[WP] The people are petrified of witchcraft, but as a witch yourself you are not in any more danger than any ordinary citizen, since non-witches are utterly inept at recognising witchcraft. You do hate seeing innocent people suffer though.

[u/Kitty_Fuchs]

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[u/kiawithaT]

Loop, loop, knot.

The gloomy morning had fallen prey to an overcast sky, and darkening clouds gathered over the village promising rain. Dead leaves crunched underfoot or scrabbled over the cobbles when caught in the chilly wind. Despite the dimming day, the town square was full of people with solemn faces and nervous tones.

Loop, loop, knot.

The pyre had been built before the sentence had been passed. Janet watched from the same window she peered out now as a horse-drawn wagon and three men arrived before day break. They had worked quickly and were gone before the morning bells tolled. Janet then watched the townspeople on their way to Church; they would slow, point at the pyre, murmur to one another. Some would shake their heads. All kept walking.

Loop, loop, knot.

The mother of the Bulger girl was a seamstress, rather talented, and comely. Her daughter inherited her beauty - long, shiny hair and big, sparkling eyes. Both were blessed with an easy smile that men frequently sought to steal for themselves, which inevitably made them more rare. Marriage proposals arrived frequently for the Bulger girl, and none had been accepted. When Lord Ansall returned to the village on behalf of the King, his selection of the Bulger girl for his manor surprised no one. The girl had worked at the manor for almost a year before returning home in the village before her contract ended. Rumors spread like weeds in a garden, and Janet heard the lies on every tongue. The more summons Lord Ansell offered, the more the Bulger girl declined and the louder the whispers got.

Then, the Lady Ansell died.

Loop, loop, knot.

Death is a tragedy, but a tragedy shared by all. No human lived without being touched by death in some part, and so Lady Ansell's funeral was widely attended. When others brought stories of the funeral to Janet, they were quick to remark on the fact that while her mother attended the funeral of Lady Ansell, the Bulger girl did not.

Loop, loop, knot.

It wasn't until a troupe of darkly clad men arrived in the village two moons after the funeral that anyone bothered Lord Ansell. His mourning period was broken, and the manor was lit from within at all hours for a fortnight following the troupe's arrival. When they emerged, a council was called.

Loop, loop, knot.

The Bulger girl was deathly white when they arrived, unloading her from the back of a wagon due to the bindings on her hands and feet. There was a darkness around her eyes that spoke of nights filled with horrors that chased away all sleep. Her once beautiful hair was lank and mangled, with patchy spots on her head revealing where hunks of it had been torn free. Her mother was unbound, but was unloaded from the wagon and deposited on the cobbles nearby where she sat on her knees and wailed. The front doors of the main hall opened, and a procession of men exited. Their beards were neatly combed and their hats freshly felted. The sashes denoting their status as a Witch Hunter were red, and from a distance they all appeared to be slashed with fresh blood. Fitting, Janet thought.

Loop, loop, knot.

The ceremony was long, and boring and tired. They listed charges that the Bulger girl screamed she was innocent of, droned laws and regulations that none of the townspeople followed and dedicated the girl's unwilling life to a God who was not present. The mother's wails punctuated every hoarse yell her daughter managed around the fabric that was fixed around her face. When a man approached the pyre with a torch, the stake to which the girl was tied vibrated as she thrashed, attempting to flee the advancing agony. The townspeople watched in horror, caught between the fear of witchcraft they were unable to identify and the fear of the Hunters that they could. It was a worthy sacrifice in their eyes - either she was innocent, and the sin would be against the hunters or she was guilty and the town was cleansed of her. The only person who watched closely, who watched intently, was Lord Ansell. When the mother's wailing became ongoing screams of agony, as if she were watching a part of herself being slaughtered, his expression did not change. When the Bulger girl's flesh burning changed the pitch and fever of her screams, his expression did not change.

Loop, loop, knot.

Most left before the Bulger girl truly died, overwhelmed by either the smell or the screaming. There was no thirst for vengeance, no true fear of the magic the girl used to kill Lady Ansell. Only the person truly scorned remained, sitting on the dias and watching the corpse burn. When the charred arm fell off and the body hadn't done much more than contract, the last of the watchers were forced away. When the rain started hours later, Janet watched him view the smouldering pyre. It was familiar, this hatred he looked at the remains of the Bulger girl with. It hadn't changed at all since Lord Ansell forced himself on Janet. It was the same face she saw the last time she could walk, before Lady Ansell pushed her out a window after finding out she was pregnant. They should have stayed away. Janet was sorry for the Bulger girl.

