#emerald witch. ( portrait )

[natalieina]

Emerald Green

The memory of emerald September, of the first timid steps of Autumn, of her gaze, reminiscent of the lake surface. About the serene expanses of mosses and grasses, mysterious paths in the dark forest... September is the abode of tranquility, filled with the cool freshness of forests, where the first sprouts of withering are hidden...

Self-Portrait.

Snake wreath by Tropical Witch Flowers.

Natalie Ina Photography.

August-September 2021.

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[jadeshifting]

🫀 SHIFTMAS

day 10. WHAT’S YOUR DR’S CHRISTMAS CARD LIKE? is it a glossy, glamorous photoshoot with your dr family? a hand-drawn masterpiece that feels personal and sweet? or maybe just a cosy polaroid moment caught by surprise?

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

A SLYTHERIN CHRISTMAS PORTRAIT

★⋆. the Slytherin Christmas portrait looks like it was torn straight out of Witch Weekly’s “Most Enviable Holiday Gatherings” spread. draped in emerald velvet, silver brocade, and the occasional pop of enchanted crimson—a calculated nod to the season.

★⋆. — Mattheo and i are front and center, him leaning casually with that signature I-own-the-room smirk, while i lounge with pearls glinting in my hair and a fur-lined cape spilling over my shoulders

★⋆. — Draco stands rigidly regal, one hand tucked into his pocket as if he’s posing for a family tapestry, with Daphne and Astoria flanking him like they’ve got their own holiday scheming brewing.

★⋆. — Pansy strikes a dramatic pose, her mistletoe charm hat perched just-so, while Theo and Blaise exchange subtle grins, looking like they’re plotting the next holiday scandal. Lorenzo’s all rakish elegance, his tie slightly askew and a sprig of enchanted holly pinned to his lapel, while Millicent leans coolly against the grand fireplace, her glittering goblet catching the firelight.

★⋆. the backdrop is pure Malfoy Manor glamour: a towering tree dripping with enchanted silver snow, flickering emerald baubles, and shimmering snakes curling through the branches. green and silver fairy lights cast a soft glow, while the enchanted snowfall swirling behind everyone adds a touch of extra. it’s less of a group portrait and more of a power play, a glossy reminder that no one does Christmas—or confidence—like Slytherins

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

[tinycatteethstudio]

This pattern is a love letter to my favorite stage musical (and now movie) Wicked! They are just two friends, two good friends. Two, best friends. Together in the emerald city they discover the magic they can create, together. Whatever happens, they’ll always have that one short day!

In a deeper sense, this pattern is dedicated to a dear, sweet friend who has been gone from this world for over 12 years now. She was the Elphaba to my Galinda and truly made me a better person. Because I knew her, I have been changed for good ✨ These stitches represent the love I still have for her as my best friend and my first love. Though our time was short, my heart will forever hold a room filled with portraits of Maisie 💖☮️🕊️

-TinyCatTeeth

[whotfletamothhyperfx]

Sonic Wizard of OZ AU master post

Original

Toto in the AU

Sonics tattoo

How could sonic come to this?

Sonic and shadows designs

Tails “mission”

Barry the Quokka

Childhood

How Tails met the others

What did shadow do?

Rouges backstory

Recognise his friends back home

Wicked witch of the East / Starline

Sonic and tails design doodle

Maria and shadow

“Why doesn’t sonic recognise tails?”

“Will sonic ever recognise Tails?”

Maria and Ozma

IDW covers

Tangle and Whisper

Sonics hallucination

Why tails was “killed”

Munchkinland and Emerald City

“Does shadow ever realise the error of his ways?”

Surge and Kit As Kids

Surge and kit before and after Starline designs

Witches backstory

So what’s up with the magic system

Family portrait

Shadow and Tails animatic

Amy animatic

Sonics end goal?

Core fours relationship

Amy and tails fanart

Kit animation

“Whats Tails doll’s deal?”

Chuck and the Baby triplets

[queen-of-prophecy]

The Emerald Tower: Rooms

Though the Emerald Tower rises tall in the Ring of Pride, and it's shadowy Tower of Heresy looms on it's own floating isle in its own Ring, the layout of the Towers are exactly the same. Vine had its original design put into motion thousands of years ago, and it took two hundred years give or take to complete. There's a great debate over whether it's made of actual emeralds or simply glamored to look that way, but since the original builders left no surviving notes on the construction, it remains a mystery. Here is a rough estimation of what the Emerald Tower contains.

