19496/A Little Witch in All of Us

A Little Witch in All of Us
Date of Scene:	13 November 2024
Location:	Whisper Hill, Upstate New York
Synopsis:	Madelyne Pryor has a lust to learn. Agatha Harkness lives to teach. Surely nothing can go wrong.
Cast of Characters:	Agatha Harkness, Madelyne Pryor

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Agatha Harkness has posed:
Have you heard of Agatha Harkness?

A witch, they say. Older than mountains and twice as unyielding. Perhaps one of the most repugnant and vile creatures you can find, or so the whispers in the magic community go. Betrayed her covens. Consorted with eldritch things man was not meant to know. Crafted an antichrist of a son out of nothing more than pure spite. Cursed your favorite pet. Yes, -that- one, the especially cute one.

The rumors are myriad, but there's always one throughline:

Agatha Harkness is a witch. And perhaps the greatest one ever known.

And for those interested in seeking her out based on that throughline? Those interesting enough to hold -her- interest?

Rumors will guide them, as if by hand of destiny or perhaps something more malign, to a very particular place...

                                            UPSTATE NEW YORK,                                            
                               WHISPER HILL                                

... where a frankly dilapidated mansion at the top of a hill surrounded by forestland awaits them - awaits /her/ - in need enough to follow the red thread of fate to find it.

The architecture is in the stereotypically Victorian style one would find of a typical haunted house. Spider webs cling and flourish at the paint-chipping columns that support the front porch's overhang. Windows smeared with dust, dirt and regrets dot the stories of this place, more than a few shattered.

A shrike has made its nest on the balcony overlooking Whisper Hill, a rodent twitching the last vestiges of life on its thorny, impaled end.

So, overall, a lovely place.

But if one is brave enough - curious enough - to step towards that front door? The knob practically shimmers. Practically demands you forget your manners, forego knocking, and just take hold of it and -turn-. Caution be damned. Embrace boldness. Swallow your doubts. Step past the threshold...

... into a space far more vast on the inside than it could possibly be from the outside. Where rotting wood has been replaced by exquisite stone masonry in grand, 13th century Gothic style, a long, curved archway of stone and stained glass leading into a vast atrium full of book cases, luxurious sofas, a grand hearth.

The heart of a witch's home.

And no one to greet Madelyne Pryor when she enters but a single, black cat perched on a sofa console shelf, tail lazily flicking back and forth as wide, green eyes stare directly at her.

Welcome to the witch's den.

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
Maddy has felt weird, felt off, since the ... incident. When she used her world shaking psychic powers to ravage an angel astrally. Not just ravage, but -consume- part of its essence. Ripping and tearing a chunk of Divine Light away from a creature of pure order and taking it into herself.

Her dreams have been at turns beatific and terrible, but all full of horror. The horror of perfect order. Of perfect Law. Things not meant to be perceived and experienced by a human, even one with a vast psychic potential like the erstwhile clone of the Phoenix herself.

So she hunted. She started with her Mutant brothers and sisters to no avail. Then books. Occult shops. Surburban Mom Crystal Hawkers. Each utilized to no end, her desperation rising, and she moved on to darker, less reputable. She even sacrificed a squirrel last week.

The more she descended into the darkness of the occult, the more the whispers and rumors led her here. Away from Genosha. Away from the Asteroid. Even away from the hubs of mankind. They brought her here. To the boonies of upstate New York. To this pit of a house. Disguised it might be, but she can -feel- the power. Feel what it wants her to do.

So she takes the bait and walks in.

Her eyes widen slightly in shock at the change, but she almost expected it. Of course. Magic is an odd power that can do things like this. She goes to call out, but like almost anybody would be, she gets distracted by the cat. She approaches slowly, holding a hand out, doing her best to be non threatening.

"Hi there kitty. Is your momma around? I think I need to talk to her."

Agatha Harkness has posed:
There is power here. Ambient possibility that Madelyne Pryor is now uniquely attuned to feel thanks to the forces of Order thrumming through her cloned veins.

It's intoxicating. Electric. Enough to make the little hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

But right now, all of that possibility just lingers like an effervescent haze enshrouding Madelyne as she approaches Whisper Hill's - seemingly - lone resident. The cat does not so much as budge from her lofty perch as the woman in search of herself approaches. Those big eyes just focus on her, unblinking, pupils tiny slits of black in seas of gleaming seas of chartreuse.

Madelyne does everything right. Advances slowly, nonthreateningly. Offers a hand without broaching the elegant feline's personal space. Those eyes still fixate directly on her.

