#Old Mother Westwind

[jennyjourneys]

Arc 2 - Chapter 1: The Captain

Jenny’s quest to travel to the Moon to find the soul of Ginger’s niece crashes abruptly. Into the sea. That being said, the other castaway’s pretty interesting…

I lost my journal in the crash. This is the beginning of a new journal. So just to restate, my name is Jenny Everywhere and I'm an interdimensional adventuress. I got roped into an adventure with two witches that I don't know and haven't ever seen before. And on that adventure we crashed on a boat

Ginger decided to stay home after all. That was lucky for her, because we crashed the broomstick almost instantly. Now I'm journaling in the wreckage of the broomstick, still trying to extract Westwind from the debris. It seems that we have ended up in the Fall Sea. I can't tell if the crash was accidental or deliberate. I'm writing down my thoughts for now.

There's an empty, wrecked boat stuck on the same reef as us, and we crashed down on top of it. It looks like there are puddles all over the boat, as if it had rained very recently. The sky is murky, and it looks like it could rain at any moment. I don't know why, but my gut is telling me to get out of here. I don't know why, but it is. 

*********

I'm still floating, so I figure I have two hours until my icky old floaties decide they've had enough and flip me over. So we'll see how this goes. The flight to the Moon seems to be a blur.

*********

The ship's captain's a scary lady with sunglasses, a sleeveless sweater, and military boots. She reminds me of Mrs. Harper from elementary school, except the captain is a lot bigger. Her voice is raspy, like she smokes a lot, and she looks like she hasn't spoken to any human beings, or eaten anything but raw fish, in a very long time. She was the one who fished me out after I ran out of strength and had to swim back to the wrecked ship. She says her name is Agatha.

The captain is making me walk around the deck, helping me get over the numbness. It's a good thing I'm wearing clothes that can stand up to being soaked, because I’m really getting wet. 

I see the captain drop a scrap of paper overboard. I stare at the paper for a long time, then it hits me. I was on my way to the Moon. I have to go back! 

I stand up and walk to the edge of the ship. I think about my next steps. We are probably miles away from shore now, and I could try swimming, but if I don't do it now, I'll never get the strength to do it again. I could go forward into the sea, and maybe get to the moon, or I could look for a way to get back to shore. 

I don't know how I'm supposed to do any of this, but I have to try. 

Go to Arc 1 - Chapter 7 - Rocket Witchcraft

Go to Arc 2 - Chapter 2 - Space Children of the Cordial Sea

[blackestnight]

What would their lives be like if they had never met? & What’s their relationship with each other’s families? Do they share a friend group?

okay, i have been agonizing over that first one for way too long, and then i realized i needed to answer the question backwards. because for me the interesting thing is not: how would their lives be different if they didn't meet? it's: what changed in their lives to ensure they never met? and man, the world is a weird and wonderful place and every relationship we have is the result of a hundred thousand impulse decisions and freak accidents culminating in exact right place exact right time exact right person—

so there's a lot of puzzle pieces that can be just out of place.

consider: hanami comes to eorzea, angry and reckless and burning, seeking to soil her hands with garlean blood. she's always been intense, always let her love and her anger mix on her tongue; they come from the same place and she feels them for the same people. the spitting image of her mother, people say about her, and that's true in any life, but in this one maki took her away when she was six summers old, and she grew up straddling two homes, one foot on her family's farm and the other in the training grounds of shinobi-no-sato. the upright thieves of limsa lominsa defend a code that allows for sinking garlean ships: hanami falls in with them, and through them she meets thancred waters, former upright and scion of the seventh dawn. they could use a woman of her talents, he tells her, and she could use their information network. she follows stolen crystal caravans to their hideouts and cuts free prisoners before they're ever tempered; when the waking sands runs red with blood she creeps unseen through castrum after castrum until she finds the scions and spirits them away without a trace; rhitahtyn sas arvina is dead before he ever has a chance to fear for his life and the only sign of her passage is a ripple in the ocean beneath cape westwind. she's a hero in the loosest sense, because shadows cannot afford to be heroes; she cannot be the warrior of light because the warrior of light must be a face, a figurehead, and she cannot sacrifice her greatest weapon. arenvald lentinus, alone and desperate after the raid, follows alphinaud and cid into coerthas, recovers a legendary airship and flies into the heart of a hurricane; arenvald lentinus, in the gleaming plate mail that was a'aba and aulie's last gift to him, leads the charge into the praetorium, the echo-blessed eikon-slayer that garlemald has learned to fear. no one ever suspects that the warrior of light might have a shadow with a name of her own, which suits them both well. arenvald's burgeoning legend of solitary, gleaming hero means his foes will never think to watch their backs, and hanami's viper-quick blade means that he never has to worry about watching his.

