Run your brain, run your mouth, run your body to the ground. Run, run, run so you do not think. While the pain comes out your fingertips.
Here rings the next bell and another step forwards towards the great beast. The bells sound, roaring a great destruction. Gothoc spires decay in the moonlight all while the Witch bleeds. Her eyes wide on the beast.
One, two, three. Tickets dispensed, potions made. Slap your hands clean, dip them in hot cauldrons, burn away the remains with poisons. Repeat. Throw in a few clients. Smile and appease, repeat.
They prep for the excursion buying flasks of water, strapping a pint to their sides, weighing out their costumes. I put on my pointed hat, leathers. My outfit draws my mirror's smile. I promise myself to finally get a bowl of the ever delicious smelling mushroom soup.
Though the witch loves to conjure potions, she attempts making charms, spinning stories, and teaching others. Masters before her watch in earnest of her growth. Some smile, others scowl.
The shrill sound fills the air, followed by squealing of tires. I tune my phone, listening in to the numbers, waiting to hear any news. And I think, what it would be like.
They speak plainly but with a certain authority underlying their words. They watch your eyes and every response. Whatever you say may affect your chances; the rewards for risk are great. "Great. When do we start?"
The cylinders sit brewing their concoctions and potions. The witch waits nearby, taking in the sounds of a bustling city tavern. Music, lights, merriment. Different, but beautiful.
It was time to leave, into a different world. But she knew the huntsman's cabin would remain. She raises her hands, casting a blessing on the surrounding forest. The trees grow tall and green. Bushes glisten with wild berries.
The woodsman brings the witch into his world, showing her skills, survival, and ways forgotten. He watches on quietly as she attempts to construct one of the walls to the cabin, instructing only when needed. His heart swells and nods.