Is your momma around?

But the second she gets close enough--

"Hssssss!!"

The cat bares fangs, pupils dilating in a flash. Claws bared, one paw swipes out to literally slap Madelyne's hand away.

And off the feline bounds away from Madelyne, darting off the counter top and towards the stairs--

"Don't mind Ebony, dear."

As a voice like silk fills the redhead's ears.

"It can take quite some time for her to warm up to strangers, but she'll only ever gift real violence to those who seek it."

Candles flicker with a rush of wind, dimming the light of the chamber briefly.

And when that light blooms again, there she is.

She appears, like - well - magic. Standing at the top of the stairway leading towards the upper levels of her demesne, she appears with perfect timing for Ebony to leap from the stair's hand rails onto the graceful slope of her shoulders, where the flighty feline curls like a comfortably unconventional shawl.

Agatha Harkness. The dress she wears is so violet it might as well be black save for the brief shimmers of light casting brief, shimmery notes of violet across its surface; the neckline plunges to her navel, but her pale skin is covered all the way to the graceful arch of her neck to her hands with a sheer lace designed to look like a series of creeping spiderwebs. It slits up to her thigh, her long leg peeking out as she works her way down those stairs, one languid step at a time.

Her violet lips are curved in a sharp smile. And her arms spread.

"But not to worry!"

In warmest welcome to her newest, most intriguing guest.

"Momma's here now."

Her head tilts leftwards, white bangs spilling over her right eye as her brows rise.

"And just who does she have the pleasure of playing hostess to tonight?"

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
Madelyne's powers don't really work on animals. There's not usually enough higher function there to read or control. Not that it wouldn't be -useful-, it's just not hers to use. When Ebony gets Big Kitty Mad and takes a swing, Madelyne's lizard brain is at least fast enough to get her hand out of the way without taking serious damage. Just one little furrow that isn't even bleeding. A brush. Something you'd get by playing with a kitten.

She jumps at the voice, tied back red hair swinging as she straightens. Green eyes widen slightly as Agatha makes her grand appearance, and she feels incredibly underdressed in her hypercasual leggings, hoodie and white girl furry inside boots. It takes a -lot- anymore to make Madelyne Pryor, erstwhile clone of Jean Grey and regularly in the company of a literal queen, feel intimidated, but Agatha does it.

She turns more to fully face the other woman, keeping her powers tied down. Given what she's seen already, the house the way it is, getting into that head even by accident is a Bad Idea.

"I'm Madelyne Pryor. I have ... a bit of an issue you might be able to help me with."

Agatha Harkness has posed:
Click. Click. Click.

The sound of heels striking stone reverberate through the wonderful acoustics of Whisper Hill's antechamber as its mistress descends the slow spiral of her stairwell. She takes her time. She makes sure every step rings out.

It's imposing. And very purposeful. Everything to the way she moves, to the dramatic entrance, to the fact that she's dressed to the nines? All serve to cultivate that enigmatic presence.

What can she say? Live long enough, and you learn that theatricality is one of the few consistent sources of entertainment in this world.

And really, in circumstances like these...

I have ... a bit of an issue you might be able to help me with.

"My goodness. I would certainly say you do. No one finds themselves here -without- issue."

... how can she help herself, really?

Click. One final step, and Agatha is on Madelyne's level. Ebony lashes her tail, cracking one closed eye open to peer at the genetic twin of the Phoenix from her lace-wrapped shoulder perch. Crossing her arms under her chest, Agatha lifts one delicate, eloquent hand to cup her chin, peering at Madelyne with hooded-eye curiosity.

"But aren't you a fascinating creature. Hmmm. I have an idea of what has brought you to my doorstep, Madelyne Pryor, but please."

Agatha snaps her fingers, and the hearth bursts into flames, crackling hues of divine golds and filling Madelyne's world with inviting warmth.

"Unburden yourself, my dear; tell Agatha all your woes. You're in good hands now."

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
Magic and all of its ... accessories are foreign to Madelyne. Mutant powers? Sure. High technology? Absolutely. Magic? It may as well be Greek. The arcane and mystic aren't in her wheelhouse, but something says they -could- be.

At the very least, despite Agatha's theatrics and striking presence, the redhead is able to maintain eye contact, the will behind those green eyes iron. If a bit unsure right now. She jumps a little as the hearth flares to life, the roar of fire and sudden heat echoing in some genetic memory with the scream of a raptor.

