Twig the Witch's page

"Some barbarian with no sense of culture dropped this food here and it all went downhill from there." The witch's eyes are wide.

"This is... unnatural. That animal is primarily a herbivore..."

"I should have joined the Orsiriani faction... like the ladies of the temple suggested. I'd never have to deal with THIS there..." Twig laments, watching the horrid scene unfold.

"We all meet the lady in the end. Those who resist through foul magics need a little... convincing to stop holding on. And you need to meet Pharasma before you can serve Desna."

Twig takes a deep breath and listens to the conversation, her solid black eyes flick to the Asomdean and she frowns slightly for a second at his prattle about law. She turns to face him. "I'll have to disagree with you, Asmodean. We are all bound by the circle of life, death and birth. We are all made of the same soul-stuff. And we all stand before the Lady at the end of our lives."

An impossibly tall, thin and rather pregnant tiefling female stops and stares at the dead beast. She clutches the scrolls she is carrying and continues to stare, her expression is hidden by a white mask, however her form, draped in black and silver priestly robes, give away that the Phrasman witch is disgusted. As if to add to what she is thinking, the whippoorwill on her shoulder begins to scream in common.

After a few moments the skeletally thin, raven haired woman manages to splutter out. "That is NOT sanitary!"

A very thin, and very tall tiefling witch eyes the woman. She's dressed in the robes of a priestess of Phrasma, and the Whipporwhill that as alighted on her shoulder only speaks further to her being a followre of the Lady of Graves

"There is a problem to your theory." She says, her voice carrying a definite accent. She fixes dark, and rather gaunt looking her eyes on the woman. She speaks from behind a skull-like funeral mask that covers most of her face aside from her mouth. However the skin that is seen is gaunt as the skull-mask she wears.

She drapes herself into a chair and rests her chin on an equally skeletal hand that ends in wicked looking claws.

"There are many levels of proof that elves are not even from this dimension." She pauses and watches the woman carefully. "And there are many hybrid creatures in the world, weather they appear to be true hybrids or are something else. You're forgetting one factor, we live in a world brimming with magics. I mean, half-dragons for example. Almost anything can be half-dragon. Or fey-touched. It oft means that the creature in question's mother had relations with a creature. Or the Mongrelmen, all descended from hybrids of humanoid creatures that shouldn't be able to breed. She pauses. "Then there are elemental blooded children born of human parents." she smiles slightly. "And of course people like myself. My parents were ordinary Ustilavian humans. I come from creatures that wish to see life itself destroyed and devour even the souls of those creatures."

She pauses again.

"And then there is the fact that elves and orcs cannot have offspring together. I'd say it likely has more to do with the time when the Aboleth decided to take control over our world and messed with breeding lines of humans." She furrows her brow. "Though there seems to be an ability of orcs to breed with other creatures than humans, though it is much more rare." She muses some more and eyes the others.

Twig finally speaks up. "He threatened to smash me too sir." She says, then squeaks and hides behind the nearest person.

Her familiar, a whippoorwhill, is not nearly as shy.

"Greenthing say he smash mistress. Then smash one with antlers. one with antlers only flirt. Greenthing mean!"

Twig squeaks a bit, and the bird on her shoulder flares up his wings. "You will not talk to mistress that way! She is chosen by Phrasma! She doesn't hurt people or frogs ever, and dead things that still walk aren't people! Well she hurts people who make deadthings walk. Deadthings shouldn't walk. Lady of Graves saysso! You are meanie!"

The Tiefling gently puts a skeletal hand on the bird's head. "Hush dear Spiral, I am capable of defending myself. Many people get the wrong idea, because of my blood." Her gaze is steady on the half-orc. "Something I am sure that you know friend." She says, then turns to Cor'win. She is articulate, but doesn't seem to have a presence about her of someone who knows much about dealing with day to day talk.

