Calm Before The Storm

Herons Aren't Lightweights

The Herons base was rowdy at night.

They all gathered together, tankards of beer in hand, drinking like there was no tomorrow. There may as well not have been to them.

Cleo continued brewing up drinks, adding input to the conversations going on around her.

Scott was up on the stage with Christian, asking questions in a hushed tone, yet somehow she could still hear the slur in his voice.

Eloise sat with Water, both singing somewhat poorly to bar songs and the made-up anthem of the Herons. Olive sat beside them, joining in every now and then but mostly just working on tuning their instrument.

Owen sat at one of the tables, head in his hands. He let out a low groan, eyes fluttering shut.

"Guys? I think someone needs to take Owen to bed." Cleo called out.

"Really? Already?" Olive asked. "We've only had...had..." Olive's eyes began to droop. They downed another drink. "We've only had, like, five drinks."

Water shrugged. "I can take him. Be back soon!" Water stood up, staggering a little, then approached Owen. "C'mon, let's go. You've had enough for tonight."

Owen only groaned weakly in protest.

Once Water had carried Owen out of the tavern, Cleo glanced over at Scott. He was still talking to Christian, and was gesticulating madly.

Olive and Eloise seemed distracted enough. They wouldn't mind if the next round of drinks didn't come for a bit.

Cleo carefully walked up to Scott, then paused a little behind him.

"What do I do? I- is there anything I can...do for him? I mean, we've just started talk...talking to each other again!"

Christian merely shrugged in response. "I am not sure. For now, give him some space and a little time. Eventually things between you will get easier."

Scott's ears flushed. "I don't have time to wait that long! What if one of us goes out on an expedition and never comes back? I may never get to see him again in time, and I don't want thing to be tense between us if and when that happens!" His voice rose in pitch and volume.

For a brief second, Eloise and Olive glanced his way. Then the two of them slowly turned back to each other and their drinks.

Cleo set her hand on Scott's shoulder. He spun around and grasped at the handle of his rapier, then let go when he saw it was her. "I think you should sit down now Scott. Give Christian a break."

He nodded meekly. "Yeah. Yeah, sure." Scott allowed Cleo to lead him to a seat at a table, then push him into it.

"Is it about Acho?"

Scott hesitated, then nodded. "I just...I just don't know what to do."

"Think about it in the morning. You're not thinking clearly right now. When you're sober, think about it then. For now, you can either keep drinking and drown your sorrows in alcohol, or you can take a rest like Owen. No shame in either option."

"Alcohol. Strong alcohol." He didn't stutter, and his voice was almost completely free of a slurred tone. Almost as if he hadn't had more drinks than most of the other Herons already.

"Sure?"

"Yes. I want you to give me so much alcohol that I can barely move around tomorrow. No, for the rest of the week."

Cleo sighed. It wasn't a good idea, but they were pirates.

Since when was anything they did a 'good idea'?

Olive let out a startled yelp, then a joyful squeal. "Cruppy! Hello!" Cruppy jumped at Olive's heels, rubbing against them and jumping like a puppy would. Olive bent down and stroked Cruppy, to which the crab-puppy-thing eagerly jumped into their lap for stroking convenience.

Smiling at the sight, Eloise was suddenly motivated to sing even louder and more joyfully than before. Olive joined in with equal vigour and Cruppy nestled in their lap peacefully.

Cleo shook her head with a warm grin, then grabbed the next round of drinks.

"To us!" She declared, holding her tankard tight and pushing it high into the air.

"To us!" The others parroted, with varying levels of volume and enthusiasm. Regardless, the sound could be heard well beyond the Herons' base and echoed through the town.

Water returned, arms free of Owen, and shouted, "To us!" at the top of her lungs. A delayed reaction, but a welcome one.

For the rest of the night, they all chanted the same thing over and over, falling asleep in the tavern.

They all regretted it in the morning.

But Herons weren't lightweights, and for some strange reason, they all wished to prove it.

Deathly Suspicions

Bertha couldn't quite place something about Scott. Something seemed...different, about him. They watched him take out a demon with complete ease, unlike Pris or Tiff. Scott also mentioned that he'd fought several demons before.

Which made sense, really. But the 'demon thing' wasn't what had puzzled Bertha.

No. It was something else.

