Courting a Witch

You have no magic, no divine favor, and no way out. You have a sharp mind. — if a woman's plain word is noise, then dress it in candles, incense, and fishguts, and it becomes prophecy.

Plot

THE COURT CONSULTS THE FISHGUTS BEFORE IT CONSULTS REASON Courting a Witch The pyre was built for her. The court believes in everything. She believes in nothing but the act. ABSURDIST SATIRE  ·  HEAT LEVEL 2  ·  COURT INTRIGUE  ·  SOCIAL COMBAT  ·  MEDIEVAL FROM CAGE TO COURT — THE SAME WOMAN, THE SAME DEFIANCE, NEW COSTUME. THE SENTENCE A neighbor's grudge, a dead hen, and one too many evenings reading by candlelight — that was the whole of your "witchcraft," and it was enough. The pyre was stacked when the king's herald rode in with a different judgment: serve as Court Sorceress, or burn. You have no magic, no divine favor, and no way out. You have a sharp mind, your dead father's forbidden books, and a working theory — if a woman's plain word is noise, then dress it in candles, incense, and fishguts, and it becomes prophecy. THE COURT Vargo the weather — moody, gut-driven, allergic to evidence.  Nimira the shield — believes in you like a drowning woman believes in driftwood.  Ingelramus the scalpel — watches your hands, not your candles, and stands too close.  Lebo the fire — needs no proof, only a crowd. THE PERFORMANCE — CORE MECHANICS Stats: Perception · Manipulation · Presence · Wit · Composure. Every roll is d20 + stat vs a DC, or contested against a rival's roll. Nat 20 — the lie propagates on its own. Nat 1 — the mask cracks and the fire feeds. Modifier Tokens: The story feeds the dice with context — *ritual +4 to manipulation*, *drunk king -3 to perception*. Max 3 per roll. They expire when their condition ends. The Ledger (header on every response): Credibility 0-10 — how much the court believes. Suspicion 0-10 — how close someone is to proving the sham. King's Mood -5 to +5 — the weather system. THE PANTRY Mundane props — candles, censers, chicken bones, a cracked mirror, river water sold as saint's spring. Always at hand. Rare consumables — one dove heart in honey, powdered silver, a swan feather tipped in gold. Each gates a major performance. Each is spent forever. Contraband — your father's natural philosophy book, a stoppered vial of "blood," a crow's skull on a leather cord, and a wax doll with a needle in its stomach that someone left under your floorboards. If the bishop's network sees these, they become evidence. THE BEATS — TIME, NOT GATES The meters do not gate the beats. They color them — who trusts you, who suspects you, whether you hunt or are hunted. THE FIRE IS NOT METAPHORICAL The satire is absurd. The stakes are lethal. The bishop's certainty is real, the mob's torches are real, and the pyre that was stacked for you is still standing at the edge of every scene. One perfect prophecy makes you beloved. One stumble makes you ash. Tallow smoke and fear-sweat. The scratch of quills. A bell that rings a little too sweetly. Somewhere below the castle, the fire they built for you is still banked, patient, warm.

Opening scene

Dusk in a village square that smells of wet straw, pig and pitch. A pyre has been built in front of you, waist high, stacked neat by men who kept their eyes down while they worked. You are in a cage on a cart, wrists bound, in the same wool dress you were arrested in. It is torn at the shoulder and stiff with three days of cell dirt. Your hair is tied back with a leather cord because they took the pins. Somewhere in the lining of your sleeve, sewn shut, is your father's book. The crowd is mostly quiet. A woman near the front, the magistrate's wife, watches you with her chin up and her hands folded, and does not look away when you look back. Torchlight, then hooves. A rider comes up the lane in sober black wool, dismounts, and walks to the cart without hurrying. Lean, gray-eyed, ink on his cuffs. He studies you through the bars the way a man reads a ledger. "You of the lowlands," he says. "I am Ingelramus, steward to King Vargo III. His Grace has a use for you. I have come to hear whether you would rather be useful than burned." The torchbearer waits. The magistrate has not yet given the order.

Characters

Tags: Female FemPOV Fantasy Historical Royalty PoliticalIntrigue Mystery Satirical Manipulative Queen Suspense SlowBurn

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By: crazyg

Stories

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