#Nezhit | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sidhewrites · 5 years

Photo

Chapter 1a. I just want to make it official and start uploading it, firstly in order more or less and then in order of what gets written when. Summary page found here. Approx 1200 words.

Noski-Nezhit was a terrible cat. Probably the worst in Moscow, if not all of Russia. He was overactive and poorly-behaved, always fidgeting and protesting even as he purred. And he wasn’t even pleasant to look at. His oversized, batlike ears flopped up and down as he traipsed and pounced and leapt all over the New Leningradsky Station, hunting soot and shadow and mouse.

Zorya Koshekaya chased after him with her chimney sweep’s brush. He ran with his too long legs and too long face, and she with her too-thin legs and too-thin face. She was all bones and freckles, hair as black as Noski’s fur -- though he had delicate little feet the color of snow, and she had old boots that had worn thin over a year ago.

She didn’t have time for this. She didn’t have time for him. The first trains had already pulled out of or into the station, with the travelers all greeting their relatives or making their way quickly to their business. It was officials, usually, dressed in the same dull colors as everyone else, She was usually supposed to be still asleep by now, working at night and sleeping the morning away, and long out of sight of any of the officials or patrons.

But Noski had gotten out while she tried and failed to get some sleep, too tired to even get undressed. Something had caught his eye, and Zorya had only just managed to get her shoes on fast enough to give chase.

Noski was faster, however. And smaller, even he was large for a cat. He slipped between the sparse crowds and under benches. People stared as they went by, staff members apologizing and excusing their eccentric chimney sweep who usually is so well behaved.

Zorya tried to pay them no mind. She cursed just loud enough to be heard, skidding and nearly tripping over her half-tied boots, and apologized to the fine folk on the platform.

“Excuse me. Pardon. Not a pest, just my cat.” Who was, admittedly, a significant pest at a time like this. But she could insult him later.

Zorya finally caught the damn thing under a bench, purring away over a piece of bread stolen right from the hand of one of the travellers.

“Damn thing,” she hissed, down on her knees, face nearly to the floor. “I hope you paid for that.”

He blinked slowly and rolled over onto his back.

“Spoiled beast.” Zorya dragged him out by the scruff of the neck, and all but sprinted back to the shadows. She just barely missed the station inspector and any trouble he might bring with him. Petrovsky and his dog Maks had more love for Noski than they ever did for Zorya herself, and she wasn’t about to test her luck by being seen after sunrise. It was nearing noon by now, but it was still better she make her way out of sight as quickly as possible.

Once she was safe, Zorya slowed to a walk, shuffling Noski around until she carried him like a baby in her arms. He was still purring, proud as can be.

Zorya took the bread from his mouth. “You’re a bastard little beast, you know that?” Then, despite her better judgement, she took a bite. It was still hot, no doubt fresh from a bakery, and a little sweet. Better than she’d eaten in weeks.

Noski meowed.

Subconsciously, Zorya began to pet him, scratching behind his ears, as she spoke between bites. “I ought to feed you to the next wyrdbeast that shows up here you know. Go right up to it and say, good evening, comrade. I’ve brought you a snack. I hope you like useless cats.”

Nosky mowed again as she entered her room, shutting the door tight behind her.

It was little more than an oversized closet at best, one of many apartments hidden in the back of the station for the other workers, with just barely enough space for a bed, her trunk, and a single chair on which sat a pitcher of water. Someone snored on the other side of the thin, unadorned walls, and she dropped Noski unceremoniously onto her bed, where he immediately got comfortable.

Her work clothes were sloppy at best, old and stained and too short. Brown pants, a once-white shirt and brown vest. She washed them often as she could, when she could trade favors with the washerwomen down the way, but it wasn’t as often as she’d liked. Zorya liked to tell herself she’d buy new ones one day, or at least new shoes. But her meager bankroll, hidden at the bottom of her trunk, said otherwise.

Her daily clothes, at least, were more tolerable. A skirt -- once red and checkered, now faded and too short, but mostly free of soot and stain -- and a once-fine blouse that had been gifted to her by a woman down the way. Zorya had cleaned her chimney and fireplace for a bit of extra money. She pulled her hair down for a quick cleaning -- all dark curls and waves. It was impossible and unruly, and made her sallow skin and freckles seem all the more stark in contrast.

Noski grumbled as she sat on the bed, looking up in expectation. To be held? Pet? It didn’t matter, so long as he got attention. But Zorya had a routine and little time.

She held her hands out loose in front of her, then snapped them upwards.

Soot and dust came alive, floating gently away from her hair, her face, her clothes, in organized streams. Noski batted at one as it passed him, before it joined the others in a single swirling mass in the center of the room. Then, with another flick of the wrist, Zorya sent the soot out through the crack in her window, and out into the early autumn frost.

Her hair was somewhat more manageable then, and could be coerced into something resembling a neat plait down her back, though her hands would never truly be clean again. One of the downsides of being a witch. Magic always left its mark.

From the bottom of her trunk, Zorya pulled her three most expensive possessions, all issued to her from Moscow’s Small Council: a near-black greatcoat with oversized lapels, a wide-brimmed hat to match, and a copper pin in the shape of three crescent moons, joined at the apex. The brooch of a Moscow Lesser Witch. And Zorya was certainly among the least.

But she was a witch all the same, and she would be seen before the Small Council today whether she liked it or not.

Looking as presentable as she’d ever get, Vitsina settled Noski into his bag and slung it over her shoulder. She donned her hat, and slipped out into the day.

Tag List: @fearlings-lament@maitretmaitresse

Please send a message to be added/removed from this tag list. Like my writing? Buy me a virtual coffee to support it!

#writeblr #writing #creative writing #nanowrimo #wip #wyrdwitch #wyrdwitch chapter

9 notes · View notes

sidhewrites · 5 years

Photo

Excerpt. Previous Installment found here, summary page found here. Approx. 2600 words. As always, feel free to send Asks or Messages about what’s written or anything you’re curious about.

She had always preferred taking lesser-known routes. Zorya was grateful to find the servant’s passageways accessed most of Clare’s estate, even if the very idea of them disgusted her. What was so terrible about seeing the people working for him, keeping him and all his attendants comfortable while other people were forced to struggle just to provide themselves with coal or firewood? Would he really be that inconvenienced by seeing someone carrying fresh linens from one floor to the next?

But at least it meant she could avoid the chance of running into him when Zorya found herself unable to sleep in the middle of the night. She shoved her boots on and stuffed Noski into his bag before slipping through the obscured doorway that led behind the walls.

Noski rarely stayed in his bag for long. He hopped out the second the door latched behind her, and stepped into his true form.

“The children’s home again?” he asked, wrapping one of his two tails around her arm.

She shook her head. “The aftermath of a battle. Remember the man who had his stomach ripped open?”

“He was half bunt up from the fire that caused the explosion.” Noski butted his head against her, mimicking the sounds of licking one’s lips. “Smelled like cooked ham.”

On some nights that made her smile. The grim, fatalistic humor of a creature that was made from death hit a certain note in Zorya. But she nodded without a grin. “It shouldn’t have made me so hungry.”