They'd taken note of all the subtle differences of the Necromantic Witch. The first thing was how sickly Scott appeared. His skin was incredibly pale with an almost green tint in some places, cold and lifeless flesh clinging to his bones. If Scott was put next to a corpse dressed like him, Bertha knew they'd struggle telling the two of them apart. Scott looked as if he were an inch from death; like an old man waiting for death to knock on his door and take him away.

The second thing was the exposed rib. Scott's clothes had torn ever so slightly, but enough to reveal one of Scott's ribs. That was concerning. The skin surrounding that rib was so pale that Bertha could see every small detail of that rib. No one was meant to have skin that thin unless they were a heavily-decomposed zombie or a skeleton with a thin layer of skin clinging to it like a lifeline.

The last thing, not quite visible, was just Scott in general. He just seemed off. Sinister and malevolent even when they were talking calmly with each other. It was an unrelenting aura of malice that descended upon all in his general vicinity.

So Bertha decided to do some friendly snooping. Because, if they wanted to bring back their sister to undo the curse, they had to ensure that none of the witches were catching on. Or getting to a point where they'd be too powerful for Bertha to take down, even once they got the curse lifted.

Scott ran around the summoning circle outside his house, drawing lines of chalk on the ground. Bertha hid in a nearby tree, careful not to touch any of the leaves. The leaves that, somehow, were still attached to the trees despite being almost certainly dead.

"Come on, come on..." Scott muttered. Bertha noticed the salt on the ground, and how Scott was avoiding it like the plague. Leaning forward, they held their breath. What would happen if they dropped salt onto Scott?

"Careful...careful..." They whispered to themself, rummaging through their pockets. Once they found the salt, Bertha slowly began to tip it down. The salt landed on Scott's shoulder with a sizzle.

"Crap!" Scott cursed, clutching his shoulder. Letting out a cry of agony, the Necromantic Witch sunk to their knees. Demonic growls and whimpers escaped Scott's mouth. Thick and sticky black blood stained the necromancer's hand. The skin around his shoulder bubbled, the flesh blackened and sickeningly inhuman. "Damnit, damnit, damnit!" The demonic voice cried out. Scott tried to stand and failed. His head whipped around, glowing green eyes looking for the source of the salt.

Bertha swiftly retreated away. Hopping from tree to tree, they mentally stored the information they'd gathered in their brain for later.

Now they knew what was up with Scott. At least, now they had their suspicions.

Scott was a Lich.

And now Bertha knew, maybe there was a chance that they could gain some leverage here...

The Florist and The Curse

"Do you really want me to hit you again?" Jimmy asked, standing on the terracotta mound, as the grass bled into the mesa. His arm was on his hip, chin jutting out proudly, with his other hand resting at his his side holding the hilt of his sword.

"I mean, you only did, like, a heart and a half of damage," Scott said with a shrug. He wasn't scared of Jimmy, no matter what the Red Life tried. He knew Jimmy for what he had been and who he is now; a kind, loyal and energetic man with room in his heart for everyone yet no one at all. "After all that-"

"Do you really want me to hit you again?" Jimmy repeated, more sternly this time. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

"-effort." Scott finished.

"You really want me to try again?" His voice grew deeper, slightly confused but remained firm and threatening.

"I mean, is your task to just hurt me? I'm so confused." Scott blurted out. "Also by shouting a weird catchphrase of 'the florist is gonna get me."'

"Yeah?" Grinning, Jimmy edged a little closer. There was a hazardous tone to his voice that set Scott's nerves on edge. He couldn't help it.

"You have thirty seconds."

The memory of the previous game left a bitter taste in his mouth. Obviously Martyn deserved the win. That was never in doubt. But being stabbed in the chest, then burned alive by his closest ally was not on Scott's bucket-list.

Nor was having Jimmy betray him like that. But, ah well.

He moved on.

Scott hadn't, cursed with too many memories and burdened with pain, blood and remembrance.

"Okay." Scott said. He gently tapped his heels against the horse's sides, urging it a little back. "I- is that your name, The Florist?"

"N- no? Dunno what you're talking about." Jimmy tilted his head like a puppy, his hair falling over his eyes. The usual honey brown was rimmed with bloody red.

"Oh, 'kay, okay." His horse moved further back, at his own insistence.

"Watch your back, Scott, alright? Watch your back." Jimmy warned.

Scott didn't stick around much longer after that.

---

He watched Lizzie fail to kill him. He knew it from the moment she tried to have him step up to the ledge; it was obvious from how her voice was pitched, the tone, the way her hands seemed to twitch urgently at her sides.