-184 bedrooms based on medicinal herbs and plants, 14 bedrooms based on common witches familiars, 36 bedrooms based on alchemy, as well as 13 "goddess" rooms based on a particular deity Vine has pretended to be.

-53 bathrooms, each spaced out roughly every 12 rooms or so. Some are full bathing rooms, and others are just toilets and sinks.

-24 galleries of varying sizes displaying artworks spanning from the Prehistoric to Contemporary Period. The galleries are often split between Earth at and Hell art.

-4 master kitchens, though these see very little use.

-6 grand dining halls, but they serve very little use and have seen perhaps one dinner party per room.

-A world-class fromagerie. This room is Vine's pride and joy and houses cheeses of all kinds.

-4 wine cellars. Perhaps incorrectly named, as none of the rooms go below ground, they house vintages as far back as the 14th century, preserved by magical means.

-The Mourning Room, where Vine keeps portraits of deceased companions.

-20 library rooms. These are more of a collections space for her to house rare books to lend out to others.

-19 artifact rooms. These are mostly off limits, with only a "passing chamber"' that prevents passersby from accessing them without Vine's consent, and display powerful magical artifacts, historical pieces and trophies from the ancient world.

-The Heaven Vault. You would not know you were passing through the vault as there is a deceptive corridor that is all steel that simply goes to the next room. However Vine stores her stash of dangerous heavenly weapons here, as well as a vat of purest holy water.

-16 armories. These are more or less historic collections of armor sets and weapons ranging from melee to siege that she's collected over the years. Strangely enough, they all appear to be in perfect condition.

-100 walk in closets. These are the size of most of the bedrooms and have fashions from all over time, of Vine's massive clothes collection.

-59 treasure chambers. Strangely unguarded (or are they?) these have Vine's jewelry collections, gold, silver, and jewels, as well as safes containing important papers.

-The Alchemy Room. It's the largest room in the entire Tower, and houses all of her equipment for producing potions.

These are all of the rooms yet known. There are still at least a hundred which are either not known or difficult to describe.

[churchobones]

DWC Day 4: Vengeance

<<PREV | NEXT>>

“And then... I remember...”

Bruce looked down at his arm. His skin was pale as the waning moonlight, black veins writhing with every weakened pulse of his heart. His head swam, vision dim and distant.

Bruce looked up. “The Red Witch. What do you know of her?”

The little lord pursed his lips.

“The legend of E’Andusore… The whore told you, did she?” The shards of whispering shadow framing his head began to spin, building momentum.  “It’s a tale lost to most of my people.

“She was a vicious crone who haunted a powerful magic circle; she and her nightmare hound, Narral’thix.  The sacred site held the key to Life after Death; the natural cycle made manifest in mana.  A power she used to butcher innocents and turn farmland fallow.

“As the story goes,” the lord smiled grimly.  “She ate the dog’s heart to tap into the circle’s power, raising a mighty tree surrounded by a bramble thicket miles wide that only she could pass through unscathed.

“Until the Lady came with fire.  A mother desperate to save her son.”

“Three times I've asked about that story now. The first time I heard it, She shared Her memory with me-- that old Oak Tree.”

Bruce's jaw set as the plaintive mew of a kitten long passed echoed in his mind. In that mansion, where Zelion’s family portraits lined the walls and an Oak Tree split the marble floors, he'd heard her cries.

Her coat was mottled brown with camouflage not yet shed. Milk teeth flashed in the darkness. Paws too big for her scrambled, begging purchase.

Emerald magicks flared outwards from his touch, along the grooves of the Oak’s bark, scrawling up and down the trunk.  A whistling shimmer grew twice as loud from below, a tremor taking the ballroom floor felt up through the soles of his feet to his knees; enough to require bracing but not enough to steal his legs out from beneath him. The floor splintered beneath the kit’s paws, a desperate cry falling away into the darkness below until there was nothing left to be heard but the burgeoning hum of the awakened tree.

She regarded him with a tingle that remained in his fingertips and pricked at his thumbs.  The Oak spoke only by willing a single word to the forefront of his mind: Vengeance.

Her bark served him as second eyes, racing down Her formidable length past the vine covered, stone walls of the cellars, deeper still past crypts, dirt, stone, bone until they reached where Her strongest roots anchored.  She was framed by a circle of fallen trees, Her roots wrapped protectively over an ancient altar of jasper.  The dead lynx cub’s broken back never made it to the stone.