or: aymeric de borel has heard the stories, the tall tales of eorzea's champion and her power to peer into the past, to reveal the secrets of men long dead. he corners the elusive iceheart in snowcloak, and when she says echo he knows to trust it, and the truths she tells him shake him to his core—and he wants to trust this magic as much as he wants to trust his cause, and so he begs an audience to confront the archbishop. lucia, who has learned never to trust men who claim to speak with truer voices than gods, is already preparing a prison break before the cell door comes down; estinien, who has already lost one family to fire, takes great pleasure in pinning charibert to the wall with a javelin on their way out of the vault. they stagger into the highlands, fleeing the city they swore their lives to only to have them traded away to pay another debt, and that's where iceheart finds them. come with me, she says, and we'll bring the truth to light, and right the wrongs of antiquity, and they do. by decree of the archbishop the temple knights fall into the care of ser zephirin after the lord commander's betrayal, as his erstwhile chain of command is riddled with heretical sympathizers and cannot be trusted; the scions' greatest admirers have left the holy see, and so while hanami and the survivors of the bloody banquet remain in camp dragonhead and plot the search for their missing friends, they never cross the steps of faith.

or: shomi hagane is a loyal daughter of her house, and will not forsake her duty; her children are privileged to receive an imperial education alongside the prince they're sword to protect, and in the safety of their home she teaches them rebellion. as her oldest daughter hanami is her heir, and hanami takes to her duties like she was born for them, because she was. she stands a silent warning at hien's elbow while he tours the yanxian countryside, yearning for a homeland that was lost before he was ever born, and she whispers her own faded memories of a free doma in his ear. would that i could have seen it myself, he says, and someday soon you could, she says. when kaien leads the samurai of monzen in an uprising hien is there; when zenos cuts down kaien and aims for hien's heart hanami is there. she dies for him like she was born for it, because she was.

or: aymeric greystone knows he is not his father's son, but being a bastard counts for less out here; when he asks his mother she tells him, with a sad smile, that his da was lost to a war before he was born, and she couldn't afford to live in the city without him. by the time he's old enough to work out that she's lying he knows well enough not to ask what she's lying about, exactly, because he knows it will hurt and it all worked out for the best anyway, because his stepfather treats him well and his half-sister is the most precious thing in his world, and they live a good life with their birds in the eastern highlands, and when he's buried under the avalanche of snow and rock from the lesser moon crashing down he's buried with people who love him, which is better than dying a nameless soldier in a drawn-out war like his father did.

or—

you get the point. i like what ifs. i think in the end their meeting was a consequence of the people they are, not the other way around, and missing that meeting would be no more momentous a change than anything else. which isn't to say it's meaningless: it's that every choice is momentous. and relationships are a product of choices.

[mrkinch]

Just One Word 03/25/2017: NON-HUMAN - The Thornton Burgess books were given to me by family in (right to left) 1949 and 1954 (two), and more revoltingly moralistic books I hope never to encounter, though I liked them as a child. Burgess was also typically, horribly racist, which I did not realize until I picked up a fourth book at a book sale, now discarded. Yikes. I am relieved that that was not one of the books I was given, although I am certain a rereading of the books I have would not be fun. Still, Old Mother Westwind and her Merry Little Breezes is a lovely image.

Much better to read excellent essays about the dwarfs, giants, trolls, elves, dragons, Weise Frauen, shape-shifters, and werewolves in Jacob Grimm’s Deutsche Mythologie. All the essays are fascinating and Prof Shippey’s own bits are as wonderful as he always is. While Prof Shippey specifically asked his contributors not to reference Tolkien, one or two couldn’t help themselves. Understandably.

I just wish I knew why the cover is pink.

