u/Thecrookedpath

Love for my new community. You guys are the best.

(borrowed from u/Bad_Badger_DGAF)

"A mortal explorer?! In search of me, no doubt. So obvious it lay across your face!

Yes, it is I, once Nick the weaver, more likely to you known as Master of the Stage. I'll be plain with you, I'm surprised that no one has sought me sooner.

My last review, so honey'd as it were, left no doubt the Duke has scoured land and sea, scrubbed towns clean to a speck, searching for me.

Alas, I cannot return with you. My Queen demands my service. Nick the weaver, Nick the Roarer, grand tho he had been, died gently in a fit of sleep. And I, Sir Nicholas Bottom, Knight of the Midsummer, is all that remai-...Wait.

What, prithee, is tha-"

(Sorry for the repost, I didn't realize one of my pictures was an unedited screenshot.🫩)

...and I've been told I have a cute little Bottom.

The quality really starts dipping when I try to add more witches. I figured I might pass this off to someone more skilled.

Champion of the Queen of the Woods.

Borrowed from u/TinkouWasHere.

"Let us begin, shall we... Dalver-Nar?"

Morris Ashward, Royal Mage of Tenron, knelt before the ensnared beast once more. Although his voice was quiet and his tone conversational, it seemed to shatter the silence. It carried a confidence that came with the title of Archmage...and this, he had found, carried a magic of its own.

The darkening expression of the entity seemed to confirm this. Whether it was the uttered name or the newfound bravado, its smile faded. And for the first time it spoke, barely above a whisper.

"You have no...no claim to hold me. You come bearing no seal, no...sigil."

"Of course. How silly of me." Ashward had brought no incenses, no books or wands. He merely produced a small box of chalk, and removed a single piece. "Let's correct that."

Although the robed figure made no move, the entire air of the cellar seemed to have changed. Morris did not wait, but struck while the iron was hot, deftly drawing runes around a new circle of his own, aligning and layering each line by memory. He regretted forgetting the summoning book, but he'd spent the night studying it, and he lettered the strange conjuring circle with a skill learned over a lifetime.

"I bind the spirit bound to thee, mad sage! You will answer all that I ask. Now, where is the crown prince?"

"Gone..." Its voice was low and sibilant, its face somber, but the malice in the words was unmistakable. "He is lost to you. Ask me no more." The thing reached up, its arms studded with molars, incisors and fangs, and began removing its hood. "Ask me no more, Morris son of Edgar, lest ye be vexed."

"TELL ME THE TRUTH!" he dashed the last mark of the final sigil into place, completing the circle.

Suddenly, everything changed. A lump rose in his throat, and ice gripped his heart. He staggered to his feet, struggling to find his voice again.

He didn't recognize any of the runes before him. Had he really recalled that circle from his time in the library? Hadn't that been a dream?

What had he done?

He struggled against his own growing uncertainty. He told himself that his welling despair was part of the summoning, an effect of the Weeping Angel's influence, nothing more. Still, when he found his voice it was weak and watery, sounding impossibly old and frail.

"...Before the seal of Focalor, I...I demand that you tell me. Where is Kieran Riven?"

"The Prince of Tears. Very well. Here is your truth...and your tears." The thing stood, pulling away the cowl.

Kieren, the king's own son, stood before the archmage, draped in purple rags. His skin had the color and sheen of an infected gum line, and sores pocked his skin where teeth erupted forth, and were healed over.

The chalk slipped from Morris's hand.

The moment that the wards on the wizard's summoning circle were marred, Morris Ashward was lost. The cold gripping his chest rose over his head and threatened to drown him. His godson stood before him, a deformed horror, and the scream welling inside him joined a chorus of wailing that stuck in his throat and rendered him mute.

Dalver-Nar, wearing the prince as if he were an ill-fitting suit, stepped out of his own warding circle unfettered. When he placed a hand on the old mage' shoulder, Morris made no move in response. He was lost in himself.

Dalver-Nar spoke to him anyway. "Take care, Royal Mage of Riven. I'll make your pleasantries known back at the castle."

I meant for this to apply to the new art challenge, but it seems to fit this one better.

"Come over here and smile for a picture. You only have to pretend for 5 minutes, then you can go back to being an idiot."

"Don't worry, Your Highness. With your dress cut that low, no one's going to be looking at our faces."

"Come over here and smile for a picture. You only have to pretend for 5 minutes, then you can go back to being an idiot."

"Don't worry, Your Highness. With your dress cut that low, no one's going to be looking at our faces."

"Come over here and smile for a picture. You only have to pretend for 5 minutes, then you can go back to being an idiot."

"Don't worry, Your Highness. With your dress cut that low, no one's going to be looking at our faces."