And then the Oak stood silent.

  “I was wondering if I’m no better off than that kitten when Kallarel--”

The smell of sulfur filled the worgen's lungs. Hellfire: the scent which lingered as the bramble brands crawled into skin; the scent which pierced the air with every lit cigarette. He focused on the sickening sweetness alone.

One by one, the arch over his heart gave way as Kallarel tore into the hallway, a manifested monster hot on her high heels with a blazing green gem alight in a chest once empty.

By the third spout of blighted blood, the witch was upon them; beauty, beast and burden all.

By the fourth, her hands were alight with a green fire to match the flame licking the demon’s panting tongue.

By the fifth, the lord’s prone figure was cloaked in cold shadow, absconded without a trace apart from the faintest flicker of rot against the nostrils before the witch could claim him.

And as the last of Zelion’s void crystals burst in Bruce’s chest, the haphazardly placed shard split in two with a deafening crack.

“I can’t... I can’t have died that night. I didn’t. But I dreamed. I dreamed... I was in a house-- the house in Gilneas. With my wife-- with my dead wife, Sophia.”

It was shamefully small, that old cabin in Gilneas. Sophia had given up everything for him-- lands, titles and inheritance. In exchange, Bruce had built a shack with leaky walls and slept with her on the far side of the kitchen for fourteen years.

Now they sat across from one another at the dinner table.

“I thought it might come to this.”

Bruce felt sick. There was a teacup in front of him, which rattled quietly.

“I miss you,” he said. Her face was just as he remembered it; prominent cheeks smattered with freckles and a button nose.

She rolled her eyes-- big, stormy and blue. The same ones he saw every time he looked at his daughter. “You’re doing fine without me.”

“I’m sorry--”

“Don’t be. I mean it. I'm proud of how Lizzie turned out. But if you want, you can join me now. You can rest.”

The knot in his stomach twisted.

“You don’t have to,” she went on. “Not everyone gets a choice, but you will.”

The tips of his fingers felt cold as ice. The table trembled below.

She smiled. It was warm and remarkably genuine-- like a candle in the night. “I know this is what you want, Bruce.”

The support beams above his head cracked. Dust fell in a plume, rippling his tea.

“Just know--” she hesitated, expression soft-- “you’re messing with powers you don’t understand. The Gods may never forgive you for this.” 

His chest squeezed. He couldn’t breathe.

“But I'll help guide you home,” she said.

@daily-writing-challenge

[iguessihavemore]

ROLLCALL PORTRAITS DONE YAY

Chapter 1 Emerald Witches (they won't change much just get 1 👆extra member)

Cameron is from @unironicduncanstan

Manaia is from @tuatara-time

Marina, Stella, Winnifred, and Wilfred are all owned by @faemorningstar

Rosie is owned by @sapphicwizzro

And Tadao is from @explosivoo ^w^

[draqo-pctter]

nostalgia // a dramione drabble

words: 562 / tags: angst, memories are liars, but love lasts forever

Hogsmeade sat mostly empty as Draco made his way down the cobblestone street with his hands in his pockets. Rain fell from the gray clouds above in a soft but persistent sheet, clinging to his clothes and filling his dragonhide boots. With each step he took toward the castle, memories of her jumped at him from behind buildings and beneath trees with faded red and orange leaves.

If asked, he would never admit that he’d only gone to France for a Potions Mastery to get as far away from their memory as possible. And he would lie for days about why he’d accepted a position teaching Potions at Hogwarts, refusing to acknowledge the way memories of late nights in the dungeons still clung to him like the rain.

Draco often managed to push thoughts of pressing Hermione against the side of the Three Broomsticks when they’d been little more than children to the back of his mind. But, sometimes, he couldn’t help but stare at the old stone wall and remember the way her back had arched against his touch and the way her curls got stuck on chips in the wall.

Or the time they’d stopped halfway across the bridge, forearms resting on the railing and shoulders pressed together. They’d spent hours like that – leaning, laughing, falling in love. Planning a future that would never come to fruition with all the ardor that came with being young.

Wet leaves and downtrodden weeds gave way beneath Draco’s feet as he approached the castle, and the courtyard where he’d first considered proposing. He’d been eighteen and smitten beyond belief, thinking that if he didn’t have Hermione, he didn’t want anyone else. Even the Quidditch pitch in the distance was haunted by the memory of her cheering him on during games their Eighth Year, his emerald green scarf woven with her burgundy one around her neck.