"I was ... helping to stop some incredibly racist religious zealots who summoned some flavor of angelic being. I kind of ... astrally consumed a chunk of it, and it's making be feel incredibly weird. Buzzy, but not the fun kind. The world looks strange. It's like... I can see the chaos, and it makes me queasy."

Agatha Harkness has posed:
The skirt of Agatha's dress ripples around her legs like a cascade of shadow as she stalks a calm and leisurely prowl towards the hearth. Close to the golden blaze, the violets of that shimmery cloth are brought into stark relief... as is the way it seems to continuously flow like slow-dribbling liquid.

She watches that golden fire as Madelyne speaks; a long, dark purple nail tap, tap, taps with the soothing rhythm of a metronome against her cheekbone as the other woman speaks of zealotry, of angels.

Of divine sparks, stolen.

The corners of Agatha Harkness' lips tilt upward.

"... And now you've stumbled into a world you don't think you understand," surmises the ancient witch. She looks over her shoulder at Madelyne, the hearthfire reflecting in the purples of her eyes; Ebony stretches back onto her feet on Agatha's shoulders, placidly plodding from one perch to the next as she sprawls atop that hearth.

"You gorged yourself well, didn't you, dear? I can practically taste the divine on you from here, and you're still so very far away. We should fix that."

A chiding "tsk tsk tsk" clucks Agatha's tongue against the roof of her mouth. She turns to face Madelyne fully... and then reaches out with her right hand, curling one pale finger inward in an inviting beckon.

"Come closer."

Her voice is like sugared violets -- like a beam of warm sunlight piercing winter's chilly veil. Sweet. Inviting.

"Let's get a proper look at you... and see exactly what your appetites have gifted you."

As if quietly urging Madelyne towards it, towards -her-, so she can hear every syllable that much more clearly.

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
Even without mystical power beyond what lies stolen and dormant inside of her, she can feel Agatha's power. Her -presence-. It's almost overwhelming. Which is saying a lot given that her not fully realized potential puts her in the top three most powerful psychics on the planet. (She's currently probably number four, but closing that gap rapidly.) Her curiosity demands she let her senses out, what little common sense she has makes her stay her hand.

It doesn't prevent her from moving closer, though.

Her boots thud lightly on the floor, lacking the distinctive and pointed click of heels, but, hey, her feet are warm and comfortable. Her speed is almost tentative, cautious. The space between them isn't that large, but to Madelyne's perception, it seems like it takes a month to get there. It's honestly like four or five paces to get into arm's length from the Great Witch.

She stops, eyes wide, pupils dialated, her breathing a little anxious. A little shuddery. Is it fear? Anticipation? Just plain old nerves? She doesn't have the focus for words, so she says nothing.

Agatha Harkness has posed:
Thd. Thd. Thd.

Madelyne's approach is an understated contrast to Agatha's grand entrance. And yet with every step closer, that power bubbling within the redhead feels that much more palpable. Agatha can feel it radiate against her skin even more profoundly than the mystical heat of her hearth. Agatha's eyes shut as she savors the sensation. Not for what it -is-, but for what it could be. What it represents.

Pure, unbridled potential.

The curl of her finger stops with the last, scant inches of space that vanish between her and Madelyne. Her voice is a rich reward of appreciation as it fills the other woman's world once more:

"Good girl," she murmurs. Her fingers curl inward, her wrist turning. "You can feel it, can't you? The precipice you're standing on. It's thrilling, the first time. Like standing at the edge of a cliff, you look down and see nothing but darkness."

And Agatha reaches out...

"Knowing all it would take to see what's at the bottom is one... strong... push."

... and presses her palm against the center of Madelyne's chest, as if she were about to administer that push herself.

It never comes. Instead, there is a spark of violet. Electrical arcs of the arcane that dance between Agatha's fingertips and glow like purple embers in her gaze as she her senses expand and she stares into the woman known as Madelyne Pryor.

"Do you know the problem of stolen power, Madelyne? You are always beholden to the source it was taken from. It's especially true of the so-called 'divine' sources of magic; they are so very, childishly territorial."

Fingernails catch on the fabric of Madelyne's hoodie. Agatha offers her a ghost of a smile as she peers into the arcane furnace within the redhead.

"You can let what was stolen define you, but you will forever remain in its shadow, unable to understand, always at its mercy."

Behind them, the gold flames of the hearth burst and grow, twinges of cosmic oranges mixing with gilded divinity.

"But you -can- free yourself from that debt..."

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
All of these sensations are electric and new. She understands the hum of a human mind. The way her own mind interacts with the physical and astral environment. What she can do with her vast psychic might. That nugget of the divine, however, is like tinnitus. It's a constant buzz in the back of her head. Like a static charge with nowhere to go. Kind of annoying, really. If she could have used it, that would be one thing. But it's just -there-.

