Crack goes the axe bit into wood, felling another dead giant. The Witch sits crosslegged upon a stump, braiding her hair, and watching the Woodsman. The Witch picks up her axe and makes her way to the Woodsman, a gentle smile on her face. He greets her with a big embrace.
She traced her finger along the tome, trying to make out the words. Ink blots and chicken scratch concealed their knowledge. Her past wont give up secrets so easily. She snaps the book closed with resounding boom through the halls, knowing someone who would.
Pounding the stakes into the earth, you lay your foundations. Chopping wood, you blister your hands if only to give you shelter from the cold. And you can feel it; the storm is coming.
Little messes become inevitable when you become close to people. They change how you are and help you grow. The big messes become tumultuous, crashing worlds down potentially burning those around. Those times, many seek shelter, others run.
The snow comes down and down with no end in sight. Cars have trouble starting and staying on path, but here we see something we don't normally. People in other cars leaving the safety and warmth to help those who cannot get free. Warmth of others isn't necessarily out of reach.
Behind the high countertop, the witch peers over to see if anyone stares back at her. No one. She continues making different potions, all doing the same thing but carrying different flavors. Satisfied, she sells the popular wares and dusts off the particulates sticking to her apron.
A bowl of soup later, the witch feels satisfied but still cannot shake the incessant cough. She visits the bees but they keep their distance, telling her to go home.
The Witch's familiars help in ways unseen by others, providing support, offering helping paws, or just being cuddly. Sometimes they block progress contorting their bodies across the keys hindering the magics inside.
The warrior drew her sword and raised her shield, readying for battle. Puzzled, the witch cocked her head, lowering her hand offered in help.
The switches flick on sending pulses of light and the start of whirring machines. Printing and printing it goes, the detective smirks, calling it in.