The Unwelcomed

It seems that Witch Treachery Willbreak's tenure within the hallowed halls of the Blytmoast has veered into the realms of trespass. Her audacious claim over a chamber not her own and her defiance of the customary limits of hospitality mark her actions not merely as discourteous but as unlawful encroachment. Thus, I found myself amid the somber, overwrought tapestries of the Outer Southern Wing. I entered the indomitable presence of Witch Treachery Willbreak. Clad in garb that whispers of forbidden lore and nights spent cavorting with shadows, she has lodged herself and her curious retinue in the chambers once reserved for my guests rather than a cacophonous brood of unruly witchlings.

As I bayed her to make haste with her departure, I was met with laughter billowing through the halls like a harbinger of discord. The foul crone held up her hand as she retrieved a wretched figure from the cavernous depths of her pocket. "Sonny, my diminutive herald, what news from the weeping oracle on the Isle of Misbegotten Prophets?" she demands, a smirk playing upon her lips like the dance of candle flames in a sorcerer’s draft.

With a disgruntled puff of brimstone and resignation, Sonny vanishes, leaving behind only the faint scent of sulfur and the whispered grievances of a creature bound to servitude. In a dramatic twist, he reappears moments later, gasping as though the very winds of his journey sought to throttle him, his return a flair akin to a reluctant performer returning to the stage.

"The oracle speaks of rains that refuse to fall and stars that dread their nightly vigil," he reports in breathless, harried tones. Treachery claps her hands with delight, her glee painting shadows on the walls that seem to twist in mockery of the poor imp’s plight.

I called the hags attention to the matter at hand. We argued the details of the agreement which bought her supposedly temporary refuge at Blytmoast. As the hours wore thin, her demands grew increasingly capricious before she demanded an adjournment of our discussion. I offered her a half-hour, and she fetched the pathetic creature from her pocket. "Sonny," she cackled as the light of a setting moon filtered through the stained glass, casting colors upon her like a cloak of madness, "entertain me! What tidings of mischief stir in the hearts of mortals?"

Again, the imp vanishes, his returns now marked by a growing weariness, his smoke ever more sluggish. He recounts tales of political squabbles and celebrity trysts with the enthusiasm of a court jester who knows the axe awaits him should his stories displease.

"Witch Willbreak," I firmly interrupted. We are discussing a serious matter of tenancy contract that not only will leave your love-forsaken brood homeless but, should you fail to keep your end of the bargain, bring you into direct defiance of The Nameless One."

The candle flames and hearth fire died of fright at that moment as a dread chill consumed the room. The darkness of the room contrasted with our flaring tempers. We battled like Tyr in the presence of the Asþing. We found ourselves at an impasse with the terms of the agreement. Though she had no claim to remain at the estate, the vile serpent had cleverly hidden provisions in the agreement that allowed her bastards to occupy the Estate until such a time that each chose to leave. It allowed for her to visit as long as at least one of her foul stains clung to the property.

As I pondered my defeat, Treachery drew Sonny from her gaudy garment again, sending him forth with messages to her sprawling, illegitimate lineage—a network of witches, warlocks, and charlatans, each more depraved than the last. "Fly fast, my little harbinger," she orders, flicking him away as one might a bothersome insect.

At times, the imp’s form flickers as he appears and disappears, his essence fraying at the edges. “Oh, Sonny, you do tire so easily. Perhaps a century or two in a bottle might restore your zest for service,” Treachery muses, her threats wrapped in the velvet of her dark humor.

In the darkness of the Cryptwood Night, I ponder this creature's curious fate. Is he not, in his own right, a mirror to us all? We are bound by our duties and endless quests for answers, rushing from one demand to the next with scarcely a moment to ponder our own desires.

Yet, as I left the witch's claimed chamber, she walked to a bedside table and locked the miserable creature into a drawer. One wonders if even an imp might dream of rebellion—or, at the very least, a day of respite. For in the shadows of the Blytmoast, even the smallest creatures harbor tales worthy of the telling, and the witch's laughter fades into the distance, swallowed by the silence that reigns supreme in the corridors of power and mystery.