Welcome to Gaia! :: View User's Journal | Gaia Journals

Positive she has the demon under control, and blinded by her greed in selling the potions she can brew at Brat's expense, the witch forgets to adjust the powder in the broth to the match the needs of a growing youth. As the fog lifts from Brat's mind, the little demon's sense of self-preservation helps her mask her growing alertness. Keeping her head down so the witch doesn't notice Brat observing her, when the old woman does glance her way, she sees only a blank look about the girl's face.

After a few more turns gathering the pods, the demon eventually works out the witch is not casting a spell over her. Her body changes form of it's own accord. Again, self-preservation takes over, preventing her from changing outside the safety of the shadows.

The days turn to months, then years. The youth begins to show signs of becoming an adult female. Slowly, the witch begins to clue in that the demon is no longer under her firm control. Alarmed, she attempts to cast an odd assortment of spells over the demon. One such spell exposes the young lady's shape-shifting nature. A weakness to be sure as it confirms she is a half-ling. Any number of spells and potions follow as the witch tries to regain full power over the half-demon.

As the demon begins to fight back, the old woman is torn between the profits she makes using demon labor and the risk of being caught harboring one. Barely able to keep the villagers convinced she is merely a medicine woman, she knows if they discover Brat, trouble will follow.

Just barely in her teens, and without any understanding of what exactly she is, she is turned loose, dragged deep in to the forest and shoved roughly to the ground, warned never to return.

Off ye go, ye ungrateful Lil Brat *the witch snarls,* Too stupid to know when ye half it good then. Kill ye, they will, when they find ye.

In the first few days, the witch had begun to wonder if the child was perhaps deaf, for she didn't speak. But eventually it becomes apparent that she'd never learned to do so. The witch had laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks when she realized the child thought her name was Y (Why?!)

Aye, Lil Brat, tis a question I've no doubt ye brought down on ye own head. *The witch cackles until she nearly doubles over.*

And so her "training" begins, following a routine, of sorts.

Each morning, she awakes, rolls up the straw mat she sleeps on and stashes it beneath the old woman's bed. Then she washes up in the basin and sits to have her broth, the same strange brew she will be given every morning for the next decade, keeping her somewhat sleepy and in a fog. It will only be as she reaches her mid-teens that she realizes the witch does not take meals with her and begins to suspect she's been drugged.

She is trained to rinse her bowl and dry it before changing out of her nightshirt and getting dressed. Then she will wait on the hard chair until her foster-witch... uh, mother... gives her the day's direction. Most days, they leave the hut in the wee hours to gather various leaves, twigs, mushrooms and other odd bits from the forest. As the sun begins to rise, they will just be returning home, before the surrounding village wakes.

If the "Medicine Woman" (as the villagers believe the witch to be) is expecting clients, then Lil Brat will be sent to a room beneath the hut, dug out of the earth to muffle any sound she might make. She's locked in and tasked to sort the various objects she'd help collect. Under constant threat the villagers would kill her should they find her, Brat learns to fear both the unseen humans and the woman who keeps her.

Other days, no one is expected and these are the days Brat dreads most especially. On these days, she will visit the thorn bush. It grows over and out of what may once have been a well, but has long since dried up. The witch lifts the child up, and drops her down through the stickers into the open space beneath the bush. In the first moments of her fall, and before her eyes adjust to the darkness, the thorns will tear at her skin, her clothes, her hair. Landing, she closes her eyes, sits very still, opens them again and begins to see clearly in the pitch-black space. The small pods grow near the root of the stems of the thorn bush. Carefully she extracts the pods, trying to avoid the stickers attached to the stems. She will not be pulled up again until her basket is filled which takes most of the day.

At some point during these ventures, Brat learns to avoid the stickers, though it will sometime before the witch catches on exactly how she manages it.

In the beginning, Brat herself won't realize exactly what's happening, only feeling a small measure of relief that the thorns no longer scratch her. But eventually as she grows, the brew has less effect and her mind clears. Twitching her ears, the space has grown larger and she slips through the stems easily, pulling the pods with her paws.

Paws?! *Blinks, looks again.* Paws... where her hands and feet ought to be. *She turns, looks behind her.* Tail! Long, fluffy... Eeek! What has the woman done to her ~ she's a, a, a squirrel. *Scratchy thorns tear into her flesh then as she returns to a more human form and gets bigger.* Why?! *She sits there a moment, thinking... the old woman has never before made things easier for her. Point in fact, the witch seems to draw great pleasure from making things more difficult. She furrows her brow trying to figure it out.*

((*Puppet-Master wishes there were a way to reorder the journal so the story unfolds top to bottom ~ rather than the last bits showing up at the top.* DamitallGaia!))

*From deep within her meditative state in the cavern beyond Kathy's, memory slowly eases her forward in time...*

The small soot and dirt covered form wakes to bright light shining down on her and a scratchy voice reaches down to her from somewhere in the midst of that light.

Heeheehee,what 'ave we here, then? *Cackles*

Having never been exposed to the sun, she blinks, can't see anything but bright lights blinding her. She whimpers, feels the shade a space away, tries to crawl to it, but a wrinkled hand reaches down, snatches her wrist with it's gnarled berry-stained fingers. The long talon-like nails dig into her skin as she's jerked to her feet.

Aye, and ye haven't known the sun much then. *cackles again* Ahn't, tsk, be still now, stupid girl. Ye can no be falling asleep in the shadows and think ye be hidden. Sun'll half ye out in no time t'all.


