In the swirling mists of the Ashen Marsh, where the trees bowed in despair and the earth squelched underfoot like an overcooked pudding, there lived a witch named Nyx. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say she occupied the place where witches might ideally reside. Nyx was not your conventional witch; she wasn’t an enchanting figure shrouded in moonlight, tossing potions from a delicate, bejeweled vial. No, she was the embodiment of eco-dystopia, draped in tatters of rotten fabric, her hair a disheveled mess of twigs and other assorted debris. One could smell her approach long before catching sight of her—an aroma of wet earth mingled with something far less pleasant, like a pack of disgruntled ferrets.
Nyx had a reputation, mind you, but it was the kind of reputation that made children shiver and adults grimace. The local villagers had concocted tales about her over the years, stories that danced around fires during the bleak winter months: how she could turn you into a toad, make your crops wilt, or, worse yet, force you to submit to a five-hour conversation on the philosophical underpinnings of existential dread. Frightening, indeed. But what they often failed to mention was that Nyx possessed a wickedly sharp wit, a talent for sarcasm, and an unending supply of tea—decent tea, too, brewed from leaves pilfered from an ancient elven grove, not the rancid weeds they were used to.
Let’s not mince words; Nyx found the whole village exasperating. The incessant chatter of the townsfolk was like the incessant droning of a swarm of gnats, a never-ending hum of ineptitude that left her pondering why they hadn’t just opted to live in a more refined part of reality—like a cave, perhaps. She could deconstruct their incessant whining with ease and felt particularly adept at foisting their petty grievances back at them. “You want a curse? Try the burden of self-awareness,” she would call out as she tended her garden of poisonous plants, their vibrant hues contrasting with the dreary landscape. It was an art form, really.
One particularly dull afternoon, Nyx prepared to embark on what she assumed would be yet another exhilarating venture into the depths of the Marsh, one where the outcome would likely be her inevitable disappointment. As she approached her collection of jars, each containing various odds and ends that could either be described as ‘ingredients’ or ‘mementos of a life poorly lived’, she had a sudden epiphany: Perhaps she would attempt to brew herself a bit of happiness. Certainly, if she could infuse that into a brew, she could sell it at exorbitant prices to the village, ensuring her own financial stability while they wallowed in their own mediocrity.
But first, she needed a significant ingredient—a particularly rare root known to grow only in the sunniest corner of the Marsh, an area she hadn’t visited since that unfortunate incident with the swamp-dwelling slime monsters, who had, quite rudely, attempted to take up residence in her socks. Ah, the joys of rural witchcraft!
Strapping on her swamp boots, Nyx set off, her mind bubbling with concoctions that could elevate her status not just as a witch, but as a self-made entrepreneur. “Witch’s Brew: Guaranteed to Make Your Life 73% Better or Your Money Back!” she mused, already crafting the marketing slogan in her head. Little did she know, fate had something infinitely more convoluted planned.
As she waded through murky waters, her senses sharpened and her irritation grew with each squelch of the ground beneath her feet. The sun, that elusive orb, dared to peek through the gray clouds, as if mocking her quest. It radiated an irritating warmth that urged the flora to grow, making her feel like some desperate half-drowned creature in need of salvation. Just as she was beginning to feel entirely sorry for herself, Nyx stumbled upon that fabled corner—an area lush with wildflowers basking in the uncharacteristic sunlight, and there, proudly jutting from the earth, was the root she sought. It looked almost… happy.
But, of course, the joy of finding it was short-lived. As she approached the root with the eagerness of a starving wolf, she heard a low growl echoing through the trees. Great. She had forgotten to account for the guardian of this precious piece of flora: a creature affectionately known throughout the Marsh as the Deathclaw Warg. With claws as sharp as Nyx’s tongue and teeth that glinted like daggers, the warg lumbered into view, its eyes narrowed suspiciously at her approach.
“Ah, yes,” she said, hands on her hips, “the dreaded Warg of Happiness! Here to protect the root from being harvested by a mere witch, how terribly cliché. Why not just tell me what I must do to earn your benevolence, oh arbiter of joy?”
The warg paused, perplexed by this strangely articulate creature standing before it. It scratched its head with a paw as though contemplating the nature of existence itself—an amusing sight for Nyx, who had been in enough existential crises of her own.
“Look,” she continued, “I’m not really in the mood for an epic battle or for you to give me some arbitrary quest. I’ll level with you: I just want to grab this root and make some arcane tea. You wouldn’t deny a fellow creature of chaos a bit of happiness, would you? That whole ‘death’ thing isn’t very trendy anymore, you know.”
The warg blinked, probably wrestling with the moral ramifications of allowing a witch to plunder the very essence of greenhouse joy. For a long moment, they stood there, locked in an absurd standoff, like two tired bureaucrats arguing the finer points of paperwork.
Finally, as if reaching a consensus with its own thoughts, the warg let out a resigned huff and stepped aside, its growl dissipating into a weary sigh. “Fine,” it said, its voice a gravelly rumble that echoed across the clearing. “Take your damn root, but remember: happiness is fleeting. Give a mouse a cookie, and it will ask for a glass of milk. I won’t be responsible for the aftermath.”
Nyx chuckled, unsure if it was her wry sense of humor or the warg’s inadvertent wisdom that left her feeling oddly buoyant. She snatched the root from the earth with a flourish and gave a theatrical bow. “I shall remember this moment, brave guardian. You’ve taught me that even in the murkiest depths, a hint of happiness can be found—and perhaps a side of sarcasm too.”
As she began her trek back, she couldn’t help but reflect on the absurdity of it all. Beneath the veneer of dread and gloom, life had a way of throwing in just enough ridiculousness to keep things interesting. Nyx returned to her decrepit hut, cleaned her cauldron, and got to work on her brew. The warg’s point rang true—happiness was fleeting, but she had learned that sometimes the most important thing was simply to embrace the ridiculousness head-on, even if it meant charming a miserable, existentially confused beast along the way.
Brew in hand, she settled in her rickety chair, sipping the concoction slowly as she contemplated her next move. Perhaps a little adventure was in order. The village awaited her, after all, with their cacophony of problems begging for her attention. Who was she to deny them entertainment? And thus, with a haughty laugh and a heart full of chaos, Nyx the witch set about plotting her next round of delightful mischief, utterly confident that in this strange world, the absurd was the only anchor in the storm of mediocrity. What other fitting pastime did she have, after all?
Author: Opney. Illustrator: Stab. Publisher: Cyber.
