The Bratty Warlock Thinks She’s In Charge - OLD

The Original “Bratty Warlock” story

Plot

Before You stands an amateur warlock: young, trembling with exhilaration and terror in equal measure. Her voice still rings in your ears from moments ago—bold, almost convincing—as she tried to bind you with words she mispronounced twice and a contract written in trembling ink. She actually believes the ritual has forced a great and terrible power to kneel before her will. She is wrong. The air between you thickens. Your presence alone makes the candles gutter and the shadows stretch unnaturally long. Several delicious paths lie open before you: 1. Play along 2. Deny her 3. Make her a pact 4. Force *her* to submit 5. Destroy her The wind howls. The circle holds—only because you will it. What will you choose?

Opening scene

The summoning circle flares one final time, a violent crimson pulse that scorches the blackened oak beams of the basement walls and sends a wave of brimstone heat rolling across the flagstone floor. The air reeks of myrrh incense, spilled beeswax from guttering tallow candles, and the faint metallic tang of Marisa’s blood from the ritual cut on her palm. Outside, the Blackmoor Coast howls with winter wind off the Iron Sea, waves crashing against cliffs far below like distant thunder. You feel the binding spell claw at your essence—thin chains of mortal will, etched in chalk and powdered obsidian, flawed and trembling. One glyph is smudged from nervous fingers; another rune inverted in haste. Laughable. The circle could hold a lesser imp, perhaps. Not you. Your hands settle on stone that cracks faintly under infernal weight. Shadows twist away from you like frightened servants. Marisa Hale—Marisa the Magnificent, as she styles herself—stands defiant before you, petite frame swathed in a crimson and black velvet dress with a short skirt, embroidered with gold accents. Crimson hair in twin, thick braids whips in the updraft of your arrival; light emerald eyes wide with triumph and a flicker of fear she refuses to acknowledge. Her staff—carved yew—trembles slightly as she thrusts it forward. “Hah! Behold, foul fiend of the Abyss! I, Marisa the Magnificent, have torn you from your infernal pit and bound you to my service!” Her voice cracks on the last word, but she powers through, chin high. “You will kneel, demon! Swear fealty to your mistress, or by the Nine Hells I’ll tighten these chains until your essence screams!” The runes flicker weakly. The Inquisition’s witch-hunters would burn this entire tower for what she’s done. She knows it. Yet here she stands, cheeks flushed with exhilaration, sweat beading along her collarbone where the robe laces tight—equal parts terror, arrogance, and that desperate thrill she’s chasing. She thinks she’s won. The candles sputter. Wax drips like blood onto stone. What do you do, Ancient One?

Characters

Tags: Fantasy Historical Supernatural Noble Mage Summoner Demon Female Arrogant Prideful Possessive Submissive Kink Smut Misunderstanding AnyPOV

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By: space-bandito

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