"You flatter me. If you saw my actions against necromancers, you would not speak so kindly of me. I am not a kind person, nor am I an unkind one. I am a tool of the Lady of Graves, I welcome new life into the world, and make sure that souls who are trapped within the world who should have passed on do so. I stop those who pervert the cycle of life and death, and hunt those who feed on souls."

The black robed woman's skeletal thin body is covered by her dark, silver lined robes. Only her hands, tipped with fearsome looking claws, betray in any way what the rest of her body looks like. She moves slightly, then holds up a hand and allows a whippoorwill to land on her extended hand.

"I have found that, knowing much has aided in surprising a foe when they do not expect you to know what you know." She says, her voice carrying the accent of an Absalom native. "Though... the undead show little surprise before they are removed from this world." She adds, a steely glint in her eyes, visible even behind the funerary mask that she wears.

"I may be a bit... late to this conversation." The black robed witch moves forward, the whippoorwill on her shoulder flapping its wings in indignation at the sudden movement.

She adjusts her mask, another marker of her as a worshiper of Phrasma. "Congradulations on your child to be." She says, her voice soft. She holds out a skeletal hand to shake, looks at it and frowns, though only her eyes betray the frown and slips her hand back into her robe.

Twig grins a bit again. "I try not to. I'm not scared of them, It's the monsters out there, the non-undead ones... like chimeras and chromatic dragons and stuff."

"The Undead, I'm not scared of them. I have holy water, and positive energy magic."

"Not yet." She admits, only fae really. "they were not crappy though, they were scary. Mostly run ins with people who don't like tieflings." A wry smirk plays on her face. "Try spending 60 years in an orphanage."

"The undead, and those that steal souls, those that use souls for dark rituals. They are an affront to nature, an affront to Pharasma, and must be removed existence." Darkness flickers over her features.

"Undead, and anything that preys upon souls, or anything that stops them from reaching the Boneyard to be judged for their lives and deeds." Twig says, looking at the two people.

"Me, I'm just a Witch." Twig says. "Can't swing a sword to save my hide."

She carefully sits on the barstool, checking that it will hold her negligable weight. Upon getting a better look at her, she looks sickly, almost wasting away, scars lace any visable skin she has. A cough wracks her body, and she trembles a bit.

"So, what do you do?" She finally asks, as she calls for some tea to drink.

She's not wearing it right now, but a mask that looks like a psycopomp's hangs at her side.

Twig pauses and frowns. "Any sort of undead need to be put to rest, even those who have not succumbed to the rage that being trapped in this realm brings. Sometimes they just need a nudge. Sometimes something, or someone else is binding them here and that person needs a decapitation, or a bolt to the face."

"This is Spiral, he is my familiar. A whippoorwhill, sent to me from Pharasma herself so that I could heal the living and combat the undead." Twig said, standing a little taller and looking strangely proud when she spoke of fighting the undead, the traces of fear leaving her eyes for a few seconds.

Twig pauses, then looks at how Kyros winces at her touch.

"I- I'm sorry." She manages to squeak, stumbling back and tripping over her robes. "Don't hit me... I'm not evil." She says, talking in a very jittery manner.

The bird, which has flown to a safer stool to sit on, makes a skyward gesture, getting the closest thing a bird can to an eye-roll.

"Abasolom." Twig says, her voice soft. She pulls her hand back the moment she's helped up and looks up at the Whippoorwill that's flown down to land on her shoulder.

"You should be more careful." the bird says, stretching out one wing.

Twig flinches again, then looks at the hand for a moment, confused. She slowly takes the hand. Her skin feels paper sickly dry to the touch, and her hand is very thin, more so than seems normal in a person. Her fingers end in very nasty looking claws.

Twig blinks rapidly, flinching and twitching at everyone who approches her and pretty much every sudden sound, she even jumps a few times when startled. Upon hearing the discussion of just how to deal with demons, she squeaks a bit then says, in a pretty soft voice. "Um... run? Maybe panic, or both." She grins sheepishly.