Inside the castle, the halls were quiet enough for him to hear the ghost of her laughter bouncing off the bricks and getting stuck behind tapestries. Whispered words and promises that burnt up in the torches on the walls, never to see the light of day. Hope that fizzled out and dissipated slowly, bit by bit, until it crept up on them with a certainty that ripped down any doubt that might have lingered.

Because, of course, Hogsmeade and the bridge and the courtyard didn’t want to remember the jealousy that rippled beneath both of their skins. The Quidditch pitch had forgotten the way Hermione grew frustrated with his return to everyone’s good graces, being stopped by witches and wizards alike on his way out of the locker room.

And the halls and their ever changing portraits had neglected to echo the sounds of their whispered arguments and the times Draco wondered if that would be the rest of his life – arguing with her over a comment someone made that she should have ignored, or fighting the urge to say things he knew would cut too deep to heal.

Nostalgia was a dirty liar that insisted things were better than they seemed. It was also the stuff his bones were made of, and the wind that ruffled his hair. It rested in his desk drawer, waited in the ingredients cabinet, and reared its ugly head every time Hermione’s carefully crafted smile graced the cover of the Daily Prophet.

[daughterofyourdarklord]

Scorpio is hurt, what’s your reaction?

It happened while she was at school. 

Delphini rushed home, of course, the only Third Year that they couldn’t stop from leaving the castle. She’d stormed into the Headmaster’s office in a flurry of emerald robes, eyes immediately on the large fireplace, strutting right past him and ignoring every word of protest the former Potions Master had to offer. She reached confidently for the floo powder, calling for Malfoy Manor. 

It was eerily quiet when she arrived. Delphini didn’t take a moment to ponder it, heeled boots hard against the ground as she made her way to her little cousin's room.

Distantly, she heard frantic voices as she cut down a large hallway, bolting up a set of stairs. 

Likely an urgent meeting of the Inner Circle. 

In any other circumstance she would’ve changed course, followed the voices and finessed her way into another one of the meetings her parents tried so hard to keep her out of. 

Not today. 

She veers around another bend, ignoring the chirping from the portraits lining the wall. At the end of the hall stands a head of long blonde hair. 

“Aunt Cissa!” She calls for her almost involuntarily. “Is he okay? What’s happened?” 

She falls into her aunt’s arms, trying to steady her with a strong hug before pulling away to look into her tearful eyes, hands still lingering on Narcissa's arms. 

Delphini listens as the story spills from her aunt's lips in the same way she watches it play out in her eyes. Once again grateful for her legilimency as it helps to fill the stressed induced holes in her aunt’s story. 

“Draco - if he hadn't gotten to him just in time..” Narcissa is once again nearing tears. “They cast a killing curse at him - at a five-year-old boy!”

Delphini turns from her, hand reaching for the doorknob. 

“No!” Narcissa pushes her back and Delphi has to fight to contain her blooming rage. “He’s resting - Draco and Astoria are with him! We need to let the mediwitch-” 

“You shouldn’t be here!” 

All forms of protest die on Delphini’s lips at that familiar shriek. 

She winces, turning just in time to witness Bellatrix Lestrange storming down the hallway. Lucius is hot on her heels and already reaching to console his wife. 

“I need to be. He’s family.” She answers through grit teeth as the pair reaches them. “You’re the one who always says we watch out for family." 

Her mother’s eyes narrow dangerously at that, reaching out to yank Delphini’s arm just as Lucius pulls Narcissa into his own. Bellatrix drags her halfway down the hall and Delphini knows at this point there's little room for protest. 

“I gave Snape explicit instructions not to let you leave that castle! We haven’t even caught all of the individuals involved - Scorpius wasn’t the only child that was attacked! They’re after all related children.”

All cause-related children, her mother means. Any child related to Death Eaters in particular, perhaps to a complicit ministry worker or other compliant witches and wizards. Any child who isn’t a direct member of the resistance movement, maybe. 

“Why must you insist on disobeying us?” Her mother’s words are a hiss and her tone heated but the look in her eye is worried.  

Delphini knows why. 

Knows that she has a steeper price on her head than any other Death Eater’s child. Knows that the resistance would rejoice in her death, the perpetrator wildly celebrated - hailed a hero. Knows that it just might be enough to cripple her mother.