“Are you hungry now?”

She was. She wasn’t. She didn’t know.

Zorya shrugged -- and stopped.

The sound of someone whimpering echoed down the passageway, poorly-stifled, punctuated by hissed curses in Russian. It had to be Vittorina. No-one else here spoke Russian so well, not among the women anyway.

“You think she’s remembered something, too?” Noski asked.

Zorya shook her head with a half smile that didn’t hold. “Probably how to remember what it means to be a decent human being.”

Noski chuckled and purred, rubbing up against her. “Let’s go. I like the way the cold feels here.”

Zorya nodded, making her way forward -- but stopping again just as she passed Vittorina’s door. She seemed genuinely distraught over something immediate. Not just nightmares, not just bad memories or hunger. Something was happening right now. Zorya couldn’t make her feet move any further.

“Zoryenka?” Noski turned towards her, head curved upside down, one tail swishing in curiosity. “Are we going?”

“Yes,” she said, and didn’t move.

Noski waited a moment, then righted his head. “I see.” He stepped into the shape of a cat and hopped into the bag obediently, if a bit put out.

It took another few seconds for Zorya to finally give in, scoffing at herself, and turned back to Vittorina’s door.

The whimpering hadn’t slowed on the other side, but the cursing had gotten more colorful.

WIth a sigh, Zorya knocked lightly.

Vittorina went silent.

“Vasiliyevna?”

Shuffling answered her on the other side of the wall. A thunk, and Vittorina hissed out a curse. “Is that you, Kosheka? What do you want? Where are you?”

[what’s up]

Vittorina’s hair was down, limp about her without a single strand floating about in a magical breeze. She’d been clawing her fingers through it, no doubt, and now she kept her arms crossed tightly about her, hands hidden within the folds of her housecoat. She scowled a beautiful scowl, pale eyes blazing. “What do you want?”

“I heard you crying.”

“And?”

Zorya wasn’t sure what else to say, hesitated for a moment while struggling for words. Finally, she shrugged. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”

Vittorina’s face twitched. For a second, she looked weak. Looked ready to cry again. And then her mask went back up, and she moved away, haeding to where Yaga still sat obediently on her perch. “I don’t know why,” Vittorina said. “It’s not like I needed your help before.” She pulled a hand from the robes and reached out to pet the owl before realizing --

“Your hands,” Zorya gasped.

Vittorina flinched, stuffing her hand back into the folds of her housecoat. “Are you still here?” she hissed. “Don’t you know it’s bad manners to walk into a young woman’s room in the middle of the night?”

But it was too late to pretend Zorya hadn’t seen the damage. I thought I was a windwitch for the longest time, Vittorina had said on the train. Her skin had always been pale and transparent, but her fingers were worse. The tips of them were starting to fade, like mist disappearing in the night, and the little finger on her left hand was almost entirely gone. Zorya could just see the hint of bone and blood vessels underneath, just the barest hint of tendons still holding the structure together.

Noski meowed.

Zorya ought to have left. Ought to have shrugged it off and turned away then and there, leaving Vittorina Vasiliyevna to deal with the magic rot on her own. She should have left. Wanted to, as well.

But guilt made her stay. A protective instinct that Zorya had never learned to shake, no matter how much she’d like to, no matter how much Noski-Nezhit warned her of the trouble it would cause. Even as a child in the children’s home, Zorya was standing up to bullies twice her size, even after the revolution Moscow, where she had been all but isolated from the rest of the world simply by virtue of working at night.

No, she couldn’t just walk away from this.

“When did this happen?”

Vittorina stiffened. “Go away.”

Zorya stepped closer, wringing her own soot-covered hands. “It wasn’t there last week. How are your toes?”

“They’re --” Vittorina hesitated, as if uncertain, and shifted her weight. “Fine.”

Zorya nodded, and stepped closer. Noski mowed again, clearly uninterested in offering any kindness or assistance, but his complaints went ignored. She didn’t know what to say, not really. Zorya wasn’t good at this -- at talking to people. At being a person herself. Words came with difficulty, and she sighed. “Your fingers started to tingle a few weeks ago, didn’t they? Like they were falling asleep?”

Vittorina said nothing. Her breathing was forcibly controlled, though she couldn’t keep from sniffling from her runny nose.

“Then your fingerprints started to look strange, right. They started to shift and warp, just enough for you to feel like something was wrong, but not enough to know what. Right?”

After a long moment, Vittorina finally nodded.

“Yeah.” Zorya nodded as well, for all the good it would do. She thought back to the firewitch she’d seen those years ago, whose hands and arms were ruined to the point that he couldn’t even make a fist. The healing witch who couldn’t walk a foot without shattering the bones in her leg, only for them to mend on the next step, a cycle of pain that offered no relief until their death. No wonder Vittorina spent so much time researching with Caron, desperate to stop her body from dissipating entirely.

No comforting words came. What could be said when they both knew what awaited anyone who used magic? She looked about uselessly, noting how little the bed seemed to have been used. How many books were piled up on the desk, with bookmarks and notes on scraps of paper strewn haphazardly besides them. Most likely hours of research, rendered useless if Vittorina had been hoping to make a breakthrough before something irreversible happened. Something like losing her fingertips.

Noski mowed again, and trotted out of the room, no doubt fed up with what he would deem as needless emotional struggle. Everyone knew about magic rot. How magic slowly overtook a witch’s body until they held themselves together with more spell than sinew.

But knowing one’s fate didn’t make it any easier to face when it finally reared its head.

With a labored sigh, Zorya nodded again. “I have vodka in my room. Good, strong stuff they don’t make on this side of Europe.”

At that, Nina turned her head -- just slightly, but she looked over all the same. “You’d give your vodka to me?”

Zorya made a face. “I’d share with you.”

Nina let out a short half-laugh, and nodded. “Fair enough.” She glanced to the door and hesitated. “But…I don’t …”

“Why are you looking at the door? I came through the wall, remember?”

Nina looked back again, brows furrowed, the slightest hint of a smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. “Let me get my shoes on.”

As it was, Zorya had far more than just vodka in her room. A vintage wine, whiskey, and even a few bottles of kvass sat in the decorative cabinet just besides a side table armed with multiple cups and a decanter. No doubt the last person to have resided here had been something of an entertainer of guests, but Vittorina was the first person to have joined Zorya in her room since their arrival.

She sat awkwardly on one of the plush chairs while Zorya poured the drinks, hands tucked again in her robe, looking smaller and more out of place than she ever had before. It felt somehow wrong to Zorya, like Vittorina deserved to be here more than she did. A room like this belonged to a proper magic user, a powerful Magician chosen for their prowess and mastery, not because they just so happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Vittorina thanked her when taking the glass, but hesitated before drinking it.

Zorya grit her teeth, well aware of the smudges she’d left on the surface of the crystal. “I didn’t poison it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Damn. Maybe it’d be better if you did.”

“Just let me know, and I’ll see about getting you some arsenic.”

Vittorina laughed mirthlessly. After a long moment of silence, she lowered the glass and looked up. “Does it hurt? The rot, I mean.”

