It was time to address her most immediate issue, that of apparel. 

Or a lack of it. 

Currently, she had nothing to cover her modesty aside from a wet blanket and shame. While it was possible to fashion one of those two into something wearable, she had spotted proper clothing while rummaging for rags. 

The old wardrobe was still ajar, with ripped clothing spilling forth. Among those tattered pieces were a few that, while time and the elements had worn them down, were still somewhat serviceable, at least until she found proper civilization. 

One that was hopefully friendlier than the fae.

The underwear available left much to be desired as they looked much more like baggy shorts tied up with cord and a loose, white-ish shirt, but it was better than going commando. The undershirt’s material scratched roughly on her battered and sensitive skin. After struggling into those, she plucked up a fraying gray tunic from the pile. It was laced up at the hips on either side and sported a deep v-neck that could also be laced closed. 

With minimal cursing, she struggled into a pair of thick brown pants made of musty-smelling hide or tanned leather. While rough on the outside, they had been lined with a softer material. The clothing was fitted for someone not much shorter than Autumn was, so while the pants rode a little high at the ankles and the top was a little scant at the wrists, it wasn’t too bad. While age had eaten away at them, they still beat running about naked to the wind and elements. 

Autumn stuck a finger through a moth-eaten hole in the sleeves.

“Next marketplace I find, I’ll replace it, once I get money, of course.” 

Resting at the base of the wardrobe alongside a musty pair of frayed socks was the saddest and most beaten pair of leather boots she had ever seen. Autumn wasn’t much of a shoe kinda girl, preferring either running shoes or work boots, but even she would have to admit these were ugly as all sins. The leather was stained and far more cracked apart than an old man’s face, but they were all she could find in her size.

Anyway, it was far too soon to wear anything on her wounded feet.

Turning her attention back to the wardrobe, she spotted two more articles of clothing that would complete her ensemble: that of a hat and a robe. What had once been a dark black robe had faded away with age into a hazy gray. Yet, despite its advanced years, it still kept a level of comfort Autumn desperately desired. 

Her slender arms disappeared into voluminous sleeves as the heavy fabric fell upon her narrow shoulders. She felt secure in its billowing grace and bundled warmth as it draped down past her hips and thighs to swirl around her calves. A small iron chain that was untouched by rust fastened either side together, and Autumn wasted no time in securing it together. 

Upon further investigation, she found to her surprise and delight that the inside was lined with many deep pockets, including a few secretive ones in the lining she barely caught in her inspection. Perfect for hiding coins, trinkets, or other valuables inside. 

She had never been in love with any article of clothing more. 

Once finally snuggled deep within the warmth, she set to examining the last item, the hat. 

A peak had wizened and folded down upon itself like the hunched form of a man’s spine beset by age. Upon its black leather shone a crone’s face of gray cracks and wrinkles that spidered and crept down to a rat-chewed brim. 

It was an old witch’s hat.

Yet despite that, it was proud, regal almost as it hung in place and as Autumn placed it upon her much younger brow, it dipped under a weight that took her by surprise. 

In fright, she tore it free and held it at arm’s length. With no small amount of trepidation, she placed the hat back upon its rest.

“Ok, weird. What else is in this place? And Autumn, be more careful with spooky things.” 

Now that she was clothing-clad, Autumn set about examining the shelter she had invited herself into. She had caught a brief glimpse the night before in her hurried rummaging, but now she had further time to plunder this stranger’s hut and find the secrets hidden within. 

The place that had first captured her wayward attention even with the flaring pain in her feet was the shelves that lay burdened with a myriad of jars and bottles that contained all manner of wondrously creepy contents. Among the rows, Autumn spied bottles of dead pixies with wings of glitter, jars that held bat’s ears or frog’s tongues, a glass jar that held within pure darkness, and many, many more strangeness.

With the wall as support, she hobbled her way across to the display; cursing under her breath as she went. 

Below the shelves sat an old workbench that numerous substances had stained. The wood had warped to a palette of splotched colors. An equally weathered and worn chair sat before it as if awaiting an occupant. 

Autumn obliged the seat and gave her aching feet a rest.

What she hadn’t noticed earlier in her search for aid for her wounds and nourishment for her growling belly was an old dusty book resting on the stained tabletop. A cover of aged leather was bound along the edges and spine with thin patterned iron that had worn smooth from oils and time’s touch. Enclosed within were many yellowed pages that had warped and buckled. 

It looked more akin to a tome of old than any simple book.

Autumn picked it up with care. 