[notarchelaosanymore-blog]

♔A Fucking Admiral♔

“Not only am I an Admiral and General...”

And she lost him. He felt his heart sink. Zaderick hadn’t mentioned that he had been working for an admiral, every time that Winters was spoken of, it was as a general. 

He didn’t say anything, of course. He was seeking employment, adventure, to be useful for something, as nobody in Stormwind could find a single use for a master torturer. The very fact of which baffled him. In experiences past, with the rise of noble houses came the rise of work within the shadows: Spies, assassins, enforcers and torturers were usually in high demand. Not now, apparently. 

He didn’t know much about Winters. She didn’t offer much about herself. That wasn’t all too relevant. In her mind, he was being paid, and that’s what mattered. In his mind, he was keeping a protective eye on his son while making himself useful, and that’s what mattered. The who’s and why’s were irrelevant to both of them. It seemed a comfortable, if temporary understanding between the two of them. He appreciated that. 

She had taken note of his hesitation, he had not missed that. When his ear flicked, an involuntary response to a knee-jerking title, it hadn’t gone without raising a few invisible brows.

It was nothing personal. It spoke nothing to Winters as a person, as an employer, and his superstitions weren’t strong enough for him to reject the offered job on principle, but it was enough for him to keep himself wary. 

“Never trust an admiral.” He had muttered in the past, sagely advice from a man not once, not twice, not thrice, but four times burned by those who held the title. The previous was the last straw, and when he accepted that the title was simply cursed. 

The first who had burned him was Grand Admiral Barean Westwind. A Scarlet Crusader. He didn’t know the man personally, as Archelaos had left the Scarlet Crusade before it became the Onslaught, though in his investigations while an Argent, he studied the maddened man. He who had brought umbramancy and undeath into the Scarlet fold, who was blatantly corrupting the order from within under the guise of experience and strategy, when in actuality he only made contradictory heretics within the order. 

The second was Lorvann Draco, Black Admiral of the Scourge. His eldest son, who had joined Arthas in a misguided attempt to please his father, to earn his love, and had made himself a monster in the process. If bringing shame to their name wasn’t enough, Lorvann was also a horrible influence on Archelaos as a person. They fed off each other in the most toxic of ways, in their prime only encouraging each other to commit more atrocities for the sake of a bloody, incestuous game between the two. 

The third, High Admiral Benjamin Dangeon. Archelaos had never liked him. He had told his Highlord so when the man had enlisted. Disrespectful, undisciplined, and worse of all, Archelaos wasn’t allowed to properly break the man. He had made a bad first impression, and in truth, it had saved the sour old Inquisitor’s life. This man, this infiltrator, this pretender, was in truth an assassin. His blades had claimed more than five of the order’s leaders, with Archelaos being the only survivor and the one to put the man into the ground. Dangeon had taken the first of the Inquisitor’s lost legs, and the last of those that he truly considered friends for a long, long time. With the death of his comrades came the death of his usefulness, in a sense, the assassin had taken more than he could ever repay. 

The forth and most recent, Phoenix Admiral Lucia Vitae. She had named herself his mother, and he had fallen for her tricks. She placed ideals of conquest and victory into his brain, a mother and her son, her pet, her dangerous beast, and he had formed himself for her. For her, he had trained, he had adapted, he had adopted, betrayed, lied, and dedicated himself. And she repaid him by abandoning him. Time he could never get back, bridges he could never build again, trust that could never be re-earned, and enemies bigger than he was rightfully prepared to handle on his own, all for her, and all for nothing.

Winters, however. She had supposedly helped his son, more than Zaderick could properly express. She welcomed him into her pack of wolves, branded him on the recommendation of his son and promise of skill alone.

For now, all he could do was keep a weather eye, a happy face, and be the best damn Inquisitor she’d ever meet.

((Mentions for @wolf-queen and @zaderick))

[doffren]

Background

My mother, Elise, was the daughter of a retired soldier, Hank Wright. After his service, he joined "the union" (The Carpenter's, Roofer's and Plasterer's Guild) to live out his days as a responsible blue collar man with his wife, a baker named Lisa.