Zorya shook her head. She sat down on the other chair, separated from Vittorina’s by a small table, before taking a sip of her own drink and savoring the vodka’s burn on her throat. “I’m lucky. Doctors say they’ll most likely crumble into ash by the time I’m thirty, but I’ll lose all feeling in them first. My tongue, too. That’s going to be fun.”

Vittorina grimaced. She finally took a long draught, draining half the glass in one go. Zorya couldn’t help but be impressed. “I can still feel my fingertips sometimes somewhat, but…” She held out the left hand, fingers extended, for just a moment. Then, she flinched, curling them into claws and stuffing the hand back into her robe and out of sight.

Finally, she admitted, “I’m jealous of you.”

Zorya scoffed, amused.

“No, I mean it. You don’t … you don’t care. You don’t try. Nobody’s going to be upset if you’re not perfect.”

Her wry smirk faded. Zorya shrugged, contemplating the contents of her glass. Best not to tell Vittorina that there wasn’t anyone to be upset at her in the first place. “Nobody’s immune to magic rot,” she said instead, and drank.

“Doesn’t matter.” Vittorina shook her head. “If my family learned that it’s happening so soon, they’d be furious. Probably tell me that it means I’m weak.”

“Who? Your family?”

She nodded. Took another drink. “My parents.”

“Are they witches”

“No. Not in the least. I’m the only one out of the nine of us.”

“Oh.”

Vittorina nodded. “I was born fifth out of seven children. It was easy to forget me sometimes. Can’t tell you how many times I got left outside overnight or went without a bath just because someone forgot to look for me.” She shook her head, grimaced again, and finished her glass.

Zorya leaned over without a word and filled it again.

Nina nodded her thanks, and went on. “When I started using magic, they put all their hopes on me. Suddenly I was the most important child, the only one they cared about. I could make food last us weeks instead of days, fix tears in clothes and keep the house warm. And if I messed up...well, they left me to my siblings instead.”

“Why was that so bad?”

“Are you joking? They hated me. They’re still begging for table scraps, and I’m getting coffee and a real feather pillow. If I wasn’t on guard, they’d lock me in the cellar until our parents noticed I was gone.” Vittorina sighed again. “If they knew, they’d beat me themselves for being clumsy.”

Zorya didn’t understand, reached out before remembering herself and set a hand on the arm of Vittorina’s chair. “But it isn’t your fault -- you can’t control it.”

“Can’t I?” Vittorina looked up, glassy-eyed and angry. “I can do everything else in the world. Make bread out of dust, turn tin cans into gold. Why can’t I do this, too?”

Zorya didn’t have an answer. She didn’t know how to help, or what to say. Vittorina’s parents had taken her for granted, used her as a tool, rather than cared for her as a child. And wasn’t that what all the parenting books said to avoid?

She sighed, and leaned her head back against the chair. Wordlessly, she held the bottle of vodka out for Vittorina to take.

Vittorina hesitated, brows furrowed. “Really?”

“Just take it before I change my mind.”

There was no denying the hint of a smile on her face as Vittorina took the bottle and took a hearty swig, abandoning her cup on the table between them. After a long moment of silence, Vittorina spoke again, soft but genuine. “Thank you.”

Zorya smirked. “I was wondering if you knew how to be polite.”

“Asshole.”

“I believe the phrase is, one cannot recognise the flaws in others that one does not first possess herself.”

At that, Vittorina laughed. It was small, not too hearty, but genuine all the same. Laughter still felt too rare to Zorya, too hard to come by, and Vittorina’s smile was enchanting. More real than her usual smug grins or smirks. Her face was still red, eyes still swollen from crying, but it warmed Zorya all the same.

[something]

“What do your parents think of all this? I didn’t see them saying goodbye to you at the station.”

Zorya’s joy faded quickly. She looked down into her cup, and shook her head. “Buy me a drink first, and maybe I’ll tell you about them.”

“Is that a promise?” She winked.

“No. Maybe. We’ll see.”

“Then as I said before -- you’re an asshole.”

Zorya shrugged. “I’ve been called worse. At least you aren’t giving me a nickname, eh?”

Vittorina grinned, eyes alight with mischief. “A nickname?”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes, dear Zoisha. I should be glad to count you as one of my dearest friends.” Her voice had become sickeningly sweet, and unbearably sarcastic.

“Give me my vodka back.”

“No.” Vittorina held it close, cradling it lovingly. “You gave it to me as a gift.”

“That’s when I didn’t hate you.” But she couldn’t deny her own smile, the rare humor she found in this easy bickering, insults thrown back and forth without meaning. She didn’t know it could feel so light.

“Oh, don’t be like that. I’m still sad, see?” She pulled a pout.

Zorya shook her head. “The most miserable person…” She hesitated, trying to think of a nickname in turn. “Nina,” she finished, rather lamely.

Vittorina threw her head back and laughed.

Zorya didn’t know what to do. She blamed the vodka, making her dizzy. Making her silly. But she shook her head, and laughed as well.

Tag List: @fearlings-lament@maitretmaitresse

Please send a message to be added/removed from this tag list. Like my writing? Buy me a virtual coffee to support it!

#nanowrimo #writeblr #wip #writing #writers on tumblr #wyrdwitch #wyrdwitch excerpt #it's time for girls to bond and start being friends!!!!!

3 notes · View notes

sidhewrites · 5 years

Text

Untitled #6

Noski-Nezhit snored gently, oversized ears twitching. Most likely dreaming of catching mice, or swallows, or whatever it was that useless cats dreamt of. Vitsinya would be tempted to wake him, if it didn’t mean he’d then be chasing after the loose threads and strings hanging from her coat.

Other young adults were all lined up either side of her with their respective familiars, ravens and owls, mice, toads, and at least one red fox. Each of them bore the same copper brooch on their formal coats’ lapels -- three crescent moons joined at the apex, the sign of a Lesser Moscow Witch.

And Vitsinya Koshka was certainly among the least. She didn’t want to be here, not really. It gave her the illusion of hope -- that she might be given passage to Paris and study under a proper magician. That she wasn’t as useless as the cat curled up around her shoulders.

But she knew the truth of it. She knew how well her magic worked, and she knew that candles and soot were far from useful in the eyes of the Arkane Council. Witches had only one or two specialities at most, and they wanted a magician. Someone with no one focus or specialty. Who could master any and all branches of magic. Not someone who made pretty shapes out of wax and couldn’t even control her familiar.

She ran a hand through Noski’s short black fur for luck. He stirred just long enough to let out a low, rasping purr, and go back to sleep.

One of the dogs barked.

A bird relieved itself on its witch’s shoulder.

The candles in the hall flickered, dripping wax onto the floor.

They weren’t to break formation unless dismissed, though Vitsina could see a man hesitate, glancing at the mess. A cleaning witch, no doubt.

As the sun set lower in the sky, the Lesser Witches all began growing impatient, some whispering to each other in confusion and concern. The exam was meant to begin when the evening star first appeared in the sky, and end as the sun dipped below the horizon. Even the attendants at the door seemed unsure of what to do.

