Before the bones hit the ground their eyes roll back in their skulls as their awareness gets torn from time itself.
An oracle sits in the middle of the witches, entranced too, only her nine arms are locked into dance. She engraves ripples and swirls in the air as she siphons smoke and ember towards the witches’ parted lips, and into their being.
As the bones hit the ground, the witches gasp sharply in unison. Memories of their future flood their minds…
Morgana feels her fingers firmly entangled in the matters of rulers of realms far and wide. A level of influence dwarfing the meagre influence her coven had over the sorry King and Queen of Lunnon and their pathetic Kingdom. No longer do they need to contort the words of the Kings ancestors to get their way, no longer do they need to feed the Queen half-truths about her destiny. No, she feels a level of power that comes with riches and renown… And she revels in it.
Tsillah remembers their dominion over a truly monstrous army. Necrotic creatures of many limbs, and many heads, twisted and contorted. An army both feared and sought after by Kings, Queens, Lords and Ladies alike. An army capable of turning the tide of any battle, an army that is said to guarantee glory… if one has the coin for it. And the coin they did need, for if they dared to oppose them, they joined them…
Grelda remembers the bitter wind clawing through her hair as she stands atop a dark tower, watching the violet mist saunter the cobbled streets of Lunnon, a town destined to be theirs in good time. She remembers the feeling of security, the feeling that everything is going to plan. She remembers mere moments ago, the Queen giving birth, and in the same moment, the birth of a witch demon. She remembers mere moments ago, taking the Princess and replacing her with their own.
Ravenna remembers her daughter, a young witch wearing a crown adorned with dragon horns, boots fit for a Queen, and a wand of great power. A young witch with incredible demonic talent. She remembers holding back the feeling of both excitement and fear as she watches her daughter twist her wand and contort her false parents’ corpses together in an explosion of vitriol.
Agatha remembers being approached by a merchant. A merchant peddling a mysterious bag. One of the bags she’d been hearing about. One of the bags rumoured to hold magic and spirit. A bag of seven. A bag including a crown adorned with dragon horns, boots fit for a Queen, and a wand of great power—
The oracle’s nine arms snap beside her body and her eyes flash from white to black. The smoke is dragged out of the witches’ beings and straight into the oracle’s with a force so violent that the shape of their bones become momentarily exposed beneath their skin. The witches all gasp for air in unison as their eyes roll back forwards and they come to.
They sit and weep bloodened tears as they take in what they saw… and what they want. They look to the oracle—
‘The bag,’ she wheezes as she exhales their memories, ‘…The bag is imperative to your power and influence.’