My mother learned my father's skills, and took after him in most ways. But much to grandpa's chagrin, she fell in love with a handsome actor she first saw on a poster: Nik Westwind. They wed, and she turned her talents to work on the stages and back rooms of the stages of bohemian districts in Waterdeep.

I grew up in those back rooms, and beneath stages, in the guts of bohemian theatre circles.

I never did step onto the stage like my father, but I did learn his talents. Those, I took to the streets of Waterdeep, and forged the identity of Nix Brayv, a playboy noble with magical talent (faked by alchemy). I used that cover to get myself, and my crew, into the homes of the wealthy, or the powerful, to steal items or knowledge, and deliver it into the hands of guilds and unions who could better use it. My acting talents often got us out of tough spots. Sometimes we'd come upon plots and schemes, and turn them on their heads, or run cons or grifts. I learned a lot about the city's factions this way.

There was a bar all the bohemians visited called "The Smell of Gunpowder." They liked the stories of bravery and exploration credited to the grandfather of the family that owned it, "Old Pike." Old Pike's musket was famously on display above the fireplace, and the source of many tales, including many new stories.

I fell in love with the bar's smokey, dim atmosphere, and felt more inspired when I was there. But I didn't like the way the bohemians fawned over Old Pike. It was always clear to me they didn't understand what he'd seen.

So, I left. I traveled to Cormyr and served under the Purple Dragon Knights fighting orcs for five years. Now I know too well what Old Pike saw. Honestly, I was far better a fighter than I had any right to be. It often felt as though my desire to survive a battle is what made it happen for me, more than any actual skill.

I've returned now, my tour done. The old theatre companies are having a hard time staying afloat because a few of their patrons bit the dust. Mom wants me to join her again, working and tinkering. Dad thinks I should continue to serve, take up a future that's more sustainable. It's the first time he and grandpa have agreed on anything.

But maybe my secret talents could help put money back in the coffers. Or maybe everything I've learned could help me make something of myself. I know things. I know people. I have ins and outs where you'd never believe.

I'm spending plenty of time in "The Smell of Gunpowder" these days, trying to figure out what I do with what I've learned.

[jennyjourneys]

Arc 1 - Chapter 4: Witch-Fight in the Forest

Jenny and the Witches defeat the Old Man of the Marshmallow. A key is found.

They're battling it out. Ginger is doing what she can with spells to raise the wind — sending branches of sugarcane and leaves made of toffee at the two battling behemoths — but it's not doing much. 

Suddenly, I have an idea. 

I tap into my teleportation powers and zap Aunt Ginger to the other side of the Candy Forest. 

“What?” growls the Old Man, his bat-like face becoming more human again, his form shrinking. “Where did she go?” 

I think fast. My Aunt is a witch, but ‘I’ am not. I'm not supposed to know anything about magic. 

So, he'll think it's a new power of Ginger's. Or — 

“Westwind,” he growls. The Old Man's eyes narrow. “You did this. To save her. How noble. What would your brother say?” 

I have to say something. I can't let Westwind deny it, can’t let him know the truth. 

“No, it wasn't Old Mother Westwind. It was my Aunt. Her powers have doubled since you've been trapped in that marshmallow.” I get swept up. “No, tripled!”

“Tripled!?” 

“They’ve gotten three times — no, four times as —!”

"FOUR TIMES! No, I don't think so.” 

“FOUR TIMES!”

“Nooo!” 

“That's what I said!”

“Well, what else can she do?” he asks angrily. 

 I smile. 

 “This," I say. And I snap my fingers.

Suddenly Ginger reappears — she's turned into a different monster now, something like a giant scorpion with a huge sting. She's surrounded by a cloud of black smoke and her eyes are glowing red. She's on the verge of transforming into something even worse! 

 “You can't be serious,” she yells at me. “What did you just do?”

“I was saving you.”

“That's not funny!”

“You were going to die otherwise!”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No, of course not.” 

She narrows her eyes. 

“GINGER!” I yell, exasperated. “What?”

“LOOK DOWN!” 

 She does — and realises I've zapped her back, not where she was, but a hundred feet above the clearing what she'd been battling the Old Man of the Marshmallow. He's looking very small beneath her, especially now that he's turned back into more-or-less-human form. 

“JUST LET YOURSELF FALL!” I shout. 