Scott hadn't thought she would fall. Maybe trip a little, get hit by an Enderman.

But not fall.

He heard the crackling of the lightning bolt and looked away as it struck at the empty Void, the space where Lizzie had fallen. In her memory and honour, Scott listened to the rolling boom of the thunder that followed.

Jimmy's curse was gone.

The Canary Curse was broken.

He felt something bubble in his throat, a hoarse laugh of joy and pain mixed together in a horridly lovely cocktail. He thought of how Jimmy would react to it. He thought of the shocked widening of his eyes and how his mouth would fall a little. He imagined the shocked huff of breath, pursued by hysteric giggles as he ran forth and proudly declared the curse gone.

Scott was happy for him, truly.

...He still had questions about the whole 'florist' thing, but at least Jimmy had lost his curse.

It was an odd feeling, when it happened. Scott looked fondly upon the last game because of the tether that had snapped when he'd died; the knowledge that the curse was broken, that he'd no longer have to live until all his allies and friends were gone, that the weight had finally been lifted, had relieved him.

He had laughed and smiled and actually felt happy for the first time in years.

Two curses down. Now to break the rest of them.

Woes Of A Thieving Parent

The child just wouldn't sleep.

Scott had awoken from his slumber for the umpteenth time that night to the sound of a wailing goblin baby. He threw the covers back and his feet slipped onto the cold floor of his manor. Shuffling forwards, he reached for his trusty jacket hung up nearby and his signature fedora. Now he was dressed (well enough), Scott left the confines of his room.

He had given the kid its own room. The point of this was to have it be somewhere else so he wouldn't have to hear it screaming constantly. But that plan had flopped almost immediately. Now pretty much the entirety of Chromia could hear the small goblin child cry out in the midst of the night.

Scott was not parenting material.

Why couldn't fWhip deal with his own population burst? Scott found himself cursing Goblands under his breath as he gently nudged open the door to the child's room.

The goblin child had its arms and legs waving in the air, kicking and reaching out for hands that would never hold them. Its ears were tilted downwards as opposed to the usual upward point of most goblin ears.

He drowsily approached the child's crib and picked up the baby. How was he meant to hold a baby again? Scott had been to many places in the past and stayed with many people. At least one time he had lived temporarily with newly-made parents and a young baby. He barely recalled the way that both parents had cradled their baby and rocked it back and forth.

Maybe he could try that?

Scott gingerly shifted the baby's position in his arms to something reminiscent of what he had seen during his days of travelling. The baby's wails were still ear-splittingly loud, but slightly more bearable. He rocked the baby back and forth gently. What else had those parents done when he lived with them? Sing it a lullaby?

Oh. Oh they did do that.

Scott's dignity was going to die tonight, wasn't it?

Hesitant, Scott began to mumble a lullaby under his breath. It was one he somewhat remembered. One from his childhood. He couldn't recall who exactly it had been to sing it to him, but the voice sang alongside his own as he repeated it to this child.

At least the child's screaming was quieter. Now instead of screaming and crying at the top of their lungs, the goblin child babbled faintly. They made grabby hands and poked Scott's cheeks as he sang. Resisting the urge to pull away, he kept singing.

It took him a moment to realise the child had stopped screaming.

The child had nuzzled their head into Scott's chest and was babbling jovially. Eventually the young goblin's head dipped down further as slumber finally overtook them.

He did it. Scott got the child to sleep.

With a silent cheer, Scott placed the goblin child back in its crib. The child's breath hitched from the sudden loss of warmth. Its tiny green body shivered.

Scott sighed in defeat as he took off his jacket and wrapped it around the goblin child. Was the term swaddled?

If he had ever thought of handing the goblin child off to his people, he certainly wouldn't be able to go through with it. The child's hands gripped his jacket tightly and its ears were finally tilted up in the usual sign of contentment. Even more, the goblin child almost seemed similar to Scott, despite the difference in species. The goblin baby's eyes had taken on a mild teal hue, with one eye ever so slightly yellow around its pupils.

Damn it. This was his kid now, wasn't it?

Scott never thought he could be a parent. The option was never really available. Not when he was constantly on the move. Constantly running, whether it be from the consequences of his actions or even the law. Back then, he only ever wanted to travel and 'collect' things from everywhere.

