Interviews Of Valen Donk

In a small village the type of village not marked on any map in which all the residents are born as the lack of those willing to move there. A mob started to take shape gathering like witnessing an impressive street performance. A man dressed in fancy garbs shouted amongst the crowd and as more people gathered the IQ of said mob divided. “Those Witches need to leave. They Kill our livestock. Kill our babies and murder poor Sally” he yelled from on top of a Gallow so that his words could shower onto the mob like raindrops. The classic signs of pitchforks and torches are made known and even some fancier residents pull out crossbows and swords. The man jumped from the platform and marched through town yelling his strongly worded criticisms across the town.

I bore witness to this a reporter from the Therac times who by carriage had just come into town. I found myself in a predicament. I hopped down and ran to the man who had stirred the mob up. “My name is Valen Donk. From the Therac times.” I greeted extending my hand out. He smiled and shook mine. Now I had shaken many hands of those I interviewed diplomates, hard honest workers, soldiers, etc and this was of the sleazy sly. It was the way they looked at you and gripped your hand like something wasn’t aligned. You can contort your face into any way you want but when you shook the hand of an experienced hand shaker you might as well have laid out your life story.

“Jonnen Bugrat Sir. A pleasure.” he exclaimed.

The mob stirred and stood still but it didn’t dissipate. It stood there like a dog waiting for their owner to speak their release word. “What brings someone down from the big city to our quaint little town?” He asked and smiled.

“Well I’m just here for a rest. I’m on the road you see.” I answered.

“Yes of course a reporter must be where the news is hot and fresh.” He noted. I took a good look at him dressed in fine garbs, a nice dark blue button up with thick cloth with pants that match. Shoes shined and somehow defied the dirt below. Slicked back hair and an impeccably clean face that even the finest of ladies couldn’t achieve. This man was not a town person; he was by the very definition royalty.

In contrast I was wearing a simple white button up tucked into my black pants. My black rimmed glasses and fizzled hair gave me the look of someone urgent. “I couldn’t help but overhear your current march towards some witches.” I noted.

“Ah yes, Scourges on our fine village we plan on killing them and burning down their house.” He cursed.

“Listen, I know you don’t like them. But if what you say is true there must be due process.” I snapped.

“Mister reporter.” He talked down to me

“Mr. Donk!” I snarled

“Mr. Donk these witches will just get away if we linger here and let them. Due process is just another way for criminals to stew and plan on escape. We must march tonight or be TURNED TO SERVANTS.” he yelled as the crowd shouted in return.

“Let me try and talk to them. Let me go up there and convince them to come down peacefully. Or let me talk to them and convince you they aren’t of any harm.” He pleaded.

I was scared of witches as much as the next guy looming in their presence alone made people act straight or in this case bend. But they were people and due process and fair treatment were in order. I thought maybe bringing my big city ways to this small town was too much for them to chew that which they might spit right back at me. But my bones like a god's guiding hand told me I cannot let people go misrepresented, that I must bring their unedited word to everyone so that their march was informed and accurate. A feeling that got me into many trouble intervening with those whom people called terrorists and criminals or just sub-human. I couldn’t let this go on without my intervention so that this story would be shared and I would be sure of that.

He thought for a second and looked up at the sun. It was mid-day and it blared down blanketing the people in its heat. “ I will let you do what you must as a reporter. We meet back at the gallows at dawn and if your learnings don’t change my mind then we will march and trample on the witches like mountain trolls on gnome camps. And If you tell them we’re marching you might as well be put on the gallows too” He stated reaching out to shake my hand. I took his in turn.

The cabin was up a steep hill the type of hill you expect witches to live on. I didn't walk as much as I climbed the hot son causing me to sweat and my hair to grease. At the top is an old cabin surrounded by a very well kept garden. From what I saw there were Growing Onions, Bell peppers, and Celery in their front yard. The old cabin had faded dark brown color and wood marked with wear. A single chimney puffed out smoke on the shingled roof. At the door, a black metal knocker taking the shape of an owl in my mind was tacky. I reached and used it accordingly. The muffled sounds of words and shuffling made itself known. I remember him saying witches, not witch as it was apparent there was more than one person in the house. Opening the door I’m met with an inquisitive face younger than expected at least 27. She had short scruffy blonde hair with freckles and skin the same color as beach sand. She wore what you'd expected dark robes and a pointy hat; their outfit meant to strike fear into those who would even attempt to harm her. Or this may be preconceived notions.

“What's this about then” thickly accented she prodded me with a question. I stood to attention “I’m with the Therac Times Miiiii-?” I went on expecting to be corrected.