In her hands, it felt heavy, and she wondered just how long it had been waiting for a wandering soul to page through it. With as much care as she could muster, she cracked it open, the iron and leather creaking as the cover shifted and its dust fell away. 

The first page was nearly blank aside from a series of strange runes and markings that, despite never seeing before, Autumn could understand. 

Before her eyes, they resolved and thus they read.

Beware all who read the private property of Witch Augus.

Be ye witch-hunter, may you die in a fire.

Be ye adventurer, may you eat troll dung.

Be ye tax-collector, see all the above.

If you are still reading this, that means that you are not any of those listed above or all the deadly curses I had placed upon this tome have faded. 

Call yourself lucky if so.

Autumn glanced nervously down at the book in her hands that hadn’t burst into a cacophony of spells and violent exhalations. Seeing that she indeed could call herself lucky, she flipped the page excitedly in search of more hints of magic within. 

This, Tome of Witchcraft and Arts Most Black, is the property of Witch Augus, the most terrible and wise. Within you will find my last will and legacy to be passed on to a young witch destined to surpass me.

In my entire lifetime, as long and storied as it was, I failed to find such a girl who could inherit my vast knowledge of magicks. I had tried it all, every advice my so-called peers had graced upon me; kidnapping a lowly peasant, creating one from blood and magic, even bewitching those in need of power. Yet all fell short.

In my desperation, I even contacted those blasted fae that ruled the lands I found had hidden my abode, but the slippery gobshites found some way to weave around the wording. My every utterance of our deal would leave them in fits of giggles, only uttering that she would come despite Autumn already passing sevenfold. 

So despite all this, I am left with my only option, to write everything I know or have accumulated in my lifetime within this leather and iron Tome and hope some girl of destiny wanders in to find it. A slim hope. Or perhaps you are the girl promised? Either way, it matters not only that my knowledge and legacy carry on.

Oh and my hat, I suppose you can have that too, if it has survived.

Gentle was the rage that boiled beneath Autumn’s skin, anger bound by society like a dog chained that eyes the hand that strikes it with a simmering intent.

She needed a moment to think, to breathe. 

This was the reason she was here, why she had to endure all the pain, misery, and fear. She suffered because this witch had made a poor deal with the fae. 

Within her aching breast was the seething desire to cast the ancient tome into the crackling fire, to cast the instigator of her toil into the depths, to be forgotten by all and deny the wicked witch her last will. Yet even as the hate festered within herself, she could still see that this was her chance. The fae still awaited her outside, and they’d eventually find a way inside or just starve her out. 

So she clung tightly to the book and its offered knowledge. 

Magic was the unfulfilled dream of countless of Earth’s generations. Its boundless grasp had tantalized many and she couldn’t pass up the chance to learn. 

It would become her strength.

With a quill in her uninjured and non-dominant hand, she viciously scratched out Witch Augus’ neat handwriting and filled in her scrawl.

Beware all who read the private property of Witch Augus Autumn.

After taking a calming breath, Autumn filled her mouth with dried fruits that tasted of bitter lemons and sweet chocolate, before turning the page. 

Many are the ways to pluck at the weave of magic, to make the world bend to one’s will. Sorcerers would pull from their blood, casting the magics of the ancestors; fae, fiend, angel, or even draconic. Wizards study the ebbs and flows; they forge magic through the discovery of the many many pathways that permeate the many worlds. In contrast, we have warlocks; pacted casters who are bound to their patron and can only cast what is allowed to them, often at the cost of their very soul or something equally dear. Druids give and take with nature and Runelords carve with bone, stone, and metal.

These are but a few examples. 

Witches take a different tack in controlling their weave. We are beings of purest emotion. Never let it be said otherwise. We pay for every spell and ritual with emotion. It is the most potent source of power aside from the soul itself, but that is a lesson for another time. 

Any emotion can work; anger, hope, desperation, fear. Some work better than others for specific things; anger for attacking or love for protecting, for example. Collecting a single emotional type works best. It creates pathways or grooves that make subsequent efforts all that much easier than scattering yourself too far as it will make you unfocused. 

But how do I collect emotion? you may ask, and where do I keep it? Well, in a hat, of course. No, really. With a witch’s hat nestled upon your head, you simply reach inside and feel that emotion. Once grasped, pluck it free and tuck it under your brow warmer. 

However, a word of warning before trying (If you haven’t skipped ahead), don’t take it all. Why? You ask, well if someone is drained fully of a particular emotion, it’ll make them empty, hollow. Without anger, you become weak. Without hope, you might just lie down and die. 

So go on and try, just be careful. Oh, and don’t worry about what emotion to try first. You’ll have much more time to specialize later.