Within a secluded encampment three witches awaited the forecast time. Beyond the sundries typical of a normal camp, provisions, tools, and shelter, the trappings of their craft lay about them. A mobile apothecary sat open and ready. A fire had been built, fed, and burned to ashes, smoldering around a cauldron large enough to fit a person. A fog bank hovered, shivering with anticipation. Each witch uses their familiar to pass the time, eliciting slight pleasures; shadows of the delights to come.
Agatha rested upon a couch made of tangling vines and a supplicant tree. The vine's tendrils and leaves played across her body, each blade tracing her skin as light as a breeze. Her nerves ached for more but she denied herself, awaiting the satisfaction that was to come.
Jane floated within the cauldron cradled in a net of tentacles. They writhed and teased between her legs, touching and pressing like the fingers of a sleepy lover. She wanted more, but the knowledge of the evening ahead allowed her to be patient.
Within her sanctuary of fog, Mary prepared for the evening ahead of her. She had warmed it to a sauna and soaked in its heat until every speck of tension had melted from her body. Wisps of the fog scrubbed her skin until she felt soft and radiant. Ghostly hands brushed and braided her hair until it was set perfectly in place. She was ready for their visitor.
"Thrice the brindled cat hath mowed." Agatha reclined in her crimson robe, sinking into the depths of her verdant couch formed of vine and bent tree. The tree was hunched, bound and submitting to the vine that entangled its every branch and twig. Few leaves were allowed to escape and collect sunlight, providing scant nourishment, only where they would not discomfit the witch. The vine itself undulated over Agatha's supine form. Her face was flushed as with a gesture the vine slid from betwixt her legs.
"Thrice, and once the hedge pig whined," sighed her sister, cheek resting on the curved rim of a massive copper cauldron. Jane's curly salt and pepper hair flowed over the rim, dripping liquid onto dull orange coals. The old cauldron had the shape of a church bell beaten into a pot by an indifferent hammer. Water steamed and bubbled, and a lazy tentacle rimmed the edges of her buttocks and pulsed. More wrapped her torso and legs, supporting her in the boiling liquid. Jane let out an indolent moan as they massaged her flesh.
"'Tis time, this time," cried Mary, stepping through an arch in her bower, a room constructed of fog, unrealized ambitions, andbound, impotent, ghosts. A fraction of the fog followed, forming slacks, a vest and jacket upon her frame. It fit as if perfectly tailored to her lanky, tanned form, and never stopped roiling- sending constant small frissons across her body. Another piece of the ghostly fog rested across her closely trimmed copper-colored hair as a trilby hat.
Jane extricated herself from the cauldron. The be-tentacled creature, its yellow skin covered with vivid blue rings, draped itself upon her voluptuous form as a halter-topped summer dress. At a gesture, the fire under the cauldron burst to life and licked around the cauldron.
Agatha lifted herself from the depths of the couch. A piece of the vine detached itself to become a braided belt that fastened around her sanguine robes. She was of a height with the other two only because more parts of the tree became lifted boots before her feet could touch the ground. A piece of stew clung to the back of Jane's dress. Pinching it, Agatha peeled it away and tossed it into the witches' brew.
