@ witchful-emily {Spark of History}
{January, 1692, one month before the first documented trial in Salem Village, Massachusetts.}
Beelzebub was at his peak, it seemed. He was constantly called, for various things, constantly prayed to, constantly worshipped, as the figure of the witches, as the Father to the damned, and as much of a celebrity as he was to these hags, he was just as much of a rotten demon as he always had been, and always would be. He was an old soul, a warmonger is nothing else, the type that lived in his victories and wallowed in his defeats. But he was, despite that, a totem to the accused and the poor and those that would now forever live as a hoarde of familliars to him, to serve him and his wicked ways.
{Total number of world-wide souls collected this week: 329.
Total number of witch, warlock, and bastard souls collected this week: 328.}
It must have been freezing outside, the demon noted, bright crimson eyes scanning over his Master’s altar. It was a quaint thing, made with whatever love the old hag had left in her heart and obviously made by hand by her… he saw the arrow that she always left on her personal belongings. Ahh, so it was there still, despite how many times she had thrown something or let something burn close-by. Yes, despite the black muck surrounding it from the smoke that was nearly constantly burning around it, it was there, and her books, though also coated in the black ash, still had their muddy ink glittering on each page.
He looked at the candles that had melted onto the wood of the desk, and the crystals, and the small pouches of things he knew to be lavender, fern, and snakeskin, as well as various blends of things that, for whatever ungodly reason, she liked to make tea with. Oh, this woman was stupid, alright. Brewing herself tea of poison oak and opium, Gluttony had decided long ago that she was a fool, but never had she once asked him for his opinion, no, never. He was just there to be the serf, of course, a peasant. It was unbecoming for him, a Prince, but the demon had gotten himself into it on a whim, as usual, and, true to his duty, he perservered threw it.
Not to say that he was the best apprentice. No, he often played a Loki on the woman, messing things up purposely, trying to convince her that she was not a true witch whenever her things went wrong. However, she was clever, despite her teas, and knew how to outwit Beelzebub, who was aeons older than she, and gave him a good what-for whenever she caught him purposely messing up her brews, often giving him a lick or two as if he were a child, and once again attempting to teach him the ingredients, for he was, in fact, an illiterate beast, something she certainly didn’t want in any case.
Beelzebub was never as classy as he claimed and made himself to be.
Emily was but a young girl at this time, Arthur had notice potential in her and decided to teach her some of his own skills. She enjoyed learning from the other and when he was gone she would read the books constantly everyday. She trained and learned and soaked in the dark arts more then Arthur intended for her too. Her blue innocent eyes always seeking for new ways to use her magic.
One day though she decided to try something, to suppose a demon to her. Though she honestly didn’t think it through or wonder if that would be a good idea. She didn’t even think of how it would cause trouble for everyone in her village. All she knew was that she wanted to prove to Arthur how much she learned, and hoped this would bring her precious father figure back.
She was careful with everything, making sure it was perfect as she was in the forest and creating the pot and charms. Some other girls, who were her friends, were curious and been bugging her for love charms when they heard of her magic. They at least kept it quiet as they thought it was all in good fun. They even said they would help if she would make them love charms.
She agreed and that was how she had some of them around her, as she cooked up the pot and began to chant some spells…