“Mistress Ginevra Weaver!” she answered

It was clear from the very first words out of her mouth that she was years beyond her age. It is often said that with aging comes maturity, wisdom, and responsibility. I can attest that after meeting one politician these words are from the mouths of the very people they praise. She had an air of confidence and will that came off her like steam and when taken in forced those around her to stand up straight. To note she didn’t peek her head out the door like others might. She opened the door and stepped out. a small thing sure but something that is a testament to my sayings not sheepishly covering herself with a door.

“I’m from the Therac Times the name is Valen Donk. Uh, I’m working on an article on small-town witches and I would like to conduct an interview.” I said looking her directly in the eyes.

“Ya know I don’t tend to like it when people lie to my face.” She said, giving me a scowl that caused some inkling of fear.

“I’m sorry Mistress but you see my hands are a bit tied-.” Before I finished my words

“It seems you have too much to say, Mr. Donk. And I’d rather be sitting in a chair.” She said, opening the door and holding it open for me to walk through. I walked through the threshold of the house. And my eyes and nose were immediately affronted by a stinging wafting smell that caused me to sneeze upon immediate breath. It took my nose to adjust like eyes in a dark alley to take a good breath in. The familiar smell of pepper filled the entire cabin akin to hot steam in a boiler room. “Sit down Mr. Donk.” she waved her hand over a seat in the middle of the cabin floor. I took a seat and got a nice look around, panning my head as many in a new environment do.

I sat at a dining room table in the middle of the cabin floor where there were 4 seats, two with the back against the door and two facing it. It was a familiar dark brown and looking around a bit more I took in the whole of the scenery. To my right was a kitchen countertop pressed up against the right side wall. It contained all the kitchen needs from the farthest to me to the closest a sink, a stove top, split straight in the middle by a large black cauldron letting off hot steam, and a fat counter top with freshly vegetables stains and bottles of seasonings. Under the cauldron was a raging fire contained in the stone walls that surrounded the pot. Above the counter tops layed cabinets. To my right was a large desk up against the wall with a built-in bookshelf. It was covered in herbs and bottles. In the left back corner there was a door to an offroom that was closed. I assumed it was a bedroom.

The place looked like a witch's cabin but instead of the mysterious animal parts and magical trinkets the walls and shelves were filled with herbs, books, bottles of mysterious liquid of various colors. I made note of the two broomsticks lying in the corner next to the door where also a coat hanger stood proud. “Ahem, Mr. Donk I assume that you didn’t come here to ogle at our cabin.” She looked at me with slight disapproval.

“Our?” I from this point thought witches always lived alone like monks yet thinking back I didn’t have any grounds for this assumption but I remembered what was said before.

“Yes, Hestia!” She calls out of the room in the back left corner of the room. Stumbling out of the room came another woman of around the same age. It was clear she was also some sort of witch but instead of the traditional midnight black cloak she was wearing a much more flamboyant outfit with my admission that it was much more stylish than I. A black blazer with a purple button up vest underneath with intricate designs and slick black dress pants. She was wearing boots but so was Mistress Weaver more of a practical choice than a style choice I presumed. The suit gave me the feel of a city woman. In place of a spiky black hat was a top hat with a purple band wrapped around the bottom. The suit was complemented by accessories and a necklace with bones of various sizes clearly not human. And a brown belt with pouches and items I couldn’t begin to identify hanging off.

After full examination of the eye-catching suit I got a good look at the rest of her. She was tall at least 6 feet and under her top hat laid hair that I had rarely ever seen. It was black but under a shift of the light could be thought of as dark brown. It was wild, it looked as if it stood up on its own and the only thing keeping it down was the hat. It had tons of volume and looked frizzy and fluffy. She had carmel brown skin and instead of the tall stern look given to me by Mistress Weaver. She gave a much more inquisitive look “Who is this?” She asked in an accent that was somewhat familiar but I couldn’t place it.

“This is Mr. Valen Donk, a reporter from Therac.” She looked at the flamboyant witch for a reaction.

“Interesting, I’m Priestess Hestia Laveau. You can call me Mistress if you like.” She reached her hand out to shake mine. I shook hers. “Sorry I must attend to this!” She swiftly walked over to the cauldron.

“Mr. Donk, you haven’t told us why you are here?” She scolded, staring straight into my eyes.

“i’m here to do a news repor-.” I attempted to lie again but with a small nugget of truth yet the look I got from Mistress Weaver made me look like I couldn’t tell a lie.

“Fine, The villagers plan on running you both out of town. I said I would come up here and decide whether or not they would go through with it. They said if I told you they would hang me. ” I laid out the truth

“By they you mean?” She looked at me expectantly.

“Jonnen Bugrat.” I was not up to lying anymore.

“That man is more dangerous than any witch!” Mistress Laveau sniggered in the kitchen.

“A lie I presume he's probably scared to come up here.” Mistress Weaver states bluntly. “So Mr. Donk how much time do we have? '' her face was much less tense it seems she found humor in Bugrat’s lie.

