Even witches long for something greater sometimes.
Knowledge of herb and ritual, of crystal and will, of secret places hidden inside the thin edge separating light and shadow… it is all only knowledge, after all. It is not ascension.
If one aches for the kind of power that wells up from within—not the product of careful study and just-so technique, but effortless and essential—she might make a pact with one of the Greater Powers. She might offer something of herself or pledge herself to their service.
They might embrace her, elevate her, and make her one of theirs.
But lesser. Always lesser.
No creature of this world or any other will uplift one higher than itself. Most aren’t even inclined to bring one close in power if its intentions are servitude.
Many witches satisfy themselves with an arrangement of this nature. A union of occult knowledge with that inner wellspring of unnatural force makes for a fearsome creature indeed, far more so than any possessing only one or the other.
This satisfies many. Not all.
What if a witch managed to steal hellfire from the demons like an inverted Prometheus acting in service only to her own ambition? Well, surely demons look more favorably on that kind of audacity than the gods anyway, right?
What if she captured and dissected an astral spider, harvesting its precious venom and fangs and even a small strand of higher-dimensional silk?
What if she chipped for herself a fragment of Dreamwall? Scavenged a bone shard from the corpse of the Nameless Leviathan?
What if she imprisoned some Speaking Ones from the other side of the Unreal and extracted enough forbidden knowledge from them to invent new branches of alchemy none could imagine before now?
What if she put all her unique resources and exotic reagents to use at long last?
Would this quest prove in its culmination to be worth everything and everyone she sacrificed on her journey?
Time is finite, even for the very long-lived. Everything started must end one way or another, and it seems that time is finally running out for me.
The preparations are made. The sigils are painstakingly drawn, covering every inch of the room. Their other half hums in the tattoos on my skin. The syringe is full. My arm is ready.
Maybe when I get to the other side—if I remain myself—I will let you all know how it goes.