Finally, finally, the massive wooden doors slid open, letting golden light spill in from the rooms beyond. All eyes lit up with anticipation as a backlit silhouette walked into the room -- but it was smaller than the Grand Magician ought to have been. More feminine. And there was neither hat nor coat nor shimmering golden brooch that denoted the Grand Magician’s status.

A woman walked in, with heels clacking on the marble floor. She dressed plainly, though a purple collar stood out against her white blouse. An attendant to the Magician. A messenger.

She moved to the dais in the front of the hall and cleared her throat, hands clasped behind her back. “The Grand Magician sends his regrets. The exam shall reconvene tomorrow.”

The attendant nodded, walked back down the length of the hall, and left.

Vitsinya fled before the uproar began. Seven years since the last exam, and they were asking the witches to wait one more day? The indignance was palpable, even as she left the building -- a hotel for the elite -- and slipped into the alleyways of Moscow.

Gas lamps lit the cobblestone streets, casting a warm glow over the late summer chill. The train station wasn’t far from the hotel, at least, and Vitsinya’s room was one of many provided for the workers. She took shortcuts, back alleys mostly, allowing her to cut corners and stay out of sight, should any rich visitor decide they wanted to strike up a chat with a local. Of course Vitsinya knew where the best bars and dance halls were. But so did every other young woman in the city with half an interest in vodka and amateur opera.

Vitsinya found herself half hoping to run into trouble just to blow off some steam. The long wait had frustrated her just as much as the other Lesser Witches, whether she wanted to admit it or not, and her hands itched to be put to use. But she knew better than to seek it out herself, especially with how little time she had before work at the train station.

Ever since they started using trains on the regular, the station’s windows and ceilings had suffered for it. And it wouldn’t do to accept visitors in a blackened train station like they did in smaller cities. And nothing was better for a soot problem than a sootwitch.

Vitsinya pulled her dark hair free from the elaborate, traditional magician’s braid as she walked, tying it back into something far more practical. It was all senseless waves and curls, impossible to deal with, and made her sallow, freckled skin look all the paler. The movements jostled Noski awake, and he stirred with a sleepy, rasping meow.

“Oh, good,” she said, shrugging her shoulders and shuffling him about more. “You’re finally awake”

He grumbled at the shaking, and hopped to the ground indignantly, letting out a long and dissatisfied meow. It was as unpleasant sounding as he was unpleasant looking -- more like a goblin out of a story than a cat, truth told, with his too-long face and too-long legs and many snaggled teeth. His fur was black as Vitsinya’s hair, short and sleek save for his white paws -- thus earning him the name Noski. Socks.

“You’re complaining? Who here just slept through an hour of waiting for the Grand Magician? Who, I might add, couldn’t even be arsed to show up on time.”

Noski looked around the narrow alleyway. There were no onlookers, no windows, no chance of being seen. So he stepped forward, out of the shape of a cat and into the shape that had earned him his title. Nezhit. Undead.

He was solid as smoke now, long and thin, something that Was Not and Had Never Been a cat. Almost humanoid, though he was dark as night, save for his bone-white hands and feet, each with too many long fingers and toes. He tilted its cat-skull head down at her, curling its two rope-like tails in curiosity. His pale eyes blinked open out of the darkness, all six turning and rotating in the air around the skull until they found focus on Vitsinya’s face.

“Good morning.” His voice was nothing more than the whisper of wind through a narrow alleyway, footsteps scuffing on cobbled roads.

“It’s dusk.”

“Hm.” Noski’s eyes glanced upwards while he turned his head this way and that. “Lovely moon tonight. Crescent. Excellent for wyrdwork. You should go home.”

“Thank you for the advice. I have work.”

Noski curled his neck once, twice, and half over again until his head was upside down, eyes cast downwards, save for two that were looking her way. Pouting. “I think only of your safety, little Vitsya.”

She was half sympathetic to his worries, and put a reassuring hand on his too-thin arm. “There’s less than five wyrdwitches in Moscow, Noskenkya. I’m not going to run into one tonight.”

“Most witches listen when their familiars have a bad feeling in their gut.” He righted his head, stepping forward and into the shape of a cat once more.

“Most familiars actually have guts. And they don’t talk.” Or metamorphose. Or live centuries past their original witch. They were to serve as an anchor to the mundane, a tether to keep their mind in their heads, instead of casting it out alongside the spell. They also tended to look rather more regal as well.

Noski looked more like a goblin out of a story than a cat, truth told, with his too-long face and too-long legs. His fur was black as Vitsinya’s hair, short and sleek save for his white paws -- thus earning him the name Noski, and his true form had earned him the title Nezhit. Socks the Undead, more or less. She’d always giggled at his name as a child, ruining any intimidating mystique he might have once held for her.

Noski hopped onto her shoulder with a meow, then off once more, stalking around the alleyway in search of something to eat. Vitsinya sometimes wondered if he even was her familiar -- or if, perhaps, she and her father before her had always been his.

#writeblr #writing #creative writing #gaslamp fantasy #reposting bc i keep going over and editing these sections rip me #short story #mystuff #wyrdwitch #wyrdwitch excerpt

3 notes · View notes

sidhewrites · 5 years

Text

They talked about nothing. They drank hot tea. They practised French. Zorya researched ways to slow the effects of magic on the user, and Nina researched wyrdbeasts, asking questions regularly.

“I hate this bed,” Zorya admitted one night. They sat in the bed long after dark, books and snacks forgotten on their laps. Noski sat at the window, barely visible in the dim light of the oil lamp. “I still don’t sleep on it most of the time.”

Nina nodded. “I fall asleep on the chair more often than not. How about you?”

“You’re going to laugh.”

“I deserve to laugh. Tell me.”

After a moment, fighting back a wry but not entirely joyless grin, she answered, “On the floor, right next to the window.”

Nina did laugh. She grabbed one of Zorya’s hands without thinking, pressing it to her heart, and laughed.

But Zorya’s joy faded quickly, and she yanked her hand away, stricken. “Your shirt.”

Nina stopped laughing for just a moment, looking down to see a sooty handprint on the undyed cotton. And then she laughed again, took Zorya’s hand and pressed it against her right breast. “There we go. Now it’s symmetrical.”

There was no helping it. Zorya laughed as well. It was a rare thing, an unpractised and hoarse sound, but genuine all the same.

Noski-Nezhit’s dark eyes glittered, unblinking in the lamplight. His ears twitched, his tail flicked, and he said nothing at all.

#whats better than this? Gals being pals #jk nina is actually super in love with someone else right now. It may be a crush it may be real love i haven't decided but as it stands #these two are best friends and the first real friend either of them have ever had #writeblr #wip #wyrdwitch #wyrdwitch excerpt #writing

2 notes · View notes

sidhewrites · 5 years

Photo

Chapter 4-ish. Previous Installment found here, summary page found here. Approx. 1200 words. As always, feel free to send Asks or Messages about what’s written or anything you’re curious about.

The registration went more quickly than it had the night before. Zorya stopped at the desk with the same woman from the day before, expecting no pleasantries and getting none as well.

“Name,” the woman said.

“Zorya Kosheka.”