She grins (which looks very odd on a scorpion face). 

“You're right,”" she says. "You're right. I'm sorry —” And she drops. The Old Man finally looks up. He's obviously understood nothing of this conversation. 

“Oh. …Oh,  no,” he says. 

 Ginger lands with great fracas, and I teleport over to her side. 

 “We did it,” she says, panting a little. “You did it, Jenny. He's gone.”

The scorpion form falls away, leaving a familiar, skinny old woman lying on her back. She picks herself up and then looks down behind her. Something is lying on the ground. 

A crushed marshmallow. 

And next to it, something else. She picks it up — a small key. 

 “What's that?” I ask. 

 “I say,” Ginger mutters, giving me a very narrow look and pointedly not replying. “You've got some powers there. I've never seen anything like that before.” 

 “I know,” I explain. ”Not all versions of me can use their powers like this. I think your niece could only communicate mentally with us other Jennies… and even then, only in dreams.”

“Well, better get going,” she says, dusting herself off.

“Going? Going where?” Westwind asks. 

I notice that the wound in her chest has completely disappeared. Her own magic, or an effect of the Old Man’s defeat? I wonder.

“Yes, you can come too,” says Ginger distractedly. “If you want. But I was talking to my niece.” She holds up the key. “At last, I have this. All these years I’ve been looking for it… and all these years, it was in that brigand’s pocket.”

“In the marshmallow,” I add. 

“Yes,” says Ginger.

“This is a very silly world,” I observe, talking to myself. Then I ask: “What does it open?”

"It opens the gates," says Ginger.

"The gates of what?" I ask.

She smiles and replies: “Why, the gates of your mind, sweetheart.” And with no further warning, she takes the key and plunges it into my forehead.

Go to Arc 1 - Chapter 3 - The Old Man of the Marshmallow

Go to Arc 1 - Chapter 5 - Journey to the Centre of Jenny Everywhere

[jennyjourneys]

Arc 1 - Chapter 2: The Spider

Continuing her journey through the Candy Forest with the witch Westwind, Jenny tangles with the local wildlife — but not all is as it seems.

For days now I have been journeying through the enchanted Candy Forest, in the company of the mysterious witch Old Mother Westwind. Together we seek Westwind's old rival and fellow witch, Grandmother Ginger. 

After three days eating nothing but sweets, we are growing desperate for healthier food, but vegetables are hard to come by in this place. Westwind has suggested hunting. We have just heard the distant yelping of a beast on the wind, and she is preparing to set out. 

“Where are you going, dear?" 

I wince. “Look… I'm only sort of a vegetarian,” I explain. “You cook some meat, some fish, I don't know… and fine, I'll eat it. It would be unhealthy not to under the circumstances. But… I don't do well with killing things. I don't want to be here for this.” 

“We shall see,” says Westwind. “I'll be back soon. Then you can eat something. Trust in my cooking. I'm the best in the land.” 

“Of course you are,” I say. 

Westwind slings her pack over her shoulder and sets out into the forest, a white mist following her. 

I sigh and slump down under a nearby tree, thinking about what led me here. I only came to this reality on a hunch. A dream. An echo of another life, telling me to find Grandmother Ginger. I don't even know what I'm supposed to do when I find her. It will probably become obvious when the time comes. But I ran off on everyone back home, with so little explanation. I hope this quest pays off. 

Suddenly, I jolt from my daydream. I can hear the distant howls of a beast. Westwind is calling back. What should I do? Should I go see what she's up to? I don't know. I hear a shout, rushing wind. More beastly growls. Finally, I make up my mind and run in the direction of the howls.

I arrive. Westwind is lying on her back, with a large, sharp claw embedded in the center of her chest. Then I see a huge black shape — which can only be the thing that attacked her. A giant spider, black with purple stripes. 

Without skipping a beat, I teleport a bucket of water into the spider's mouth. It splutters angrily and turns towards me. I leap into the air and kick it in its stubby neck. It crumbles to the ground.

I turn to Old Mother Westwind. 

“Are you alright?” I ask. 

But it's another voice that answers. The skittering, angry voice of the giant spider, picking itself up on wobbling legs after my kick. 

 “Stupid child,” says the spider. “Don't you see I am trying to help? Don't you know who I am?”