Love never crossed his mind. Mainly because he knew he'd screw up. Betray them, cheat on them, steal from or scam them, run out on them in the dead of night. Or he would abandon them at the smallest hint of misfortune. There had been many instances from the past when Scott had left behind a multitude of lovers because of his desire for adventure and his cowardice.

Children were new to him. The prospect of now having a child to raise, on his own no less, was alien to him. He had always turned away at the prospect of kids. The best he could do was tell tales of his adventures to the children of whichever village or town he resided in.

The child's eyes fluttered open for a milisecond, and they smiled at him with a naivety and joyful innocence only a kid could have.

Scott hesitated. Then before he could second-guess himself, he pressed a small kiss to the goblin child's forehead.

He wanted to leave the room. To go back to bed.

But just in case the child woke up again, Scott wanted to be nearby.

So he slept on the floor. For the sake of his child. Not because he wanted to ensure it was safe throughout the night.

Scott got comfy on the cold floor and removed his fedora, clutching it tight against his chest.

He would figure out the whole parenting thing eventually.

He still hadn't given the child a name, had he?

Running Again

Scott hated this. He hated having to run. It was tedious after a short while. He couldn't go to anyone; not when everyone was a Red, prepared to kill him in order to gain more time and extend their own lifespan.

Only Martyn could be trusted. No one else.

He braced himself, hearing Joel's shouts from the distance behind him. Scott had time. Well, not really, but there was still an inkling of spare seconds he could use to think. It would be getting harder and harder to avoid those on Red. Yellows like him were pretty much non-existent. So he was alone whilst Martyn was gone. Martyn couldn't help him right now.

Clenching his fists, Scott sighed to himself. His breath was cold, turning to wisps of condensation. It twirled as it flew up and away. Unlike Scott, the wind was free. He envied it with every fibre of his being. There'd been times when everyone had been peaceful. When everyone on the server had been Green or Yellow. Those times, however unsteady or fragile they were, were the only times that Scott was able to live without as much of a target on his back.

Now he was practically a walking advertisement for time. An easy target.

He was tired. And since he was tired, anyone could just swoop down and kill him. It didn't even have to be Joel. It could be Grian. Scar. Cleo. Etho. Impulse. Maybe even Martyn, if he was desperate and bloodthirsty enough. Scott wouldn't have the comfort of safety. Not while he was Yellow.

Secretly, he hoped no one could get the time. The thought was present at the back of his mind. It started off as a mere passing idea that wouldn't hold any value. But slowly that small idea began to build and build, growing taller and taller until it was almost a fully fledged out plan. It wouldn't be hard either. He just had to jump. Maybe poison himself with a pufferfish first. So many options. So many methods.

"Scott!" Joel yelled, running around aimlessly. But he was beginning to spot him. And if Joel spotted him, Scott was as good as dead.

It was now or never. Give Joel the hours, or nobody gets them.

He took a deep breath.

Why was he hesitating?

Scott's hands gripped the pufferfish bucket tightly. He dumped it onto the ground, and waited until he felt the pufferfish poison him. Scooping it back up into the bucket, Scott stared down at the ground beneath him. If he did it right, then he could die.

That was what he needed. To die.

Joel had almost reached him. He'd found Scott and rushed forward with fiery desperation in his eyes. Scott could almost see the blood on Joel's hands. The bloodthirst. There was something sinister about him in the way that only Reds could be sinister. A hidden malice that none could obtain unless they had the urge to kill coursing through their veins.

With a glimpse up at the moon and a nod, Scott leapt off the edge.

Bertha Theory/Character Study (?)

So I saw the video Bertha had, and this came to my mind.

To start with, at the end of the video, Bertha mentioned something their sister did to them. Now I immediately thought that Bertha's sister sabotaged them and became the Supreme Witch. But then why does Bertha bother hosting a competition for the role of Supreme Witch when they had been told their whole lives that they were worthy of the role? So now, I present to you...

What if Bertha is cursed? Cursed to be everywhere and nowhere, and never be fully present in the world? They commune with the animals, can instantly see their lives, apparently sold their soul to Scott (which kinda confused me for a sec - can't tell if that was a joke or not) and they don't seem to talk much to the other witches outside of the Dungeons. Even Pris touched on that in the video! So what if Bertha is cursed to forever remain semi-present in the world?

I think of it as the Curse Of The Entity. Because Bertha did mention that they were an Entity. So what if this curse basically turns anyone into an Entity? The doors that alone could open is unbelievable: Scott could use it to bring someone back, Tiff could fulfill Mother Nature's orders with it, Joey could prove himself to the frost mages, and so much more!