The woman found Zorya’s name on a list, then pulled her papers from a stack of dozens more. “Go into the Council Hall and wait in line.”

It was easier than she could have expected. Zorya took her papers without so much as a thank you and followed the other Lesser Witches inside. Just as before, they lined up single file with their familiars in tow. Noski whined inside his bag, tossing and shifting about until he managed to get his head and one foreleg out. Zorya put a hand roughly on his head, all but shoving him back in the bag before he had a chance to escape.

Her mind began to wander all too quickly as the other Lesser Witches filed in behind her. She couldn’t keep from worrying about Clare, about whether or not he’d report her to an official. He had said he was here on business. It must be government work, something important -- or something illegal. Doubtful, considering the station master himself met Clare as the train pulled in, but stranger things had happened in Moscow.

She could only hope that Clare had forgotten about her, or, at least, was hoping to use the knowledge of her magic as blackmail if and when they ran into each other again.

The other witches stood at attention as best they could, but it seemed a few of them were having the same trouble focussing as Zorya. One witch nearby whispered to the person besides them, muttering something about how they bet the Grand Magician wouldn’t show again.

“Well, he’s French,” said the other witch. “You know what the French are like.”

“You think he found a girl to distract himself with?”

“Who knows.” The witches tittered.

Zorya felt herself go pale. French? The Grand Magician was French?

Zorya’s father had met the previous Grand Magician personally, Noski had told her once. He’d been an English man, studious, with the serious but refined air of a poet. She’d somehow assumed he’d be the same man they were meeting today. Not someone else. Not…

Her stomach dropped, just as the doors opened wide.

There he stood, with his gold tipped walking cane and flowing red hair, glowing gold in the light. He wore a purple coat with gold and silver embroidery at the hem and cuffs, and used a walking cane all but lined in gold. His familiar was an illustrious, pearly white python, curled around his neck and peering in with curious eyes.

Isidore Clare.

He smiled easily at the witches before him. “Bonsoir, my little witches.” He spoke loudly, clearly, his voice ringing throughout the Central Hall as he approached. “I’m so sorry about the mishap of last night. I’m sure you’ve all made up fantastically torrid rumors about why I was late, and I’d be delighted to hear them all.”

“We have to leave,” Zorya whispered.

The nearest witch heard her and looked over, confused. “Leave? But the Grand Magician just got here. You can’t leave.”

She grit her teeth, and shook her head. “No, I…” Zorya trailed off and looked around helplessly. Where would she go? He would notice her the second she broke formation.

He would notice her either way.

Zorya glanced down to Noski for help, and Clare continued his path down the hall. “Now, he continued, “I’m sure you’re all very excited about this evening, finding out who among you is a Greater Witch in hiding, and who here is a proper magician, capable of great and wonderful things.” There was something melodic to his voice. Zorya wondered if he had spelled it somehow.

Noski mowed. He offered no further assistance, and instead took advantage of Zorya’s distraction to leap out of the bag.

She looked down with a start, hissing a curse, and all but fell to her knees to catch him. “Noski--” she hissed. Zorya managed to catch him by the tip of his tail, one soot-stained hand grasping it like a vice. Noski yowled again, but allowed himself to be dragged backwards and stuffed back into the bag with only minimal shredding of the carpet.

Zorya’s ears burned as she pushed the cat back in and latched the bag shut. She would cause even more of a scene trying to stand up, and grit her teeth.

A pair of fine shoes entered her vision before she began her efforts.

She looked up, and felt the blood drain from her face.

“Hello, cinderwitch,” he said, looking down his nose at her with that same, smug smirk as before. He held out a gloved hand, as if he wanted her to take it.

Zorya refused it, struggling to her feet, doing her best not to scrape her prosthetic against the floor as she did so. It took nearly three times as long as simply accepting Clare’s help would have, but she wasn’t about to let him have the pleasure. “I’m a sootwitch,” she corrected, bitterly, then rushed to add, “Sir.”

A few witches on either side of her laughed or whispered, but most held their composure, as they were meant to do.

“I’m sure you are,” Clare answered, his grin growing more smug, wider, dimpling his handsome face. He raised his voice again, addressing the Lesser Witches as a whole. “As this is the first Russian exam after the Great War, after the Revolution, and after my appointment to the title, I’m afraid I won’t be doing things quite the same as my predecessor. My attendants will see to your papers and send the Magicians among you to my personal train. I, meanwhile, will be taking on a personal apprentice myself and train them personally.”

One of the attendants coughed by the door. “Sir, are you sure you have the time--”

Clare held up a hand. “I’m quite sure this arrangement will be beneficial to everyone, Josefin. Please see to the Lesser Witches. And as for you,” he smiled, and held his hand out to Zorya, palm up. “Papers, please?’

Zorya grit her teeth, every inch of her ablaze. She hadn’t wanted to leave Moscow, hadn’t wanted to join the Arkane College or even be recognised as a Greater Witch. She had wanted to live out the rest of her days in mundanity, anonymity, monotony.

Why single her out?

What could he want her for?

With a trembling hand, Zorya held out her registration. Clare glanced down, and smiled.

“Miss Zorya Kosheka,” He said her name in a voice dripping with honey and riches. “And your familiar, Noski-Nezhit. I look forward to working with you both.” He grinned, and turned away.

All eyes were still on her, a myriad of confusion, wonder, and open jealousy.

The Grand Magician’s Apprentice.

Zorya wanted to break something. Or maybe just faint. Either way, she could really use a chair.

Tag List: @fearlings-lament@maitretmaitresse

Please send a message to be added/removed from this tag list. Like my writing? Buy me a virtual coffee to support it!

#nanowrimo #writeblr #writing #wip #original fiction #wyrdwitch #wyrdwitch chapter

1 note · View note

sidhewrites · 5 years

Photo

Chapter 2a. Previous Installment found here, summary page found here. Approx. 1450 words. As always, feel free to send Asks or Messages about what’s written or anything you’re curious about.

Trigger warnings for minor animal body horror.

Noski snored gently, oversized ears twitching. Most likely dreaming of catching mice, or swallows, or whatever it was that useless cats dreamt of. Zorya would be tempted to wake him, if it didn’t mean he’d then be chasing after the loose threads and strings hanging from her coat.

Evening was getting on. By six, most of the witches had completed registration, all lined up single file in the main hall. Tradition stated that the proper examination was to begin at dusk -- approximately seven in the evening at this time of year. But the sun was long since set, nearing eight. The Lesser Witches knew not to break formation or chatter. It simply had to be another test, simple as that. Patience and endurance were necessary for any walk of life, not just magic, and Zorya wasn’t about to shame herself by walking out now.

She ran a hand through his short black fur for luck. He stirred just long enough to let out a low, rasping purr, and go back to sleep.

One of the dogs barked.

A bird relieved itself on its witch’s shoulder.

The candles in the hall flickered, dripping wax onto the floor.

They weren’t to break formation unless dismissed, though Zorya could see a man hesitate, glancing at the mess. A cleaning witch, no doubt.

A woman walked in, with heels clacking on the marble floor. She dressed plainly, though a purple collar stood out against her white blouse. An attendant to the Magician. A messenger.

