The Myth Witch
Ogre snot and basilisk eye. Ghost shroud and Ghoul fang. Spiders legs and goblins nose. Skeleton marrow and merman gills. Trolls vomit and man guts. All placed in the cold cast iron cauldron by gnarled hands. More ingredients are needed for the myth brew.
The snap of fingers and the pot lumbers to life. Pivoting on four squat legs, turning sideways and marching alongside its master like a metal crab. The horrid concoction spilling out at times, the ground sizzling as the oil slick sheen neon green goop hits the ground. Further and further the two walk, the crone often stopping to add in a found bug or the odd mushroom.
On and on, up and up they go. This ritual can't be rushed, everything must be in place. Reaching the summit, between the three mentors the pot stops, planking itself down on a mound of ancient ash. The full moon beams down, the stars click into place and it begins. Old elven oak is placed below and lit, fiery Fey fire burns furiously. The witch climbs within and waits.
As the moon passes overhead the pot glows, brighter and brighter until putting the stars around to shame. Smoke and steam violently splutter, a sharp whistles sets teeth on edge and the ground is scorched anew. With a deafening crack the pot splits and out spews every myth and nightmare unto the world.
The witch born anew collects the pieces of pot. Much work to be done before the next myth ritual is ready.
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