Lord Ansell finally rose from the dias, approaching the pyre and glancing around the empty square. The fire in the room Janet watched from had long since gone out, and she watched as Lord Ansell spat on the smoking pile. His hatred was palpable. He believed his lie, thought himself free of his curse. Janet turned the almost fully wrapped clay doll over in her hands, brushing the hair of Lord Ansell's lovingly as she did so.

Janet pulled tight on the harsh strings cutting slowly into the clay, knotting his demise ever closer.

Outside, Lord Ansell staggered and his hand went to his midsection as he sought to sturdy himself.

Janet smiled in the darkness. It had been the same for his wife.

Loop, loop. Knot.

[u/jpb103]

Mabel had a mind to run for mayor.

Between the state of the roads, the firehouse having burned down, and the overall subpar municipal services, she wondered where they found the money for all the trials.

"Edith Thompson," the judge called out. "You are accused of witchcraft. How do you plead?"

"N-n-not guilty, your honor!"

Those in attendance chattered in a conspiratorial murmur. "Stuttering," Mabel heard someone say. "She's a witch for certain." Mabel rolled her eyes. Little Edith couldn't conjure a fart without blushing. Mabel mused over how the charge had come about.

She didn't have long to wonder.

"She stole my penis, she did!" Georgie Collins cried, pointing accusatorially from the witness stand. "Put it in a tree, as they do." Mabel summoned every ounce of her willpower to stop herself from busting into laughter.

"I would never!" Edith countered, her face red as a rose blossom. "I di-di-didn't even know they could d-detach."

The urge to laugh swiftly faded. This was just sad. As it usually ended up being. Unfazed by the injustice, others in attendance did snicker. It turned Mabels stomach sour.

"Silence," the judge ordered. "Miss Thompson, you have apprenticed as a nurse for several seasons now. Your patients recover at thrice the rate of other nurses. How do you explain this discrepancy?"

Edith searched the crowd with pleading eyes. The pit of shame in Mabels stomach grew deeper.

"I cared for my patients. I offered hope and comfort. I believe this made a difference."

Silence fell over the courtroom. The briefest glimmer of hope sprung to life in Mabels heart.

"Guilty."

They hauled poor Edith out in irons. They would do terrible experiments on her before she died. Mabel found it especially egregious given that these experiments had no scientific value whatsoever.

Such waste would not be tolerated with me as mayor.

[u/OrchidLaceOwl → u/jpb103]

This was really impressive. I feel like I was pulled with Mabel from laughing at Edith’s response to the gut punch of how dark the ending was. I think my favorite line was probably “Little Edith couldn’t conjure a fart without blushing.” XD

[u/Longjumping_Lab_6739]

The moon and her cycles are widely misunderstood by the general public. The old trope that it makes people mad is just about the only grain of truth that came through to the common people. The keyword is people. Witches don't brew their potions at the full moon. Werewolves don't go into a lunar rage. In fact, the only significance it holds for us is that we have to step lightly around the humans who go bonkers under great Luna's resplendent light.

The last werewolf I knew - Johnathan Harberdash - was the most reasonable fellow I knew. He was agreeable, even. Keen to please and extremely excited when a visitor would show up. When I'd visit him his tail would be wagging and he'd ask a thousand questions or more about what was going on in the town. The only bad thing about the whole affair was that licking was their way of showing affection, and not the type of affection you might expect from licking.

It was a full moon that got him. The humans were madly but rhythmically dancing around a campfire they'd built near his home. You could hear the drums from the town, so loudly were they beating them with a reckless abandon. Any other period in the lunar cycle and they might've taken precautions that would've prevented the eventual fire that raged though old Johnathan's woods. The selfsame fire that took his life.

Which is why I had mixed feelings about the scene I came upon during the most recent full moon. A woman, now stripped of her clothing and bare to the world, half-unconscious from whatever they'd done to her, was tied up to a pole of twice her size. When I came upon the scene that wicked preacher was loudly accusing her of "Witchery and whatnot" to the worked up crowd whose eyes were bulging with the ferocious madness.

On one hand, this woman was certainly not a witch. Of course she wasn't. The humans don't know the first thing about "witchery and whatnot" - like most things they speak with authority upon. She only liked collecting herbs in the forest. For their smell, mostly. On the other hand, she may have been one of those writhing and practically amorphous figures dancing around that campfire the night my friend burned to death.