“Tell sunset.” I said

“So tell me, Mr. Donk, what do you think I do in this village?” Mistress Weaver went back to staring into my soul. I reactively straightened my back. I started to recall things told to me and the whispers of ideas that you always tend to not be sure where they came from. I sat there thinking of two outcomes: one I came up with a decent description or two I described something totally different. I have gotten used to this so often when talking to people of more mysterious professions I say what the average person thinks. This allows when I write my paper for more people to be proven right or most of the time wrong.

“Well people tend to think of witches as almost like nature oriented wizards. They cast magic to heal people and create potions that cure ailments. Fly around on broomsticks and cast curses. Some more radical ideas are that they eat babies and curse villages.” I looked at her trying to read her face.

“Mr. Donk, you surely don’t think we eat babies?!” I couldn't read her face but her voice sounded very disappointed.

“He’s a reporter.” Mistress Laveau had sat down right next to Mistress Weaver sweating from leaning over the steamy cauldron.

“What tha-” Mistress weaver didn’t finish her sentence

“They put other people's beliefs and questions above their own. They have to ask questions that answer the public's questions, not their own.” She explained slowly it was clear.

“Well that's sort of true. I do still get to ask my own questions. But you are mostly right” I said looking at the both of them sitting across from me.

“So Mr. Donk-” Mistress Laveau didn’t get a lot out.

“The public thinks we are just female wizards?”

“In a sen-”

“I think they ought to get reading. We witches are aren’t not fancy magic caster or those bumbling old wizards. We do magic sure but we do work too and we do not eat babies!” Mistress Weaver was a little heated. Those sentences rambled like a train rolling down the tracks directly at me.

“What kind of work?” I asked if I started to take out my notebook as I knew I was going to learn a lot in these couple of hours.

“All sorts, wizard magic is violent and volatile witch magic is serene. We do all sorts of work. These small villages need witches, you know. It keeps them organized and flowing.” She waved her arms wildly in an attempt to capture what she was saying in movement. It was clear she was eager to explain.

“Can you give some examples of this work you do?” I asked but what returned was a scowl.

“You don’t believe me.” She asked slowly but in slightly irritated voice

“I'm not saying I don’t. I just want to know.” She seemed to calm down after I said that

Mistress Laveau had gotten up again. I could see her preparing bowls and spoons in the corner of my eye. “We do the work no one wants to do. We act as midwives to those who don’t know any. We help people pass on without pain staying with the lonely dead as they pass on. When people have problems they can’t solve. They come to us.“ her voice had softened but was still a little stern as she spoke.

“You do all that work yet? And let yourself get treated like outcasts?” I was baffled.

“We ain’t never asked to get treated like common place villages. We just expect respect in return. “ She said with an unbroken serious face.

A wooden bowl with a spoon was placed gently in front of my view. I sniffed it and it stung my noise with pepper.

“You ain’t never had gumbo?” Mistress Laveau said as I looked down at my bowl. It was a viscous brown stew that was served on rice. In the stew was small cut vegetables, onions, celery, and bell peppers with chunks of cut up sausage and chicken. I looked up at the witches. Mistress Weaver was giving me a stone look I couldn’t identify But Mistress Laveau gave a reassuring smile when I looked at her. I took the spoon and scoped up some of the stew and rice.

Now as a reporter I have met tons of people from various backgrounds and while I accompanied them in their house all sorts of food. This was not an uncommon occurrence for me so I didn’t hesitate to take a bite. The first flavor to hit my tongue was the spice it burned my mouth. I could taste the pepper. Secondly was the savory all the onions, garlic, and chicken broth. The rice acted as a dilator to the very strong tasting gumbo allowing me to eat it without overloading my taste senses. This is about most I can say about it as I couldn’t identify most of the other tastes. It was an amalgamation of flavors and it all melded into a stew. I took a piece of sausage that was perfectly seasoned and with the rice and stew it elevated that taste.

“It's great.” I said they both looked at me surprised as I managed to speak without impedance. I had hung around goblins who worked in the printers and if you ate their food unprepared it would come out both ends.

“Thank you. ” Mistress Laveau chimed

“May I ask. Do you both have the same responsibilities?” I asked Mistress Laveau

“Well, Mostly but I also help those find the spirits of their ancestors.” She said

“Hm?” It answers questions that raise more questions for me.

“I'm a voodoo witch!”

“Like the little straw men?”

“yes “ she sighed it was clear this was another stereotype put on by those who had never met a witch. “I can use magic to help people contact the spirit of their ancestors. Spirits are a powerful thing, you know they can heal and give blessings?” She explained

“What sets you two apart in the ways you go about witchcraft?” I asked

“Witches like me wearing the midnight black robes find our connection mostly through nature less spiritually and religiously. She is a different kind of witch, surely you have heard of the city of Olena out south on the Corwork continent that's where shes is from.” She asked

“Of course but around Therac or here in general not a lot of people know about the culture there.” I said

“Right their witchcraft is different, much more religious and spiritual of course there is still nature involved but not as much as I.” Mistress Weaver seemed to like talking and Mistress Laveau liked listening to what she said in her seat just watching us talk only interrupting when needed.