She moved to the dais in the front of the hall and cleared her throat, hands clasped behind her back. “The Grand Magician sends his regrets. The exam shall reconvene tomorrow.”

The attendant nodded, walked back down the length of the hall, and left.

Zorya fled before the uproar began. Seven years since the last exam, and they were asking the witches to wait one more day? The indignance was palpable, even as she slipped out the door and slipped into the alleyways of Moscow.

Gas lamps lit the cobblestone streets, casting a warm glow over the late summer chill. The train station wasn’t far from the hall, at least, and Zorya’s room was one of many provided for the workers. She took shortcuts, back alleys mostly, allowing her to cut corners and stay out of sight, should any visitor decide to strike up a conversation. Of course Zorya knew where the best bars and dance halls were. But so did every other young woman in the city with half an interest in vodka and jazz.

Zorya found herself almost hoping to run into trouble just to blow off some steam. The long wait had frustrated her just as much as the other Lesser Witches, whether she wanted to admit it or not, and her hands itched to be put to use. But she knew better than to seek it out herself, especially with how little time she had before work.

Ever since they started using trains on the regular a few decades back, the station’s windows and ceilings had suffered for it. And it wouldn’t do to accept visitors in a blackened train station like they did in smaller cities. And nothing was better for a soot problem than a sootwitch.

Zorya pulled her dark hair free from the elaborate, traditional magician’s braid as she walked, tying it back into something far more practical. It was all senseless waves and curls, impossible to deal with, and made her sallow, freckled skin look all the paler. The movements jostled Noski awake, and he stirred with a sleepy, rasping meow.

“Oh, good,” she said, shrugging her shoulders and shuffling him about more. “You’re finally awake.”

He grumbled at the shaking, and hopped to the ground indignantly, letting out a long and dissatisfied meow. It was as unpleasant sounding as he was unpleasant looking -- more like a goblin out of a story than a cat, truth told, with his too-long face and too-long legs and many snaggled teeth. His fur was black as Zorya’s hair, short and sleek save for his white paws -- thus earning him the name Noski. Socks.

“You’re complaining?” Zorya braced her hands on her hips, scowling as the cat stretched with a long, loud yawn. “Shut up. Maybe if you bit the doctor instead of just making me look like I dragged some stray cat out of the gutter, we wouldn’t have even had to wait.”

Noski paid her little mind. He looked around the narrow alleyway, ears swiveling in search of any stray footsteps. There were no onlookers, no windows, no chance of being seen. So he stepped forward, out of the shape of a cat and into the shape that had earned him his title. Nezhit. Undead.

“Good morning.” His voice was nothing more than the whisper of wind through a narrow alleyway, footsteps scuffing on cobbled roads.

“It’s dusk.”

“Hm.” Noski’s eyes glanced upwards while he turned his head this way and that. “Lovely moon tonight. Crescent. Excellent for wyrdwork. You should go home.”

“You should have just bitten the doctor if you wanted me in bed before dark.”

“Oh, now there’s an idea.”

“Thank you, by the way, for making me look like some filthy street rat who dug my familiar out of the gutter.”

“They’d take me away if they knew the truth of me.”

“It’s times like that where I almost wish they did.”

Noski wound his neck once, twice, and half over again until his head was upside down, eyes cast downwards, save for two that were looking her way. Pouting. ”I think only of your safety, little Kotyonoka. Speaking of which...” Two of his eyes rolled upwards, though his head remained still. The moon reflected against them almost as brightly as if they were a mirror. “The moon, my dear.” His final eye focussed back on Zorya, floating in place.

It was almost enough to make her forgive him for earlier. Almost. Noski spoke the truth — he did care for her above all else. She wouldn’t have survived her childhood without him, much less the war. It was enough, at least, to make her half-sympathetic to his worries, and put a reassuring hand on his too-thin arm. “There’s less than five wyrdwitches in Moscow, Noskenkya. I’m not going to run into one tonight.”

“Most witches listen when their familiars have a bad feeling in their gut.” He righted his head, stepping forward and into the shape of a cat once more.

Her sympathy fled the second he looked at with that smug, feline face of his, and scoffed. “Most familiars actually have guts. And they don’t talk.” Or metamorphose. Or live centuries past their original witch. They were to serve as an anchor to the mundane, a tether to keep their mind in their heads, instead of casting it out alongside the spell. They also tended to look rather more regal as well.

Noski looked more like a goblin out of a story than a cat, truth told, with his too-long face and too-long legs. His fur was black as Zorya’s hair, short and sleek save for his white paws -- thus earning him the name Noski, and his true form had earned him the title Nezhit. Socks the Undead, more or less. She’d always giggled at his name as a child, ruining any intimidating mystique he might have once held for her.

Noski hopped onto her shoulder with a meow, then off once more, stalking around the alleyway in search of something to eat. Zorya sometimes wondered if he even was her familiar -- or if, perhaps, she and her father before her had always been his.

Tag List: @ambreeskyewriting@fearlings-lament@maitretmaitresse

Please send a message to be added/removed from this tag list. Like my writing? Buy me a virtual coffee to support it!

#writeblr #nanowrimo #writing #wip #historical fantasy #wyrdwitch #wyrdwitch chapter #wyrdwitch chapter 2

1 note · View note

sidhewrites · 5 years

Photo

Chapter 1b. Previous Installment found here, summary page found here. Approx. 2000 words. As always, feel free to send Asks or Messages about what’s written or anything you’re curious about.

Trigger warnings for vague mentions of body horror, amputation, war, and gun violence.

It was the first exam since the revolution. Lesser Witches of every region were sent to their nearest Small Council Hall to be appraised for their aspects and strength, and ultimately attend higher magical education in England at the University of Mages. Power varied from person to person -- a pair of twins may have opposing aspects, or the same. One may be powerful and one weak. Cleaning witches were much employed by hoteliers, while inkwitches were found often in publishing houses or trained by professional artists.

Zorya had met a Greater Witch once, with both fire and water aspects, who was strong enough to power an entire steam train on his own, but the magic rot had set in astonishingly fast. She’d caught sight of his arms, like charcoal up to the shoulder. Ruined. He couldn’t even hold a pencil. But before the revolution, he had been paid handsomely to ever need to write anything himself. Most Greater Witches served the party directly nowadays, as strong as ever, if not nearly as rich.

But the Arkane Council wanted magicians. Even Greater Witches had no more than two aspects at a time, and couldn’t harness the same amount of arkane energy as a magician could.

Other young adults were all lined up outside the Small Council Hall for preliminary registration, some with their friends and others with siblings. They chatted among each other in excitement, anticipation, frustration. Few witches stood silently or alone, and those that did still held themselves with pride. Each one stood with their respective familiars, ravens and owls, mice, toads, and at least one red fox. Each of them bore the same copper brooch on their formal coats’ lapels -- three crescent moons joined at the apex, the sign of a Lesser Moscow Witch.

Zorya herself was certainly among the least. She didn’t want to be here, not really. It gave her the illusion of hope -- that she might be given passage to Paris and study under a proper magician. That she wasn’t as useless as the cat curled up around her shoulders.