I pondered for a short moment what exactly should be done. Is there a human who is innocent? Or are they all bleating, raucous, foul smelling parasites when beautiful, pregnant Luna shows her full bodied form? I really couldn't be sure. Some of them, I'm sure, were innocent. Yet none of those lived in this town - exposed as they are to the energy of the Full Moon. Perhaps in time, they will find some way to shield themselves from this energy.

For now, my decision was made. I waved my hand and out from my fingertips came my own kind of energy. The womans face - once beautiful - came alive with puss seeping warts. Her skin, once glowing with the perfection of her youth, turned green and wrinkled before the eyes of the crowd. It was mere seconds before the maddened crowd covered her in oil and set her aflame. Now I would wave my hand again. A spark would fly from the burning woman - innocent as she was to the crime of witchery - and land upon a thatched roof.

Their screams gave me no pleasure. My questions were not answered. I knew, in time, the people would rebuild here and the same problems would arise again. But at least none of my dear friends had to worry on this particular full moon - and a few full moons to come.

Innocent as she was to that particular crime... innocent as she was... I still whistled a tune so lovely to my ears on my way home to my burrow and my sisters. I knew she didn't suffer long. Not nearly so long as me.

[u/mysteryrouge]

It would have been funny if it weren't so sad that the people in the local town could not recognize a witch (or wizard, or mage).

The mayor was having another witch burning because some woman had been found with—of all things—a green pendant from halfway across the world. A pendant that had existed in the town for ages.

 Most citizens watched with mixed glee and fear as the woman was lit alive, and among them, was Anatolia. Holding a hot cup of tea, she had chosen a nearby cafe to witness the execution and she wasn't the only one to do so.

Inside the cozy spot, every other patron stared with accusing fingers pointed at the wide windows, or cheered at justice served.

Anatolia joined them in fearful gestures, even though she wasn't afraid. 

Executions of this type were regular. Once, twice, three times a week, it was a wonder the town was still alive. None of those killed were witches though. Anatolia would know. Her ability to sense magic was trained over the course of decades before she moved away from the cities.

Lightly shaking with tea in hands, she stared at the screaming woman that couldn't be heard from inside the cafe. The people cheered too loud, and the windows blocked out the rest of the sound. 

I want to help her, she thought, suppressing her own abilities. No point being the first actual witch to be caught. She's innocent.

And yet, she couldn't act. Not in public at least.

Her mind turned to strategy. Executions took a day to set up. In that time if she could get the “witch” alone, Anatolia could teleport them away and to safety. Just out of town, far enough from where the town's explorers ventured, was an embassy.

They occasionally sent diplomats in, with their nice suits and perfect attitudes, and the towns would welcome them with open arms.

Executions didn't happen when diplomats were around. It would be rude to kill someone in front of your guest.

The diplomats would walk around, talk to the people, shop in the stores, and stare at the local nature with those empty benign gazes they held. And sometimes, they'd use magic.

A small tendril would emerge from a coat pocket, a beam of light would radiate from an eye. Floating hands would pick high things off shelves and give them to the kids, and extra arms would catch the falling.

They weren't at all secret about their magic. In front of the mayor, one even flew in the air. The witch hunter never targeted them, and when asked, he'd look confused saying “they're not witches.” Not anything like “they're guests, it would be rude to attack our guests,” but “they are not witches and they do not perform magic.”

Of all witches and mages and wizards in the world, the diplomats, eerily identical in how they moved and talked and dressed, were the most powerful. 

Anatolia remembered something about them being controlled by a higher power at one point, but she'd left the city before she could confirm. All she knew was that these diplomats were the witches that the mayor said he hunted down with gusto.

The execution was still happening outside the cafe. This woman was taking an excruciatingly long time to burn. She must have had some out of town tattoos to mitigate some of the burning damage, but it didn't seem to be working in her favor.

The afraid became more afraid, seeing more “justification” for the execution, while those that cheered, celebrated more torture.

So what do I do?

Her own fire tattoos, hidden under her shirt, could not last hours. Her water breath one couldn't last days.

In a pocket of her coat was an item she forgot she had. A last gift from her friends in the city. A contact sigil for the embassy, only to be used in an emergency.

Like someone being burnt to death.

Pushing some magic in, those diplomats came in droves, rescuing the woman and dispersing the now angry crowds who didn't get their catharsis.

When the mayor raged about the interference, he looked everywhere but Anatolia's direction.

I guess I know how to stop the suffering, she shrugged as she was escorted home by diplomats, like everyone else.

In the end, they silently thanked her for saving a life. They said they would tell no one local about the deed, but to feel free to contact them whenever she needed.