The spider's carapace folds in on itself, and suddenly I am staring at a spindly old woman in a purple-striped dress. 

“Grandmother Ginger…” I breathe out, stunned.

“I’m not your Grandmother, child,” huffs the witch. “I’m your Aunt Ginger. Can’t you remember?”

And I could. Suddenly memories of a whole other lifetime came flooding back, messy and in complete disarray. The jagged life of this world's version of me. A young witch’s ward, who’d disappeared. Ginger's niece. It was her memories that had sent me here.

“You silly girl!” Ginger scolds. “I sent Westwind to bring you back. How in the Gobstopper’s name did you contrive to come back on your own and bring her into my forest instead?” 

“I'm not the Jenny you remember,” I explain. “I'm, er, I’m not sure what happened to her. But I'm a version of her from a different plane of reality.” 

Ginger growls. “There's no time for chit-chat. You can plainly see that Westwind's been attacked by something, can't you?” 

“Yes, the spider...” I blink. “No, of course. The spider was you, Aunt Ginger. Then who…?”

“Something with vicious claws, as you can see. An ancient evil. One that all of us Witches of Sucria thought long extinguished.” 

“It's no spider," rasps Westwind. "It's him.” 

 “Who?” I ask again. 

 “He's a witch as well,” she whispers. 

“Tell me his name!” 

A deep, hollow voice answers from behind me. 

“You will know my name when I am the last mortal soul in the universe. Until then I do not reveal it.” 

Slowly, I turn around.

Go to Arc 1 - Chapter 1 - The Witches of the Candy Forest

Go to Arc 1 - Chapter 3 - The Old Man of the Marshmallow

[jennyjourneys]

Arc 1 - Chapter 3: The Old Man of the Marshmallow

Jenny discovers the truth about the ancient evil and the disappearance of her other self. A witches’ duel erupts.

Slowly, I turn around. There he is, in his black cloak, with his hood raised so that his face is in shadow. But I know he's the one. The witch. The one who has been tormenting me for so long. The other me, that is.

“Who are you?” I ask. 

“I am the Old Man of the Marshmallow,” he replies. “And you, young lady, are about to discover just how small you are.” He pulls his cloak around him, and the air crackles with magic. “For every day that you live, I will eat a little bit of your essence. A little bit of hope, a little bit of strength, a little bit of love.”

“Like sucking on a piece of candy," I say grimly — and, with no warning, I kick him in-between the legs.

But he doesn’t flinch.

“And that is the last bit of energy you will ever have,” he replies. 

��“You're so going down.”

The memories of my other self come flooding back to me. The Old Man of the Marshmallow plagued other-me for years in nightmares. Aunt Ginger told me all about him. How he was trained as a witch centuries ago. With his powers, he could have been the greatest sorcerer the world had ever seen. That's what he wanted to be when he was younger, but then he  got a terrible curse placed upon him. The curse boosted his powers beyond all imagination, but it also made him mortal. He died in his prime. So it was better that he was put out of his misery, she told me.

His curse was still active, though. His spirit still roamed the Marsh. And it yearned to live again, and make use of the fantastical powers he had wasted in life — becoming a parasite who preyed on generations of witches after him. 

Twenty years ago, Ginger, Westwind and many other witches from across the land of Sucria banded together to defeat the Old Man of the Marshmallow. They used many spells, and many good witches fell that day: Spicefinger, Sister Pond, Bat Hex, Mr. Hex, and many others. But it was not all in vain. The shade of the Old Man was too powerful to be truly destroyed, but they bound him inside a single marshmallow which was buried beneath the great Marsh Mallow where he had been killed so long ago. They knew he would find his way back one day, of course, but they hoped it wouldn't be for a very long time.

Coincidentally, my counterpart in this world, the daughter of Ginger's sister, was born a few weeks before the end of the Great Marsh Mallow War. She spent her first few years in the Marshmallow's shadow. Her mother had been one of the casualties: Ginger had raised her all her life. 

“How did you even escape that marshmallow?”

The Old Man smiles wickedly, and explains: “I broke its spell with a spell of my own, a spell called 'All You Can Eat'. But what about you, Jenny? I thought I had killed you days ago. How can it be you?”