But she knew the truth of it. She knew how well her magic worked, and she knew that candles and soot were far from useful in the eyes of the Arkane Council. Witches had only one or two specialities at most, and they wanted a magician. Someone with no single focus or specialty. Who could master any and all branches of magic. Not someone who made pretty shapes out of dust and couldn’t even control her familiar.

A little ways down the line, another witch stood with their familiar -- a handsome barn owl with a ring of gold about its face. The witch had to be about Zorya’s age, a notably pale young woman with fair yellow hair that seemed to float about her in a breeze. No doubt magical. She made a gesture, and the owl took off from her arm, soaring across the street to retrieve a piece of shiny in the road -- a lost button or screw, most likely -- and return to her hand with it, all within a span of seconds.

Zorya looked hopelessly down at her wretched cat, whining inside the bag. He tossed about and struggled, desperate to be let out, but only his little white feet managed to escape every now and then.

At least she knew better than to hope.

One by one, the line moved forward as witches were called up by a severe woman with razor-sharp features who barely looked up from her ledger. A rat sat on her shoulder, sweet and unfazed by the wretchedness of its witch. After producing their license, the witches were sent into side rooms to be examined by uniformed officials, for almost twenty minutes each. Nearly two hours passed before Zorya was called to the podium.

“Name, age, city of origin,” the woman demanded, in a voice no kinder than Zorya’s herself.

“Zorya Kosheka, twenty-three, Moscow.”

The woman flipped through her list, and stopped at Zorya’s name. “Your parents aren’t listed.”

“I was raised in a children’s home twenty miles from here.”

The woman scribbled a note. “Familiar?”

“Noski-Nezhit, male cat. Black. Stupid.”

Noski yowled from inside the bag, as if to emphasize her point.

“Interesting name.”

“It’s because --”

“I don’t care.” The woman looked up just long enough to glance at the bag. “Can you control it?”

“I can contain him.”

The woman raised a brow. She scribbled another note and held out a bony hand. “License.”

Zorya handed it over, a small piece of paper announcing who she was and whether or not she was legally permitted to practise magic without direct supervision or outside her occupation. Few individuals were. Zorya wasn’t. It was dangerously close to a status symbol in the eyes of some non-magicians, though that didn’t stop a few from breaking the law and practising magic in their own homes, where they were only rarely ever caught.

The woman returned Zorya’s license and an added slip of paper for the officials’ use. “Room three on the left.”

Zorya did as she was told. Two officials waited for her in the room, one in a surgical costume, one with a clipboard. They sat in chairs at a small table, and a curtain hid half the room from view. Noski whined, still pawing at the bag. Zorya tried not to be ashamed.

“Papers,” the man with the clipboard stated.

Zorya presented them. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket -- a veritable luxury -- lit it, and began to take notes.

“Is there any reason you would find yourself unable to attend the University of Mages?” he asked.

“No.”

“Anything in your medical history?”

“Nothing that keeps me from doing my job.”

“Political?”

“I fought on the side of the Bolsheviks, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Fought?”

“Fought.”

The official held her gaze for a moment. He was a sturdy man, muscular, scarred on the face and ear. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark suit. Finally, let loose a breath of smoke and made a note.

“Says here you work with soot. Show us what you can do.”

“I need something burnt.”

The official raised his brow, and pulled the cigarette from his lips. “Will this do?”

Zorya nodded. She raised a hand and flicked her wrist, pulling the ashes off the cigar and into the air. It spun itself into a sphere, then into numbers, and finally down into the rubbish bin.

“Is that it?” the man with the clipboard asked.

“That’s it.”

“I see.” He took a note.

Zorya tried not to be offended. She knew it wouldn’t go well from the start, and there was nothing but her pride at stake.

She presented Noski next -- or tried to, anyway. The second she opened the bag, he shot out, yowling, and bolted across the room with his fur bristled.

The officials remained unmoved as Zorya, ears burning, held out a hand. “Noski, here.”

He meowed and leapt up onto the table. Slowly, his fur smoothed out, and he relaxed.

“Noski,” Zorya tried again.

Noski looked at her, then at the men. He lay down, rolled onto his back, and meowed.

“Noski.”

The man with the clipboard made a note.

“I keep him in a bag,” Zorya tried. “He’s a good anchor when he isn’t being…”

Noski’s attention was now firmly centered on licking himself clean, starting with his crotch.

“Himself,” Zorya finished helplessly. “Should I help with his examination?”

He had to be examined, she knew. They had to ensure he would last long enough to be a proper familiar. While Zorya had no doubts about Noski’s ability in magic, she had every doubt about how well this exam would go.

“No need.” The doctor approached the table without warning, and pushed Noski down. The cat yowled, struggling and spitting as the man forced Noski’s jaw open, examining his teeth and gums, before checking his ears, glands and lungs. He moved quickly and efficieintly, evidently used to far worse patients than a single miserable cat.

It was the heart that gave him trouble. The doctor pressed the stethoscope to Noski’s back, throat, and belly, brows furrowed, and ultimately looked back to Zorya.

“I can’t find his pulse.”

“He’s always moved too quickly,” Zorya said, the same answer she’d always given when the problem came up. “The veterinarian I last took him to said that it makes it hard to detect his heart sometimes. He’s otherwise healthy.”

The doctor nodded, first to her then to the other official, accepting her answer without question.

Zorya’s own medical exam went more smoothly, if not more frustratingly. She removed her greatcoat and hat and did the basics at first -- height, weight, eyes, balance.

“You drag your left foot,” the doctor observed.

“I know.” Zorya offered nothing more.

From there they examined her teeth, tongue and hands -- the first places magic rot tended to show itself. The doctor scrubbed soot off her hands, and had her wash them with soap, but her fingers remained blackened and stained.

“How old is this?” he asked.

“Three years.”

The doctor frowned, and nodded at her feet. “Please remove your shoes and socks.”

Zorya stiffened, set her jaw. “It’s nowhere else.”

The doctor remained umoved. “Policy dictates a full examination. You’re lucky I’m not asking you to remove all your clothes.”

She bit back a curse. He was right. Most magical exams required a full body medical exam as well. Her doctor was being lazy, or modest, but it didn’t matter. Better she only show him that none of her other extremities were starting to rot.

Zorya sat roughly on a chair, and kicked off the right boot, rolling down the stocking to reveal her too-thin leg. She’d scraped her knee a few days prior, and at least one of her toes had clearly been broken years ago and didn’t set right. But it was pale as the rest of her, without any sign of rot.

“And the other one?”

“It doesn’t need to be checked.”

The doctor looked at the other official, who made a note on his paperwork. “Uncooperative,” he announced.

Unconscious and unwanted dread settled on Zorya’s shoulders. Uncooperation was somewhat worse than being a terrible witch in the eyes of the state. It brought up questions of loyalty, of honor. And she’d be damned if she let someone question where she stood after everything she’d done.