“No one can hurt me.” She lies, unable to even look the witch in the eye as she says it. Bellatrix leans forward, firm hands that were just locked around her daughter's arm in anger find her face gently, lifting Delphini’s chin to force her gaze.

“You foolish little girl.” The older witch starts, pulling Delphi hard against her. “I will take you out of that school so fast.” It’s an almost empty threat, the pair of them liars. Still, Delphini reaches right back, arms locking tightly around her mother. At thirteen she’s still at least a head shorter than Bella, her mother’s chin rests atop her curls lightly.  

“Is he going to be okay?” She can’t find the strength to ask in anything louder than a whisper. It’s a heartbeat before Bellatrix answers:

“Of course.”

This time, she can’t tell whether or not her mother is lying. 

[kitsune024]

Maleficent Fanfiction

Beyond the Black Veil by Thornvale

Part 1. The Treasure of Witches Chapters 11/11

A single raven was just a raven. A group of ravens was called an unkindness. He had not known true unkindness until becoming a human, however, and even then, he had always known better. Diaval knew Maleficent better than anyone, and he’d thought, however foolishly, that they might have been friends after all they had endured together.’ Some time after Aurora’s wedding, Diaval struggles with his place in the Moors and Maleficent’s life. When the Phoenix Emerald, a precious heirloom of the Dark Fae, is stolen by the mysterious Moon Witch, the raven servant finds himself in a position to recover it - but at a great cost.

Part 2. The White Raven Chapters 4/4

Sequel to The Treasure of Witches. ‘There was once a time that Maleficent had considered herself the truest evil in lands all around. As time passed, she realised just how wrong she was. She was not evil because her enormous capacity for love simply would not allow it. It was love that had saved Aurora from her curse and it was love that had healed Maleficent’s old wounds in acceptance of herself and those around her. But Wynne, another faerie of enormous magical potential, was the true portrait of wickedness.’ Maleficent finds herself in a state of unrest. What matters to her more than anything in the world is her family and their happiness, but strain in their relationships and rising political dissent threatens to tear down everything they have so painstakingly built.

Part 3 The Flame of Tech Duinn Chapters 22/?

Sequel to ‘The Treasure of Witches’ and ‘The White Raven’. The Moors are on the brink of war for actions they did not commit. Diaval endeavours to fix any fissures in his treasured relationships, but can’t quite get the discovery he made in the kingdom of Breoslaigh out of his mind. A golden flame, guarded by the mysterious Veiled Queen, said to be the key to ending the invasion of undead across the united kingdoms. There is nothing Diaval would not do out of love.

NOT MADE BY ME

Artwork created by the wonderful @swankkat​, inspired by my Maleval fic ‘The Treasure of Witches’ on AO3!

I’m so blown away and grateful for this beautiful art! If you like it then consider checking out her blog and Patreon!

[syoevergreen36]

Chapter 1: A Dark Omen

In the heart of the sprawling Vaelorian forest, a world veiled by towering ancient trees and dappled sunlight, there nestled a remote village known as Lysandria. The village was a hidden gem, a place untouched by the hurried pace of modern civilization, where the ceaseless march of time seemed to slow and become one with the whispering leaves and babbling streams. It was a place where the mystical met the mundane, where magic and nature coexisted in a harmony as old as the world itself.

As the last rays of dusk kissed the treetops, Lysandria stirred to life with a serene, almost ethereal quality. Wooden cottages with thatched roofs and moss-covered stones seemed to grow with life, seamlessly integrated into the lush surroundings. Vibrant ivy clung to the walls, as if nature herself sought to reclaim what was once hers.

At the heart of this village, within a quaint, cozy cottage adorned with symbols of the natural world, lived a young woman named Syona Nightshade, or Syo, as she was affectionately known by the villagers. She was no ordinary resident; she was the last in a long and illustrious lineage of witches, bearing the weight of a name steeped in history and power.

The Nightshade bloodline was legendary, renowned throughout Vaeloria for its unique connection to the ebb and flow of the world's magic. From predicting the seasons with uncanny precision to mending the wounded and curing ailments that befell the villagers, the Nightshades were whispered of in reverent tones, their powers said to be as boundless as the forest that sheltered them.