A strangled cry escapes from Ginger at this confirmation of her niece's death.

But the Old Man cannot be allowed to know I am not the same Jenny he knew. My mind races, looking for a plausible lie, or a way to dodge the question. I find neither.

“I am,” I say with a trembling voice, “Jenny Everywhere. I am Jenny Everywhere.”

“Enough of this,” the Old Man snaps.

He tears off his cloak, revealing a smoke-like human form which soon begins to shift and wobble, transforming into something else. A monster. It looks like a giant, black worm with sharp teeth, but it takes on the head of a giant, black bat. I recognise its fangs as the same as the ‘claw’ that the wounded Westwind is still desperately trying to pluck out of her chest. A shiver spreads down my spine.

Ginger screams and leaps towards the Old Man, who easily dodges her.

“How did you escape? How?” she shouts, her voice desperate and animalistic. She is shifting shapes again. Not into the spider. Something else. This form is at once bulkier and nimbler: it's like an enormous, black, eel-like fish. It has big eyes and a long, sharp, eel-like tongue. I recognise it immediately.

It's a Black Nettle.

“A Black Nettle? Well now, who's a hypocrite,” chuckles the Old Man's voice, horribly distorted as it comes out of his bat-like head. “You know as well as I that this form is forbidden to lawful Witches.”

Ginger doesn't answer. She just lunges at the Old Man, her prehensile tongue wrapping itself against the giant worm's neck, trying to strangle it. The Old Man, in turn, regrows an arm, pulls a sword out of thin air and stabs Ginger's tongue with it.

Ginger slashes at the Old Man with her sharp tongue, but it doesn't cut him.

Finally succeeding in tearing the poisonous fang from her chest, Westwind gets up and waves her arms in a mystical gesture, summoning a gale that blows into the worm-like form of the Old Man.

“Helping her, now? Are you really? After all these years bickering? You make me sick!” the Old Man shouts. “All you witches. All you do is fight each other. It's always been your favourite pastime. If you don't stop you will soon be too exhausted to even move.”

“We’re not fighting each other now,” says Ginger. “We’re fighting you.”

Go to Arc 1 - Chapter 2 - The Spider

Go to Arc 1 - Chapter 4 - Witch-Fight in the Forest

[jennyjourneys]

Arc 1 - Chapter 1: The Witches of the Candy Forest

The adventure begins as Jenny Everywhere travels to a Candy Forest looking for a witch, and ends up meeting… a different witch?

Hello! If you find this, you are looking at an account of the life and experiences of Jenny Everywhere, inter-dimensional adventuress. I do wonder how you found it, given that I’m not actually writing any of this down — but hey, it’s a big omniverse.

Today, I am wandering into a haunted candy forest in Reality B-89 54-Z, looking for the legendary Wicked Witch, Grandmother Ginger. 

If you know something about her, I expect you to help. 

I have a map, and my other selves have maps, but they don't know everything. 

I spot a lonely shack on the edge of the Candy Forest. Wondering if whoever lives there can help me find the Witch, I knock on the door. 

“Who's there?”

“It's Jenny Everywhere, and I need help.”

“If you're sure.” The door opens and an old woman peers at me. “Come in!”

“Thanks.” Stepping inside, I can see that the hut is made of candy, or near enough — every surface is covered with big bowls full of sweets of different colors, some of which are melting in the heat of the day. 

“This doesn't seem very sustainable,” I say. “All this candy will spoil before long. If it doesn't attract the Candy Wolves out of the forest first. What are you doing?”

“Oh, I don't live here. This used to be Grandmother Ginger's hut. I'm her enemy, you see. I frightened her off… she's fled deeper into the Candy Forest.”

“Why are you her enemy?”

“It’s my brother. She cursed his shoes and made him dance in the sun for days.”

“Oh my goodness. Did he die?”

“Oh, no, not quite as bad as that,” huffs Westwind. “But he did get blooming tired. And wear out his shoes entirely. They were his favourite pair, too!”

“What a vile witch!”

“Well…” the old woman hesitates. “This wasn't unprovoked. She's not happy with me because I can't find her lost child.”

“You can't?" I blink. "Wait, Grandmother Ginger has a child?”

