Deleted user
Idk, just some random idea that came to me. Slapped some stuff down. Worth continuing?
'Just because you’re a villain, doesn’t mean you can’t look fashionable.' As an afterthought, I add, 'This includes your army of ten thousand or so assorted humans and supernatural creatures. They have a right to look like an army, not a pigsty.'
Without looking up, I wave my hand, and an assumably confused-looking hero barrels through the door. I leave the door open. “Feel free to leave whenever you want. I’m a little busy right now.”
'Always keep an eye on the door, especially if it’s custom-made. Heroes love to destroy them (dramatic flair and such), and they really don’t understand how expensive they are to buy and replace.'
“Griselda, High Witch of Clordum, I am here on behalf of King Ender of Lorkim to bring you in, dead or alive,” the hero says confidently, despite his rough start. He straightens his armor and puts on a haughty look.
'If your hero likes talk and bravado, allow him to do so. Don’t waste your time doing that. That is exactly what the hero expects you to do. So don’t give him that self-satisfaction. Instead, throw him of by doing something totally, inexplicably out of context.'
“Okay.” I shrug. “Go ahead.” A look of complete and utter confusion passes over the hero’s face as I hold out my hands to be cuffed. This is clearly his first time doing this. How amusing.
“Wait, is it seriously this easy?” he asks, blinking. “King Ender promised that a duel will most certainly occur, in which I would just barely survive by killing you. Or you would surrender when I held my sword to your throat. What are you up to? Why are you surrendering?”
I laugh. It isn’t a maniacal cackle, but a normal laugh. “Wake up, hero. This is the real world. Battles to the death don’t exist. If I was planning something wonderfully evil, why would I tell you?”
The hero paused. “Uh, ’cause that’s what all villains do. They gloat and cackle and reveal their plans to the heroes. And then we kill them dead. Severely dead. And we stop their plan.”
I suppress a grimace. Of course I have to get stuck with this inexperienced hero who has grammatical errors and fantastical ideas of reality. “Sorry,” I say, then snap my fingers, turning him to dust.
I hate turning people to dust. It is so unuseful, and it’s a pain to clean up. Also, it is slightly disgusting, since the pile is person-colored. The dust on my floor is a shade of tan.
'When killing your hero, don’t keep them alive, or torture them to death, or force them to fight in your arena for amusement. Just plainly kill them with compassion and mercy. This may sound impossible, but a swift and painless death is the best for them. However, I do not suggest the style of turning them to dust. Cleaning up afterward is impossible.'
I magic up a broom and a pan, then manually sweep up all the dust. Using magic constantly is a pain. The small things that you can do yourself should not be dealt with via your magical powers. Save it for the big things, in my opinion.
Cleo, my cousin, walks in. I smile at her as I finish wiping up all the dust, then wipe my hands on my light green tunic. It could use a little dirt. “Hey, Cleo! Did anyone get injured when that hero came through?”
“Nope,” she said as I sat back down at my desk and picked up my quill, dipping it carefully in the ink pot. “Evans saw him coming a few minutes before he arrived. We all hid. His face when he came through was hilarious! He actually expected your ten thousand army.”
'Always show compassion to your troops, servants, and followers. Keep your family with you, if any are still alive. If you love them, they will love you and won’t betray you. They will serve you faithfully, and you will never have to doubt them.'
“They always do, don’t they?” I agreed. “I did have to turn him into dust, though. I’m not sure what to do with the ashes now. He’s only the fifth person I’ve turned to dust. Maybe I should scatter the ashes to the wind? That feels cruel, though.”
Cleo thought. “You could put the ashes in the garden. They’re supposed to be good compost or something. I don’t know… What did you do with the others five? Maybe something like that.”
I paused, then began counting them off on my fingers. “The first time I brought the ashes to a dragon to guard. Honorable and stuff. The second time, I scattered them to the winds. They were a wildling, and that’s their custom, so I felt that I had to. The third time, I didn’t turn them to dust, so I gave them a sailor’s death. The fourth time…” I grinned sheepishly. “I got a little carried away because I hated them so much. That time, I threw the body in a volcano.”
“To be fair, he was a bit of a…” Cleo pressed her lips together. “…I'm not gonna say anything, 'cause you'd probably turn me into a toad.” I had to suppress a laugh. My cousin has always had a habit of spewing dirty language, so coming to live with me, who asks for a clean vocabulary from everyone, is hard on her vocabulary.
“Yes,” I agree. After a moment, I point at the ash. “Summon.” Instantly, a ghostly figure rises from it; the hero blinks and looks around, disoriented by suddenly being in the real world.
“Why’d you summon me back?” he asks, his voice already raspy from death. “You can’t torture me. I’m dead. Nothin’ can bring me back. Not even you, High Witch Griselda.”
I shake my head sadly. “Why do heroes always assume my intent is to kill them?” Ignoring the hero’s surprised expression, I begin to pace the room, my heels clicking. “No. I was just going to ask your name. I’m going to bring your remains to King Ender. After all, it was he who asked your service.”
The hero shrugs. “My name is Luka. Luka of Lorkim. After my grandfather.” With that, he vanishes into thin air. His purpose served, whatever version of him, whether it be a spirit or ghost, returns to the death-world.
Cleo pulls an empty jar off one of my shelves and hands it to me. Years of precise measurements and cautious pouring allows me to get every single atom of ash in the jar. Then I screw the cap on.
After a moment, I grimace. “I can’t go to a meeting in my work clothes. I have a reputation to uphold.” Cleo laughs. I’m wearing a simple outfit of work boots, pants, and a light green tunic. Since I’m going out in public, I have to look fierce, and this really won’t do.
With a wave of my hand, I change into my High Witch outfit. I wear a black half cape, held with a witch’s hat pin; this is a symbol of my part in the Witchdom, as is my purple witch’s hat. My dress is a purple tea length, despite it typically being a wedding dress. Black leggings are tucked into my purple snakeskin thigh high boots.
“That’s more like it,” I say confidently. To my cousin, I add, “I’ll see you soon.” She nods, and with a wave of my hand, I disappear.
♛
When I reappear, I’m standing in the throne room before King Ender. He looks surprised at first, but once he sees the jar I’m holding, his face crumples completely.
“He’s dead?” Ender asks, not meeting my eye. My lip curls in disgust. Coward. Doesn’t he have any honor? Any shame? The least he could do is meet my eye and accept that he sent an innocent person to his death.
“Luka of Lorkim is dead,” I reply. When King Ender doesn’t reply, I can’t help but snap, “What’s wrong with you? You very clearly know that I am High Witch and that hero you sent was no older than twenty, and had never killed a soul in his life. He was unfit to be sent against me! Have you no shame?”
Ender raises his head, meeting my eyes for once, and glares at me with extreme loathing. “Of course I knew what he was up against! You are a plague on my kingdom! You are from Lorkim, but when a hero from your own home country comes before you, you show no mercy. No compassion. You sit on your throne of iron and bones, and kill him!”
“I sit on no iron and bone throne!” I hissed back. “That is you! I sit in the old fort, patiently waiting out my days, not threatening your kingdom, not brewing any spell. Then, out of nowhere, you send children to kill me! If you are so high and mighty, and wish to be rid of me, you should fight me yourself! Stop hiding behind your youth!”
“Luka was my son!” Ender roared. “My only son. I have three daughters, with nothing in their brains but love! He was the only one who could possibly have a chance at leading Lorkim, and now, thanks to you, I have no one!”
I snap my fingers, and the jar reappears in Ender’s hands. He looks down at it, his face tear-streaked. “Then you should have taken better care of him.”