Syo herself was a testament to the family's mystique. Her long, raven-black hair cascaded down her back in a wild, untamed mane, a stark contrast to her pale, porcelain skin. Her emerald eyes, the color of the canopy that stretched above her, held a profound depth, hinting at the wellspring of magic that flowed within her veins. At the moment, those eyes displayed a hint of unease, a flicker of doubt that danced beneath their depths. On this particular evening, as she emerged from her cottage, the world around her seemed to hold its breath. Her footsteps were light, barely disturbing the carpet of moss that blanketed the forest floor. 

She wore a cloak crafted from an ethereal silk  that let off a faint glow, it was more than just an heirloom, it was a mantle of responsibility, a symbol of the Nightshades' unique place in Vaeloria's history. The threads of the cloak held the echoes of spells cast by her ancestors, their collective wisdom and power woven into its very fabric, passed down through generations. Small runes, and other strange symbols marked the cloak. Each silken thread hummed with an ethereal resonance, as if whispering ancient secrets to those who would listen. Syo's fingers lightly traced the intricate patterns etched into the silk, feeling the vibrations resonate through her skin. The cloak had always been a source of comfort, a tangible connection to her lineage, but tonight, it felt like more than that. It felt like a conduit to something greater, a bridge to the mysteries of the world.

Syo's unease deepened as she ventured further into the forest, her senses attuned to the subtle shifts in the natural world around her. The tranquility of Lysandria remained unbroken, save for the gentle rustling of leaves and the distant hooting of an owl. Yet, something, an indefinable undercurrent, tugged at the edges of her consciousness, warning her of a change she couldn't quite grasp. The crescent moon still hung low in the sky, its silvery glow casting dappled shadows upon the forest floor. Lysandria lay bathed in the soft, silvery light, a portrait of serenity that belied the unease that coursed through Syo's veins.

Her thoughts invariably returned to the weighty prophecy that had shadowed her family for countless generations. It was said that the Nightshade bloodline held the key to the future of Vaeloria, a destiny that could either usher in a new era of prosperity or cast the world into darkness. The choice, the burden, rested squarely upon her shoulders. With a trembling hand, Syo traced the intricate patterns etched into her protective cloak. The threads of silk hummed with a haunting, melodic resonance—an echo of her ancestors' power, their unwavering dedication to preserving the balance between magic and nature.

She paused by a brook, its crystal-clear waters shimmering like liquid silver in the moonlight. Kneeling down, she cupped her hand, letting the coolness of the stream caress her fingers. In the ripples, she saw the reflection of her own uncertainty, mirrored back at her. The evening breeze rustled the leaves overhead, and a strange sensation settled in Syo's heart. It was as if the very air held its breath, waiting for an ominous revelation to unfold. Her emerald eyes narrowed, her senses on high alert. The forest was alive with ancient secrets, and they seemed to beckon her forward into a destiny she could neither predict nor turn away from.

 Beneath this celestial sentinel, the atmosphere was undeniably eerie, as if the very fabric of reality had been woven with threads of uncertainty. The forest, usually a sanctuary of serenity, held an unusual hush. Leaves rustled in the gentle breeze, their whispers carried away by the night. The branches of ancient trees, gnarled and wizened, stretched toward the heavens, reaching for the enigmatic light of the moon as if seeking solace in its silvery embrace. Yet, for all its beauty, the moon cast long, eerie shadows that seemed to dance to the rhythm of an unseen melody.

Standing beneath the moon's haunting glow, she felt the unease that hung in the air like an unspoken secret. Her emerald eyes, framed by the inky blackness of her hair, gazed upward with a mix of reverence and trepidation. The Nightshade lineage, her lineage, had long been the keepers of an ancient magic, the guardians of a profound connection between nature and the arcane. Tonight, that connection seemed to hum with an unusual intensity, like a chord struck in a forgotten melody. Syo's heart quickened as she scanned the forest around her. She was not alone in her unease, and the very elements themselves seemed to stir with a strange anticipation.

The forest seemed to sigh, leaves shivering in a breeze that carried the scent of ancient earth and wildflowers. It was a night unlike any other, and Syo knew that the tendrils of fate were closing in around her. The unease she felt was not unfounded; it was the tremor that precedes a seismic shift, a signal that her world was on the brink of transformation.

With a final glance at the crescent moon, her emerald eyes filled with a mixture of reverence and determination, Syo took a step forward. The shadows that danced around her whispered of secrets long hidden, and the protective cloak draped upon her shoulders seemed to pulse with anticipation.