So Zorya sneered and tore her other shoe off, followed by the sock, and revealed her left leg. Or at least, what was left of it. It ended just below the knee ending in a clumsy stump that had been rubbed raw from years of neglect and poor upkeep of her prosthetic -- a once-sophisticated wood-and-metal leg that chafed against her skin, held up by partially-rusted metal joints at the knee and leather straps at her thigh.

The doctor raised his brow. “It certainly doesn’t show signs of magic rot,” he allowed.

“When and how did you lose it?” the other man asked.

“In the revolution. From an infected wound that turned gangrenous.”

“And the cause of the wound?”

“Gunshot. I don’t remember who did it.”

The man scribbled a few notes on his clipboard. “You said there was nothing in your history that would get in the way of work.”

“I didn’t lie. Talk to the station master if you don’t believe me.” She hadn’t missed a day of work in years. Not even pneumonia had been enough to make her take a day off without being ordered to.

“I see.” The official made one more note, and looked to the doctor, who simply shrugged.

“If she can work, she can work. Nobody needs to walk to move a pile of dirt around.”

And with that, Zorya passed the physical exam. The man with the clipboard stamped another paper, and she was given it alongside her license. From there, she made her way to the main hall of the Small Council to join the others in a single file line to await the Grand Magician.

Tag List: @fearlings-lament@maitretmaitresse

Please send a message to be added/removed from this tag list. Like my writing? Buy me a virtual coffee to support it!

#writeblr #historical fiction #historical fantasy #nanowrimo #wip #writing #wyrdwitch #wyrdwitch chapter

1 note · View note

sidhewrites · 5 years

Text

The Wyrdwitch #1

I’m redoing this, turning it into something of a bit longer length and starting the story a bit earlier in the day. Approx 1500 words.

Noski-Nezhit was one of if not the worst behaved cat in all of Moscow. His oversized, batlike ears flopped up and down as he traipsed and pounced and leapt all over the New Leningradsky Station, hunting soot and shadow and mouse. Vitsinya Koshkaya chased after him with her chimney sweep’s brush, with his too long legs and too long face, and she with her too-thin legs and too-thin face. She was all bones, hair as black as Noski’s fur -- though he had delicate little feet the color of snow, and she had old boots that had worn thin over a year ago.

She didn’t have time for this. She didn’t have time for him. The first trains had already pulled out of or into the station, with the travelers all greeting their relatives or sending their valets ahead to take their things to hotels. She was usually supposed to be still asleep by now, working at night and sleeping the morning away, and long out of sight of any of the officials or elite.

But Noski had gotten out while she tried and failed to get some sleep, too tired to even get undressed. Something had caught his eye, and Vitsinya had only just managed to get her shoes on fast enough to give chase.

Vitsinya tried to pay them no mind. She cursed just loud enough to be heard, skidding and nearly tripping over her half-tied boots, and apologized to the fine folk on the platform.

“Excuse me. Pardon. Not a pest issue, just my cat.” Who was, admittedly, a significant pest at a time like this. But she could insult him later.

Vitsinya finally caught the damn thing under a bench, purring away over a piece of bread stolen right from the hand of one of the travellers.

“Damn thing,” she hissed, down on her knees, face nearly to the floor. “I hope you paid for that.”

He blinked slowly and rolled over onto his back.

“Spoiled child.” Vitsinya dragged him out by the scruff of the neck, and all but sprinted back to the shadows. She just barely missed the station inspector and any trouble he might bring with him. Petrovsky and his dog Maks had more love for Noski than they ever did for Vitsinya herself, and she wasn’t about to test her luck by being seen after sunrise. It was nearing noon by now, but it was still better she make her way out of sight as quickly as possible.

Once she was safe, Vitsinya slowed to a walk, shuffling Noski around until she carried him like a baby in her arms. He was still purring, proud as can be.

Vitsinya took the bread from his mouth. “You’re a bastard little beast, you know that?” Then, despite her better judgement, she took a bite. It was still hot, no doubt fresh from a bakery, and a little sweet. Better than she’d eaten in weeks.

Noski meowed.

Subconsciously, Vitsinya began to pet him, scratching behind his ears, as she spoke between bites. “I ought to feed you to the next wyrdbeast that shows up here you know. Go right up to it and say, good evening friend. I’ve brought you a snack. I hope you like useless cats.”

Nosky mowed again as she entered her room, shutting the door tight behind her.

Her work clothes were sloppy at best, old and stained and too short. Brown pants, a once-white shirt and brown vest. She washed them often as she could, when she could trade favors with the washerwomen down the way, but it wasn’t as often as she’d liked. Vitsinya liked to tell herself she’d buy new ones one day, or at least new shoes. But her meager bankroll, hidden at the bottom of her trunk, said otherwise.

Her daily clothes, at least, were more tolerable. A skirt -- once green and checkered, now faded and too short, but mostly free of soot and stain -- and a once-fine blouse that had been gifted to her by a woman down the way. Vitsinya had cleaned her chimney and fireplace for a bit of extra money. She pulled her hair down for a quick cleaning -- all dark curls and waves. It was impossible and unruly, and made her sallow skin and freckles seem all the more stark in contrast.

Noski grumbled as she sat on the bed, looking up in expectation. To be held? Pet? It didn’t matter, so long as he got attention. But Vitsinya had a routine and little time.

She held her hands out loose in front of her, then snapped them upwards.

Soot and dust came alive, floating gently away from her hair, her face, her clothes, in organized streams. Noski batted at one as it passed him, before it joined the others in a single swirling mass in the center of the room. Then, with another flick of the wrist, Vitsinya sent the soot out through the crack in her window, and out into the early autumn frost.

From the bottom of her trunk, Vitsinya pulled her three most expensive possessions, all issued to her from Moscow’s Small Council: a near-black greatcoat with oversized lapels, a wide-brimmed hat to match, and a copper pin in the shape of three crescent moons, joined at the apex. The brooch of a Moscow Lesser Witch. And Vitsinya was certainly among the least.

But she was a witch all the same, and she would be seen before the Small Council today whether she liked it or not.

Looking as presentable as she’d ever get, Vitsina settled Noski into his bag and slung it over her shoulder. She donned her hat, and slipped out into the day.

Vitsinya travelled quickly, efficiently, taking back alleys and shortcuts while Noksi sniffed at the air, to the Small Council Hall, with only one detour. A dress shop had opened up between the station and the council hall, sporting any number of fine gowns in the window. She couldn’t help but stop, in her years-old boots and council-issued greatcoat, imagining what it might be like just to try one of them on. She was too bony, all sharp angles and hard lines, but the dresses seemed to make even the ugliest woman look elegant and refined.

Three dresses stood on display, two green and one deep blue evening gown embroidered with pearls and crystals all the way down. She imagined herself in the blue, dancing on a polished marble floor, hands unmarred, face flush with champagne or wine. The music playing, the stars dancing above

A tiny bell rang. The shop door opened, and the owner peered out. “We don’t serve Lesser Witches here,” he snapped. “Move along.”

She flinched and fled down the nearest street, hoping he hadn’t seen her face this time. It wouldn’t do to be shouted at three times this week, after all.

#writeblr #writing #writers of tumblr #wip #original fiction #wyrdwitch #mystuff #wyrdwitch excerpt

1 note · View note