and the accusations of witches always seemed to be on the tip of their tongues whenever something strange happened.

"Keep a clear head, and don' judge a book by 'ts cover." her mother constantly said when ever Truth brought up stories of witches and accusations. Sybil always enjoyed her mother's views on politics, as the woman was rather smart, now if only her personality was a bit sobered down... She gave a small sigh and stopped her wandering, fanning her beat-red face with outstretched fingers, returning her thoughts to witches. The whole idea of killing someone over the fact of them being different was a rather sickening thing, but what if there were witches lurking about? Would they be dangerous? Would they want to hurt others? A shudder passed through her spine and then faded as images of fire and gore passed through her sight, and after a moment of standing stunned she continued on.

'It's no good to scare yourself, Sybil. Let's think of other things... Like... Pranks for Henrik!'

Ursula's rant about the obedient man left Sybil with enough inspiration to start planning. There were plenty of ways to go about with pranks, letters falsely signed to appear as business or love notes, buckets filled with mud or water, tied to a door so as one walks through they get a face full of liquid, frightening mask placed just outside a bedroom window, awaiting to be seen by sleepy eyes. So many lovely options. Sybil felt a smirk push against her lips but she withheld it, and instead stared ahead blankly, appearing as she did everyday when she passed through the town towards her family's farm.

No need to break routine, it might frighten others.

Eventually, the heat began to become troublesome, and as she continued on Sybil found that she was having trouble seeing straight. The road in front was turning, becoming two, reforming, and at times vanishing all together. Everything else seemed to be white until she focused in on it. Sweat dripped from under her head wear, soaking her smoldering blue eyes with droplets of warm water and forming pools on her eyelashes and lips. She began to concentrate on the ground below, trying hard to keep her breath regular and foot steps straight. Her head pounded, and heated fingers rubbed at irritated temples. A familiar shriek of laughter broke her concentration, and Sybil turned slowly, focusing in on a group of women, one being her sister, Truth. They were whispering and giggling loudly, perhaps about the incident with Millicent as everyone else was. Her sister lifted her head back after every word, laughing, and her neck and face gleamed with the glimmer of heat. She swayed in the windless air, the mirage of the heat making it appear as though the blue cloak wrapped around her shoulders was wavering violently.

The color blue claimed her vision suddenly, and everything became silent, only filled with a loud ringing. Fabric stretched across her arms, soft as wool, and wrapped around her shoulder. The color blue slowly began to narrow down until it was only a piece of cloth enveloping her body. It was a...

Blue cloak?

Flames danced in her vision, all around, burning her, killing her, the shawl was burning, faster, faster. Stop. Stop that. Don't let it burn. Don't burn. Stop. Her hands were skeletal, burned to the marrow, blackened like ash, and her dress was tattered and burning. Whispers filled her ears like water, bubbling louder and louder as the flames enveloped her and the cloak. Her eyes were wide, burning silver, as she reached for the shawl that had been ripped from her grasp, but only ended up catching embers. Breathlessly, Sybil shrieked, falling back into nothingness, and then found herself staring up at the clear, Warren sky, black dots buzzing about busily in her vision.

'Why am I on the ground?'

"Syb? Syb! Sybil!"

There was the faintest voice, calling her name, but O God was she tired. Sybil tried to call back that she was fine but her throat felt closed, and instead she began to silently recite the Lord's prayer. Her sister's face eventually came into view and she was sat up with gentle arms, finding that a small group of villagers had surrounded her. One came with a freshly wet cloth, and they dabbed at Sybil's red face and neck, whispering excitedly to Truth who only nodded in return, her face tight with worry.

"I'm gonna take you home, 'kay, Syb? We'll sit in the basement where it's cool and you can tell me stories, okay?"

"... Okay." surprisingly, her voice was back and barely strained. Truth and the man with the cloth helped her stand, and again, surprisingly, she could balance with only a little support from her sister, and then they were walking, silently and together, through the endless heat of the summer, through the excited circle of neighbors, and back towards their home.

---

Barwicke Farms was just barely in Warren, as the best land was off the village's border. Fields of gold and green bloomed behind the small cottage, surrounded by a crude wooden fence. A deep well sat just within the fence's perimeter, the bucket dark and dripping as if it had been used just a few seconds before. Mrs. Barwicke sat on the porch, staring down at the two girls with wide, worried eyes. Sybil could barely register the whispers that passed between the two women, and then she was suddenly being dragged quickly into the house and down into the cellar. Cool air suddenly chilled her burning skin and the smell of wet rock and mold over powered everything that she had been thinking before. Truth slowly knelt down, pulling Sybil down beside her, and then began removing Sybil's outer clothing until she was left in her plain, white shift. Already, the burning head ache and aching limbs were beginning to subside, and she let out a soft sigh of relief as her body sat upon the cool stone floor. Another wet cloth was wrapped around her forehead, and drops of water burned her sun-strained eyes and filled her dry lips.

"Relax for now, Sybil-hunny, you be just fine dearie." her mother's voice echoed throughout the room and Sybil opened her mouth to say thank you but the stout woman was already climbing back up the steep staircase to the main house. Silence once again filled the air, and Sybil relaxed against her sister's shoulder as Truth tugged at her hair gently,

"Any stories?" Truth asked quietly, to which Sybil could only shake her head, then lower back into her silent thinking. Maybe... Truth would be interested in her prank planning. The two often planned together, and this would be a nice bonding exercise for the two...

"No stories," Sybil started, "but I have an idea for a prank."

"Oh? For who?"

"Henrik."

"Bastard probably deserves it." Silence once again, and then Truth moved up, causing Sybil to falter and nearly face plant into the floor. She glanced at her sister and noticed very quickly that she had an idea. The brown-haired woman stood fully and quickly ran upstairs, her boots banging loudly against the old stairs, and she returned within moments with a paper and ink well.

"Write down what ya need, I'll collect everything and then we can prank the Hell-" a dainty hand went up to cover her mouth after uttering the 'H' word, a mischievous smirk planted on her lips, before continuing, "outta that Magnusson kid!" Sybil couldn't help but smirk back, and with sudden inspiration she began listing out items, the memories of the vision and heat spell quickly exiting her excited mind.