[AW] witch hunts will never be about witches

[Pavetta]

p a v e t t a - - - The mountain was shrouded in a veil of mist.  Pavetta was reminded of her wedding day and the veil she had worn. It had been the day that changed everything. Would this too, be a day to change everything in Novus? She hadn’t wanted to make the journey up the steep slopes, would rather linger in the valley, pretending such forces in Novus didn’t exist. But when had she ever backed down from a challenge, even if gods were involved? She had only seen the destruction wrought, the chaos that bred and festered in the presence of such forces.They had brought the fall of worlds, kingdoms, of people. And Pavetta had been raised to worship such beings. Suddenly, she was the girl on a mountaintop once more, secluded and silent. Dressed in gauzy silk and hair plaited, head bowed, for you might be whipped if you interrupted worship. The sorceresses dripping jewels and diamonds, vain and beautiful. She remembered the offerings—not myrrh and jasmine, but young girls that never returned. Blood on the altar, wet red pearls in the shape of constellations. Sacrifice was necessary, they said.  Pavetta climbed the last step, her breathing labored and heavy. Sweat rolled down her sides, hair plastered to her neck and forehead. She stood shakily, catching what little air there was up here, to see that already patches of snow littered the common area. Her hair was not pleated neatly, nor did she wear her fine clothing. She had left everything behind—here she was raw and barren before the gods. They did not deserve jasmine and myrrh, reverence and respect. They did not deserve sacrifices of girls with pearls in their hair.  They deserved death after life, as any mortal.  Hushed murmurs of excitement and anticipation. Pavetta felt alienated, their faith and belief made them people of action and hope. Her faithlessness did nothing in the grand scheme; it was powerless. She wandered among the gathering crowd and mist, not in a chatting mood, but neither did she desire to be alone in this place.  This place harbored nothing but ill intent.   a pearl in pigshit, a diamond on the finger of a rotting corpse, creature in whom nothing, but nothing, remains of an elven woman ---