She shivers lightly as arcane power touches her for the first time. It's a different kind of current. No less potent and exhilarating. She can feel the metaphorical push coming and tenses for it. It never arrives. She blinks a few times, trying to focus, feeling like she's already falling.

"What...What can I do? I'm not... I'm not afraid. The worst thing that could happen to me already has. I've got nothing to lose."

Agatha Harkness has posed:
The existence that is Madelyne Pryor is laid out against Agatha Harkness' hand. The redhead feels... -interesting- against her fingertips. Her eyes shut as she feels the figurative shape of the erstwhile clone. She can feel the pilfered divinity of the Redeemer, like a rigid bulwark of crystalline, ordered perfection.

But it's almost like a cage.

The thrum of Order...

Ensconcing a hint of Chaos, as if trying to hide the sparking beginnings of an inferno.

The beginnings of a tale not yet told.

"Aah," Agatha exhales, flashing a hint of pointed canines with her bewitching smile. "Look at you. Breathtaking."

But there is the, finally, the question from Madelyne. The desire to know. To learn.

"It's simple, my dear," is Agatha's answer as her eyes crack open to violet slivers. "If you don't like the way your story is going... just change the narrative."

Agatha's palms lift, until just the very pads of her fingers are pressed to Madelyne's clavicle. And as she talks, she walks -- striding a slow, confident circle around the other woman, her fingers gliding across the everyday fabric of that hoodie, violet energies following in their wake like excitable, inky smears.

"Magic is about the power to change the world of what -has- to be with what you -want- to be by telling that world a lie. Spin a convincing enough tale, and anything is possible. 'I never stole this power.' 'This power was always mine.' 'I am beholden to no one for what I am.' Because that is what magic is, my dear:" That magic sparks as Agatha circles around behind Madelyne, shivering at her skin with its potent, unformed power. Wild, chaotic.

"The electric thrill of possibility."

Purple lips whisper sweet words into Madelyne's ear.

"You feel it, don't you...?"

And it's there Agatha remains behind Madelyne, one arm draped round her shoulders -- the other, stretching out -just- into the redhead's field of vision to guide her direction to the fire. Blistering. Burning. Radiant.

"You have two paths before you, Madelyne Pryor. I can remove this magic from you, cast it to the heavens, and return you to whatever passes for the mundanities of mutancy these days just as you were before. Riveting baseball games and weeping over the inevitability of mankind's unfathomable ignorance, perhaps.

"... or...

"... You learn what every part of you aches to learn. That you can take this power, break it down, and make it -yours-. Sublimate it until it is not stolen... but merely the kindling upon which your your greater potential can be realized."

She snaps her fingers one more time.

"Cast it into the fire, and become so much more than the sum of your pilfered parts."

And gold-orange flames turn towards eldritch greens. Like a possibility of what could be.

"I can't make the choice for you. I can simply help you if you make the right one. I just need to hear the words from your lips, Madelyne.

"Do you step away from the precipice... or do you embrace the push?"

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
Like some sort of counterpoint heartbeat, that divine fragment of the Redeemer thuds in her chest. It could be reacting to Agatha's clearly non-divine energies being worked in wisps around it, or it could just be that it's reacting to Maddy's own mental state. Not fragile, not anymore, but nervous. Anxious. Nowhere near breaking, but not settled either.

Even through the heavier cloth of that mundane, everyday hoodie, Agatha's fingertips are like cold fire. Burning and freezing at the same time, the tingle of it staying just on this side of painful. It's a little uncomfortable, but what power is? She makes herself stay put. She has to consciously concentrate on not shuffling her feet. Agatha might not look any older than Maddy herself does, but she can -feel- that weight. Feel the timeless ages of experience. She doesn't even have to be psychic to do so.

Part of her wonders if this is what it feels like to deal with the Devil. The rest of her decides that she doesn't care. This will hurt her no matter what. Nothing is easy. Learning is never without some kind of trial, but the biggest, most glaring point of her decision is that no one will ever hurt her again. Not like she has been. Made in some lab as some kind of tool. Hated and feared for what she is.

She'll give them something to be afraid of.

Her hand lifts, leveling her palm at the now green fire, her control slipping a little, the crackle of psychokinesis thrumming through her. The tie on her hair snaps and it wafts around her head, a grim, burning halo. Her eyes glow white.

"I don't need a push. I'll step over the edge on my own."