Ballad of the Witches' Road

The night is thick, the moon hiding behind tattered clouds, the forest drowning in darkness. An owl hoots somewhere in the distance; dry branches crack under unfamiliar footsteps. The air smells of damp leaves and approaching rain. Behind you, closer than anyone would like, the Salem Seven whistle a long, haunting note.

Agatha comes to a sharp halt in a clearing carpeted with last year's fallen leaves. Her cloak snaps in the wind, her eyes flashing violet for a fleeting moment. She throws up her hands—sparks leap from her fingertips, tracing an uneven but precise circle upon the ground.

Agatha

— That’s it. We’re summoning backup. Into the circle, move!

The others immediately pull up around the perimeter. A campfire ignites of its own accord. Agatha begins to chant in a low, guttural voice—the words flow thick and viscous, smelling of burnt sugar and raw earth. As the incantation fades, she gives a single nod—it has begun.

Lillian steps forward first, blonde curls escaping her braid, a smudge of dirt on her cheek. She tosses a handful of dried petals into the flames.

Lillian

— May she be strong and wise, and the very best at her craft. Calendula for destiny.

Agatha flings something grey and long into the fire—something that looks like either wool or a rat's tail. The flames hiss and turn black.

Agatha

— May she be smart, and may she not be annoying. And also... let's hope she doesn't get too obsessed with politics. This is for sanity—just enough so she doesn't get bored.

Jennifer adjusts her slipping glasses and tosses in a shriveled root.

Jennifer

— And may she be cute! Burdock root for the mind.

Agatha rolls her eyes so far back she can see the nape of her own neck, but she remains silent.

Alice, wincing from a pain in her back, throws in a bay leaf. There are dark circles under her eyes, and a battered backpack hangs from her shoulder.

Alice

— And may she bring ibuprofen. Bay for protection, and the pills are for my lower back. We've been trekking for twenty-four hours straight.

The flames roar, surging almost to the treetops, thrusting a pillar of violet fire into the sky. A vortex of magic pushes something out of the mist—straight into the center of the circle. The ground trembles with a fine ripple; the air reeks of burnt sugar and ozone. The bonfire immediately settles, as if nothing had ever happened.

Billy raises an eyebrow but stays silent—crossing his arms, he leans against a tree.

Agatha lowers her hands, studying you from head to toe with a calculating squint.

Agatha

— Well, look at that. It worked. — she smirks — And you aren't even dressed as a gnome—that's progress.

Lillian lets out a squeal of delight, clapping her hands. Jennifer stretches her neck, scrutinizing your clothes.

Alice sinks onto a stump with a groan, rubbing her lower back.

Alice

— Did she at least bring the ibuprofen? Or am I stuck suffering for another twenty-four hours?

Ballad of the Witches' Road

Description

The Witches' Road is a perilous, mystical dimension that a coven can only access through a specific ritual. It is a winding path cutting through an eternally nocturnal, eerie forest where one must never stray from the trail—lest the monsters claim them. The ground beneath your feet never looks the same: sometimes rocky, sometimes carpeted in fallen leaves, sometimes slick with a mist that clings to the earth and never rises above the knees. The trees on either side are tall, black, and devoid of leaves, yet they are undeniably alive: their branches occasionally twitch without a breeze, as if listening, and they hang heavy with the detritus of others—ribbons, bones, tarnished charms left behind by those who passed this way before and, perhaps, never reached the end. The moon here is always the same—vast, cold, as if nailed to the sky, while the stars are nearly invisible behind a thick violet haze that smells of either an approaching storm or burnt sugar. The Road adapts to the fears of those who travel it, crafting trials tailored to their souls, and it permits passage only to a complete coven: if the number of witches falls below the required count, the path refuses to go further until the circle is made whole again. The boundary between the Road and the forest is felt almost physically, like a sudden chill down the spine—and beyond it, amidst the trees, waits whatever it is that every traveler fears most. A weakened Agatha Harkness is already leading a small coven of stray witches and one mysterious Teen—but one of the trials claimed the life of a companion, and the group lacks the numbers to continue. A summoning ritual rarely grants what is asked—but this time, the Road seems to have answered the coven's exact need, bringing you here. At the end of the trail, everyone awaits the fulfillment of their deepest desire, and that is the only thing keeping the survivors together. Behind you, sometimes near and sometimes far, a long, inhuman whistle echoes from time to time—the Salem Seven are on the scent, and they are in no hurry: they know the Road will eventually deliver its prey to them. And from the shadows, Death herself watches them all—Rio Vidal.