She hears the scratchy voice coming at her but not who it comes from, her sight limited to bright spots that turn green when she closes her eyes. The fingers grip her wrist tightly, dragging her along as they dig ever deeper in to her flesh, the nails ripping small scratches in her arms. Soon enough they enter a dwelling, not nearly so bright as the outside and her vision swims back to her. An older, wrinkled female regards her intently.

Aye, spect ye've a bit o'demon blood in ye then. Ahn't, lil brat, ye'll stay put, so ye will or ye'll be wishing ye had. Tis cruel humans ready enough t'kill the likes of ye soon as look at ye. Ye'll be trained soon enough then *cackles*

She's pushed into a chair, still trying to collect her small self, as the witch moves around the room, gathering things in to a large bowl. The old woman pours steaming water over the odd bits that look to be twigs and leaves, scoops a portion in to a smaller bowl and sets it at the table next to the chair she'd left the small child in.

Aye and ye may as well eat, then. Not but skin and bones on ye.

Starving as it were and Y does as she's told despite this odd food she's been given. There a strange bite to this mixture, but warmth slowly fills her belly, thaws out the blood in her veins. Her lids grow heavy, and soon her head droops and the old woman grins before scooping the child into her arms and putting her to rest on a straw bed in the corner of the room.

Aye, ye will be trained to do as ye've been told, lil brat, and be grateful ye've a place to sleep. Ahn't, will be none of ye nonsense 'ere, an I knows enough spells to be sure of it.

A small room, windowless, the ceiling so low the female parent-type almost brushes it with the top of her head. The male parent-type must bend down in the room, though he rarely comes up to it all. On rare occasions, she may come down to the bigger living spaces, her favorite one has a fireplace and she gazes into the flames, mesmerized until they pull her away, usually within moments of her coming close to it. There is little else she can recall of this room other than the doorway to the kitchen. That room contains a large wood-burning stove, a wooden table with long benches on either side, a copper apron sink, another doorway leading to the pantry with a stairway down into the cellar. She is not allowed in the pantry, is only vaguely aware the female parent-type disappears down those stairs to retrieve cooler items from the cellar.

She's returned to her room, a small cot with thin blankets, a chamber pot hidden in the corner, a wooden chair with a folded rag of a dress placed on it's seat. A kerosene lamp sits atop a small table, dusty from disuse. The female brings a candle when she comes up with Y's daily meal. They'd thought to give her what might pass for a doll but is little more than bits of cloth knotted together.

For long stretches, the room is exceptionally warm and during the days bits of sunlight manage to come through cracks in the walls. For longer stretches still, the room is bitterly cold and snow sneaks through the wall until eventually the cracks are iced over.

When she was first left on their doorstop, not likely more than a few days old, the couple hadn't realized what she was. It hadn't taken long to realize this was not an ordinary babe ~ things happened when she was around, and none of them were good. By toddler-hood, she'd been banished to the attic, hidden away from the neighboring folks. The male parent was inclined to think she ought to be drowned and done away with, the female parent disagreed. They'd taken her in, were duty-bound to care for... it...

Why? *On the near daily, something happened, and the female would look at the child...* Why?! *Y would look back in silence. She so rarely heard anything beyond Why?!, she could not know how to answer.*

The cold drifts across the small room, so bitterly cold in the dark, but she sees the room clearly without light. The air is so cold her breath comes out in puffs, like the smoke the male exhales when he smokes his pipe. Across the room, the ice shimmers in the cracks of the wall. She imagines the ice becoming flame, licking the wall the way it does the logs in the fireplace down below. Blissfully unaware her eyes are glowing red, she stares hard, willing the ice away, sees the flame ignite, slowly, gently overtaking the wall. Feels the warmth creep in to her frozen bones, hears a scream.

WHY?! A masculine shout: DEMON SPAWN! Woman, leave it to burn! *Somehow, she's out of the room, bare feet planted in the cold snow, the female screaming her name, WHY?!, the male coming at her with a pitchfork... DEMON SPAWN!*

*The rush of his hatred hits her being, pushes her to run, falling, scrambling up, headlong in to the shadows as the voices become muffled... crawling, through the dark, away from the voices, shivers, keeps moving until silence... tears finally find the little demon, stream down her soot covered face and she sniffles softly, exhaustion overtaking her... sleep.*

*From within the cavern, her breathing evens out and memory swirls within her mind...

A vision appears of another hot springs, a bar... Her friend, Cross appears, followed by a silver kitsune... Silver! *A smile curves her lips* Sees them coming back from the Dojo, discussing her latest invention... This place, oh she misses this temporary resting spot. Where she came to be accepted, not hide the oddness that cloaks her being... to understand her nature ~ find her own kind. Patiently, they'd help her discover her strengths, what she'd been drilled to believe were weaknesses. Showing her how to use the shadows at will, how to control fire, how to speak to them through her mind. *A sigh escapes her* All good things must end ~ *The still darkness of the cavern pulls her deeper into memory*


*She feels the shadows lengthen, extend as a soft feminine voice pulls at her.*

Why?

*The first name she remembers being called, if there were another, she was so young at the time that it hadn't registered ~ only always Y when she is spoken to.*

Where oh where does my journal go when I use my classic setting? stare

Some days if I had any sense, any sense at all, I'd just walk away from this site... burning_eyes

Curious and curious... last time I posted in my journal was when they changed the setup... this is the 3rd one I've seen. confused

Hmmm... another new setup, and boy is it messing me up. sweatdrop lol