In the heart of the woods, where the whispers of ancient trees met the gentle babble of a crystal-clear stream, there was a grove untouched by the passage of time. Here, amid a sacred circle of towering oaks, Syo found solace. The breeze that rustled through the leaves carried the wisdom of countless generations, and the very earth beneath her feet hummed with a connection that transcended mortal understanding.

Syo stood at the center of this sacred grove, the place where she had spent countless hours in communion with nature and the arcane. She felt the pulse of life all around her, from the delicate ferns that unfurled like emerald scrolls to the towering trees that whispered secrets in the wind. But tonight, a sense of unease gnawed at her, a premonition that the grove itself seemed to share.

The prophecy had haunted her family for generations, an enigmatic riddle passed down through the Nightshade lineage. It spoke of a chosen one, a guardian of the balance between magic and nature, destined to confront a great darkness that threatened to engulf the world. The words of the prophecy were etched into the annals of Nightshade history:

"When the crescent moon unveils its hidden face,

A child of Nightshade shall find her rightful place.

With power and purpose, she'll stand alone,

To shield the realm where magic and nature are sown."

Syo had grown up with these verses echoing in her ears, whispered by her parents, Alaric and Elowen Nightshade, renowned magical practitioners in their own right. Their names were synonymous with wisdom and power, respected not only in Lysandria but across the realms. The Nightshades had always been the keepers of the prophecy, the guardians of a delicate equilibrium between the mystical forces of magic and the organic rhythms of nature.

Alaric, tall and broad-shouldered, possessed an air of quiet authority. His eyes were deep pools of wisdom, and his hands, weathered from years of tending to the grove, held a gentle strength. He was a master of earth magic, able to coax life from the soil and mend the wounds of the land with his touch. His affinity for the natural world had earned him the title of "The Verdant Sage" among his peers.

Elowen, his beloved wife, was a luminary in the realm of elemental magic. Her grace and poise were matched only by her unwavering dedication to preserving the balance between magic and nature. With a flick of her fingers, she could call forth flames that danced like living entities or summon torrents of water to quench even the most voracious fires. She was known as "The Elemental Enchantress," and her mastery over the elements was unparalleled.

Together, Alaric and Elowen had been a formidable force, their love and magic intertwined like the very roots of the sacred grove. They had raised Syo with a profound reverence for the prophecy, instilling in her a deep understanding of the responsibility that came with their bloodline.

As Syo stood beneath the canopy of ancient oaks, she felt the weight of her lineage press upon her shoulders. She was the last of the Nightshades, the one fated to fulfill the prophecy and confront the looming darkness. The grove seemed to murmur in agreement, leaves trembling in a breeze laden with a sense of foreboding.

It was not just the prophecy that troubled her but a vision that had visited her dreams—a vision of a world shrouded in shadow, where the delicate harmony between magic and nature had been shattered. In that shadowed realm, a malevolent force known as the Shadowweaver sought to harness an ancient power buried deep within Vaeloria, a power that could either usher in a new era of prosperity or reduce the world to ashes. She had seen herself standing at the precipice of this world-altering choice, torn between her allegiance to magic and her bond with the natural world. The vision had left her with a profound sense of unease, a premonition that the threads of destiny were drawing her closer to a moment of reckoning.

[beautytreats]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Mexican Laguna Lace Agate Gemstone Handmade Ring.

[krshndra]

Beauty in a Portrait

In the land of Pantoran, there lived a maiden whose beauty was exceptional and enticing. With her jet black hair, eyes shining like an emerald, and skin so porcelain, even the whitest feather has no chance of defeating her. It is no doubt that her beauty could allure every man and woman in the land. The maiden was named after her late mother, Imogen, who has a beauty that undeniably surpasses hers. Imogen cherished and admired her late mother, not just because of her looks but because of her soothing voice that never failed to ease her worry, because of her warm hugs that became her home, and because of her heart that never wavered in loving her.

Standing before her mother's portrait, tracing every little detail, from the strands of her hair to the tip of her eyelashes, Imogen admired and longed for her mother, and so she wants to have a portrait of herself hung beside to the portrait of her late mother. Imogen began searching for the best painter who could capture her beauty in a painting but no matter who she asked, all the portrait painters she approached were enchanted by her beauty and mesmerized by her presence.