“You two help the people of the village unconditionally?” I asked

“Yes” Mistress Weaver stated “We usually only ask for small useful items and a secluded place to stay.”

“If you guys act so kind and to the village and its people why do th-?”

“City folk tend to think more on their own. Because city folk have no one to rely on but themselves. Cities are big but they are lonely. But towns folk are different; these are people they have known, loved and befriended for years. They are much more willing to listen to these people. And if you mix that with a man who knows how to get people to do what he wants it's a bad mix.” Mistress Laveau explained.

“You would think that city people are more open minded?” I say

“Well city folk get to see things towns folk don’t. Goblins roaming the street. Vampires hanging around do not drink the blood of humans. Cities are melting pots and if your mind isn’t open your head will explode. '' Mistress Laveau kept going “Towns folk don't see all that so are much less willing to believe it happened. The city moves faster than the land around it. It's often towns folk who have more lingering yet to be disproven ideas about things. If you reinforce these ideas then you might be able to convince them of things untrue.” Mistress Laveau took a breath.

“But you said you two help them surely that disproves their lingering thoughts about you?! ” I argued but It was like asking a soldier to lay down arms after they already played their death in their head over and over.

“Us city folk might be able to see through the echoes of rumors that we have had so many of our ideas disproven by action. But these townsfolk fill in all the details they don’t know with rumors and ideas that thicken their head. And that Bugart fellow knows that he's been trying to drive us out for a while. Spreading rumors and lies they've known him longer than we've been here we can’t get through to them be he can.” One look at their told the whole story like they have already been through this before. They were already willing to accept they were no longer welcome here.

I felt frustrated like the villagers were like a kid throwing stones at a bird. I had realized I had realized my eyes started to water up. And frustrations start to build up

“ But what about your livelihood disproves their lies. What if you f-” Foolish thoughts of a man who was angered and frustrated.

“Mr. Donk, your visit was appreciated but I think we need to be left alone!" It was almost like she could read what I was about to say and stopped me right before I said a word. Mistress Weaver stood up and walked to the door, opening it for me to walk out. I stood up swiftly and I wanted to ask a lot more. I couldn't just leave. I looked at Mistress Weaver and I opened my mouth. Suddenly I was looking at a tree outside. I turned to the left and the cabin came into view, its door closed. It took me a second to adjust to the sudden change in scenery.

I made my way down the steep hill stumbling over myself in a rushed panic. I checked the sun again and I could see the warm colours start to mix to create the red orange sunset. At the foot of the hill where Jonnen Bugrat had gathered even more people than before I went down to meet him, almost hitting him struggling to stop my momentum down the hill. “Mr. Donk, I presume you talked to them. What do you think?” Jonnen Bugart looked at me expectantly.

“It seems to me you’re a lousy arse!” I snarled, spitting venom.

“Mr. Donk you seem to have strong opinions about me” He took a step back and I got a full view of the mob. Their torches were more menacing in the slowly diminishing day shadows starting to slowly drive out the light. But in a point of clarity brought out by fear I started to realize how stopping them would be a futile effort like jumping in front of a moving carriage. My mind raced with ideas and words to say but all ending in the same thing. Bugarts ability to lie and deflect was that of a politician nothing I could say could convince him. It was a ruse to gather more folk and looking down at the mob towards the back where armored soldiers with swords and shields were.

“A private militia?” I asked

“Yes, Mr. Donk, I thought it only appropriate. My own personal one had them sent down from the city they were supposed to be here earlier.” He said calm and collected. That's when I realized it was a ruse to buy more time so I left with haste to my coach. I knew nothing I would say would truly convince this man. I made my way to the inn where I found my driver drinking alone devoid of patrons due to the ensuing mob. “We're heading back to Therac.” I ordered. He got up and we both made our way to the coach and left back in the direction of the city.

It was a couple days later with supplementary research talking with witches in the city I came to have the notes to write a page on the paper. I was put on the front page due to my constant unrelenting “suggestions” with the chief editor and head of the paper. As for what happened in the town that night I managed to hear from a resident explaining in detail the rest of the actions that night.

According to this resident they marched up the hill under the order of Jonnen Bugart. Apparently going up the fill in such a cluttered mess people some of them were crushed under the poorly organized mob. And when they made it up the hill the mob was no longer as preppy as before. They made it to the cabin and while Jonnen Bugart ordered someone to open the door the cabin was empty. Not a trace of anyone was there and from there people kind of just left the mob dissipating smoke into the air. From there I was told the town started to degrade quickly and Jonnen Bugart left only 2 days after the witches.