“That would follow from the fact that she is a grandmother, yes,” the old woman deadpans. 

“Oh well, let's go find her.” I’m already turning round — but then I blink and ask: “Er, but before we do, what's your name, anyway?”

“I am known in the Candy Forest as Old Mother Westwind.”

“Cool name. So you're a witch as well?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Well, nothing, but I thought witches were the good guys in fairy tales.” 

Old Mother Westwind doesn't know what to say. 

I look at my wrist, even though I'm not wearing a watch. 

“Sorry, but I've got places to go,” I explain, “and you don't have a map. But if you want to come with me, you're more than welcome! What do you say?” 

"Well… okay." 

I pause and ask one final question. 

“Really though… are you a witch as well?” 

Old Mother Westwind winks at me. When she opens it again, there is a spark in her eye, something deep and ancient that howls like the wind coming in from the west through the Licorice Strait.

Go to the Introduction

Go to Arc 1 - Chapter 2 - The Spider

[jennyjourneys]

Arc 1 - Chapter 7: Rocket Witchcraft

Jenny’s line of questioning with Grandmother Ginger on how to retrieve the soul of her dead niece leads the trio to an unexpected course of action.

“So how do you mean to find my niece?” asks Ginger. 

 “This is a magical universe,” I answer. “I'll bet my scarf souls are real here. So there's an afterlife. There must be. And she went there. Which is precisely why it wouldn't have been right for me to try and recreate her based on her memories, by the way. The real her is still alive, somewhere.” I pause. “Well, dead. But — extant. You know what I mean.”

“The Afterlife is only spoken of in ancient legends,” Ginger says thoughtfully. “Most Witches do not believe in it anymore.”

“But there are stories?”

“Yes.”

“What do they say?”

“According to them, the soul does not stay behind when a person dies. It ascends into the heavens. But many people also believe that the soul, once in the Other Place, is unable to return,” she cautions.

I frown.

“Wait, are you saying 'heaven' or 'the heavens'?” 

 “The heavens,” Ginger explains, frowning in turn. “What is this 'Heaven' of which you speak?” 

 “Nothing,” I elide. “Really. The heavens? Like… outer space?” 

“Yes. After all, according to legend, that is also where the Gods live. Although that is not a reliable connection,” Ginger says. “The Gods are an invention of man.”

“But outer space — that's not an invention. That's a fact.”

“I suppose.” 

“Well then, the way forward is simple. We need to buy a space-ship.”

“That is much too expensive,” interrupts Westwind. “Let’s simply fly by ourselves.”

Old Mother Westwind's idea of a magical, low-cost space-ship, it turns out, is rather unique. What this woman lacks in funds, however, it soon becomes obvious that she more than makes up for in untapped sorcerous power — with mere waves of her hands trees are uprooted and candy-wood reshapes itself to her witchy whims. 

But the end result scarcely looks like a space-ship at all — it’s more like a glorified broomstick, enlarged, fitted with numerous odd appendages that sprout from the main broomstick-body like branches on a tree. 

“I call it my 'Wisp',” the old woman says proudly once she’s done spelling the thing together.

“It looks like a flying snake to me,” Ginger says. “And about as reliable.”

“It doesn't matter what it looks like,” I say. “Will it fly?"

"Oh, aye, my lovely," she says. "All the way to Mars and beyond.”

“Will it carry all of us?" I ask.

“It will carry myself and you, Jenny. Ginger — you'll be flying alongside the Wisp," she says with a smug little smile. The other witch scowls. “Cheer up. It'll be like having your very own broom, so you can get there in style."

With some awkwardness, we all clamber into the contraption. I end up sitting on a sort of Y-shaped branch, which isn't the most comfortable seat I've ever found, but will do the trick. I'm assured that in flight, there is a magical, invisible bubble around the Wisp, so there's little danger in falling off anyway.

“How long will it take to get to the Moon?” I ask casually, but she’s already busy stringing a series of increasingly complicated spells into intricate patterns on a piece of charcoal to initiate the launch.

We’re just about to take off, when suddenly — 

“Hold on!" Ginger cries. “I think I left something at home!”

Go to Arc 1 - Chapter 6 - A World of Me

Go to Arc 2 - Chapter 1 - The Captain