Imogen soon fell into the pit of frustration and despair as she realized that every painter she encountered was bewitched by her beauty, and not a single one of them could finish the painting as they prevent themselves from falling too deeply in love with her. Many simply abandoned their work, leaving her with unfinished portraits.

Pulling herself from utter darkness, Imogen decided to travel to the valley of witches. She hoped that they would have a way to help her create a portrait and capture her beauty on paper. After listening to her dilemma, the witches decided to grant her wish. But the witches seem to have misunderstood her request. Using a magical spell, the witches transformed Imogen directly into a painting. She was frozen in a beautiful still-life of colors. From that day forth, Imogen was preserved in her portrait for all eternity, hung beside her mother, whom she loved dearly.

[jacobsullivan]

The fall from the closest to the floor was a blur. Bone collided with hardwood from which Jamie could feel the bump forming before he even opened his eyes. Not that his vision was much help to asses his surroundings. Hazy from drink or a concussion he wasn't sure, but he squinted up at a familiar ceiling fan until it dawned on him exactly where he was. Home, at least the last place in Lunar Cove he'd called a place home.

Which meant...

Her name in his head and his name spoken allowed by her occurred in tandem.

Oh no. Feared gripped Jamie, but then so did she.

A hundred nights he'd imagined this moment. The one in which he'd see Briar again. Admittedly, in a few of those imaginary nights he'd been about as drunk as he was now. Except, in his imagination Briar didn't let go. The absence of her hands from his face, the physical distance she put between them, echoed in the hollow of James' chest. Who knew emptiness could hurt so much? He crumbled back to his place on the floor.

What was he doing? She asked.

He didn't know.

This was his home. A feeble argument. He'd left this home without a word. It was safe to say he'd abandoned it, and for all he knew someone else lived here now. Except, he knew they didn't because he kept up on her. A little unwilling, at times, as his sisters divulged too many details about his would've been wife. Like that she had a boyfriend now. Who, Jamie didn't know. He wouldn't let them tell him that. Just some guy and that she seemed had. A memory that made Jamie audibly scoff. He'd be the judge of that.

"W-what I should've done th-at day." She knew the one. When she broke his heart. "I love-" The word's last syllable came slow from hesitation or his drink slurred speech oen couldn't be sure. "d you." Loved because it was in the past.

Wasn't it? He'd admit he wondered what their eyes still shared. They'd once been electric interlocked from even across the room. It had been his favorite thing. His favorite. Her eyes of emerald green; beaming. In curiosity James' eyes flickered up because what was he but a cat who thought had had lives to spare.

Only moonlight illuminated the bedroom. Every inch dripped shades of grey. It was a poetic scene, one he'd mull over later with paper and ink, or with paint should the celestial body's light inspire a portrait of a gleaming beloved's skin turned to snow.

"We could've figured it out." The past tense of it all was nauseating. At least, that's what Jamie blamed it on. "I kn-ow, I know you were scared, B.B. So was I - so was I." It was a terrifying reality. Love, marriage, family, witch politics. The list was somedays endless, but they had each other. They had each other.

The clumsy clattering pulled her awake with a startling yelp. "Julian?" she cried, knowing just as quickly as she had said his name that whoever had fallen onto her floor was not him. She threw the covers back, her feet hitting the floor with a thud. Briar sparked with fear and rage that had been laying dormant for months—perhaps since Kyle, since things in Lunar Cove no longer felt safe.

Electricity zapped in a short and mild burst. She aimed to disarm rather than maim, but as the brief flicker of light illuminated the figure, a new feeling gripped her, and Briar dropped to her knees before the tangled limbs of her would have been husband. "Jamie." She hissed his name, a whisper that felt ridiculous. Grabbing hold of his face, concern shadowed her features.

However, as soon as she realized he was drunk, she scoffed in disbelief. The number of times she'd wanted to find him after a few drinks too many. To explain, to apologize. To make sense of what felt senseless, does he pick now? All the unsaid explanations and pleas gathered as a knot in her throat, and she dropped her hold and pushed back until her back hit the frame of her bed. "What are you doing?" The accusation was heavy as she bit down on her tongue, something to feel other than the ache in her chest threatening to splinter her open. He was gone two years without a word, back now to dig up the shame that had haunted her since the day he'd left. Shame that carried all the misaligned achings and honest worry that he would end up in a ditch and no one would know.

[gwennafran]

Emerald witch.

Postcard sized watercolour piece.

[abhelfen]

my take on... a more modern and older sieglinde, i suppose? haha