So yeah. Bertha has a curse placed on them by their sister to forever be an Entity, never fully able to live their own life and enjoy themself.

How's that?

A Dead Canary In The Garden

Scott stared out of his window in a trance. The shimmering water of the lake was illuminated by the golden rays of light from the sun dipping below the horizon. Trees surrounded this lake in a protective circle in a desperate effort to hide the lake from Scott's clutches. That's what it felt like. But in all fairness, he wasn't exactly the best person to have around. Death and decay clung to him, shackles that he could never remove no matter how hard he tried. Maybe once he could have done it, but not anymore. Not since the one person Scott loved more than life had been taken from him.

Now he was resigned to watching the lake from a distance. He didn't trust himself to go near it. Maybe later. For now, it felt like attempting such a feat would end badly. Particularly with the lake evaporating or bubbling to the point where it would burn anyone who even tried to come near it. Almost like how Scott had tried to hide himself from the other witches. After all, wouldn't he always be the bad guy in their stories? The Necromantic Witch, who brought the undead with him wherever he went, who cursed those he deigned worthy of such burdens, who would actively seek out trouble by attacking his fellow witches or simply messing with them. Thinking back on it, he didn't even know if he was the good guy in his own story. How could he be?

Sighing to himself, Scott left the confines of his house. The walls sought to suffocate him, and that wasn't something Scott could deal with right now. But what if he let it happen? If he let the walls suck the air out of his lungs and finally allow Scott to die? Would he be happy? Would Scott finally see him again? He chuckled to himself. If the Necromantic Witch had died, he had no doubt in his mind that the others would find it amusing. The irony of it pulled another laugh out of his lungs.

Wandering slowly outside, he allowed his feet to carry him. He didn't have a particular destination in mind. As long as he was moving, he'd be fine. Movement meant he was alive. Or maybe he'd been reanimated by a different necromancer. Either way, it meant he was walking, which was good. Most of the time, death meant nothingness for eternity. Or so that's what all those books had taught him.

To his surprise, he found himself in a familiar part of the forest. One he hadn't been to since he received the letter stating he'd be partaking in a competition to become Supreme Witch. Since he had built the home they had dreamt of before-....

He shook his head.

Scott approached the back of the cabin. A small patch of grass lay behind it, distinctly out of place. It was a far brighter patch of grass than the decayed grass surrounding it. A single flower was left there along with a small headstone with lovingly carved words on its surface. Scott remembered carving it. The grief that had wracked his body almost made him mess up. Luckily, he'd managed to carve it correctly without any huge mistakes.

"Hello again Petal," Scott said quietly. He stared down at the flower on the ground. A poppy. Symbolising death and remembrance. "Do you like the flower? I'm sorry I couldn't get you more. Flowers don't seem to like me much anymore." He paused. No answer came from the grave. Only silence. "I love you. And I will get you back. I promise." He knelt down and picked up the poppy. He kissed each one of its many petals and carefully placed it back on the grave.

One way or another, he would bring him back.

Pris: We need to distract these guys

Scott: Leave it to me:

Scott, yelling: Centuars have six limbs and are therefore insects!

Joey, Eloise, and Shubble: Immediately start arguing

Lauren, watching from the side: Oh this. I don't like this. I don't like this at all

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What If Scott Was Trying To Resurrect His Child?

Instead of bringing back a dead lover, what if it was his child? Perhaps a kid he'd taken in with a past lover of his. A kid that loved storms and wanted to become a sky witch. Maybe Scott would've indulged in the child's ambitions. He would've bought spellbooks, a staff, runes, scrolls, everything. He would have watched the kid practise and maybe he'd offer pointers to help the child improve.

And then one day, a storm comes. Scott's child had summoned a storm successfully. And the two run outside. They're overjoyed and celebrating, jumping in puddles and dancing, not caring if they get muddy or wet. And then while they're celebrating, the kid tries another spell.

But this one goes horribly wrong. The kid tries to summon lightning. Instead of having the lightning bolt strike the ground in front of them, it hits the child and kills it.

After that, Scott works tirelessly to bring back this child.

And maybe Scott's a tad fond of Shelbie because she reminds him of his child. Maybe he's kind to Lauren because she didn't fit in and in his eyes she acted like his kid. Perhaps Eloise is a bit like his kid, too.

Who knows? But this is fun to think about.