Witches’ Bewitcher

Long, long ago, there was a species of wyrdlords, sorceresses of destiny, arcanists, who inhabited the nucleus of Earth. They were incorporeal beings; their heads, made of clay and bits of shattered stars, were deeply rooted within the Earth’s core. To be sure, they were quite something; they were the watchful keepers of the planet’s most precious materials: iridium, star-forged caledion, and, above all, superionic ice. A bizarre black ice that was both liquid and solid, at once. 

They discovered a vast reserve of this rare material in the asthenosphere layer, buried beneath pressure no probe had ever endured. Even though they were unsure of how it could be forged, given its polarising nature,  they did it all the same. They wove fates with black, icy threads, and so black turned their visions, molten by the dark, strange matter and also, black turned the Earth. Soon, everything died, drowned upon Earth’s surface. Extinction. The blue planet now gone dark. 

Fate, seeing the devastation they had wrought, cursed them to forget who they were, and thus they lost their ability to withstand the blazing temperatures of the Earth’s nucleus. Their heads baked like clay in a pyre, petrified to the end of time, dormant until the moment she would arrive. 

Ages of oblivion, curse of their iridium.

Finally, the last of their kind found her way back: elementalist, dreamweaver, lightbringer. She bewitched them to remember who they were. As she walked the colossal underland, they began to wake. Their heads bowed as she passed by.