[ ... hell knows, scarcely the first time she's woken up disoriented under a tree, but even before she opens her eyes -- even before she has woken up to the point of remembering exactly how many centuries it's been since she ran wild of nights -- Zelda knows that something has gone profoundly wrong. She was born in the Greendale forest; she was baptized there; half the important moments of her life have taken place within sight of it, and she couldn't have begun to imagine the sickening shock of absolute certainty that she's nowhere near her own ground anymore, as though a compass inside her had started to spin frantically and endlessly.
Even to think of magic in this Dark Lord-forsaken place feels like flicking a nearly-empty lighter; she hasn't tried it yet. She nearly wants to lie back down and not get up again at the very idea of knowing definitely that she's alone in this strange silent fog with her powers fading, and she refuses to capitulate. Spellmans, whatever else and wherever they are, are not cowards in the face of inexplicable terror. The only possible thing is to stand up and follow the path until something sooner or later becomes manageable.
There's snow in her hair, and caked in her black fur coat, and she's begun to passionately hate her lovely, impractical, irreplaceable high-heeled boots by the time she notices the trees beginning to thin. The town that lies beyond them is hardly a promising sight, but there are enough small signs that it's not entirely deserted -- footprints not quite reburied in the snow, the occasional flicker of a lighted window.
Someone will have the bare decency to explain what the heaven is going on, or at least to find her a chair and a hot cup of coffee. ]
the end approaches
[ After a day or so, Zelda has more or less forcibly pulled herself together, at least to all appearances. She may be alone in this festering little town, surrounded by strangers; her powers may, just as she'd feared, been dangerously weakened and rendered unpredictable; all the more reason to comport herself with pride and dignity, as a Spellman and as the sole representative of the Church of Night any of these people are likely to meet.
She can be, at the very least, a better representative than some witches she could name, although for the first time in her life she honestly envies her sister's fearless and apparently senseless willingness to befriend absolutely anyone, anywhere, under any circumstances. Hilda would -- well -- certainly not know what to do, but she'd probably enjoy the opportunity to bury their fellow makeshift townsfolk alive in lemon bars and gushing sympathy.
Perhaps it's that sort of thought that's kept Zelda well clear of the bulletin board until now. That, and the dust stinging in her eyes as she writes, slowly and in a defiantly flawless copperplate:
Zelda Spellman | Chilling Adventures of Sabrina | will match style
[ ... hell knows, scarcely the first time she's woken up disoriented under a tree, but even before she opens her eyes -- even before she has woken up to the point of remembering exactly how many centuries it's been since she ran wild of nights -- Zelda knows that something has gone profoundly wrong. She was born in the Greendale forest; she was baptized there; half the important moments of her life have taken place within sight of it, and she couldn't have begun to imagine the sickening shock of absolute certainty that she's nowhere near her own ground anymore, as though a compass inside her had started to spin frantically and endlessly.
Even to think of magic in this Dark Lord-forsaken place feels like flicking a nearly-empty lighter; she hasn't tried it yet. She nearly wants to lie back down and not get up again at the very idea of knowing definitely that she's alone in this strange silent fog with her powers fading, and she refuses to capitulate. Spellmans, whatever else and wherever they are, are not cowards in the face of inexplicable terror. The only possible thing is to stand up and follow the path until something sooner or later becomes manageable.
There's snow in her hair, and caked in her black fur coat, and she's begun to passionately hate her lovely, impractical, irreplaceable high-heeled boots by the time she notices the trees beginning to thin. The town that lies beyond them is hardly a promising sight, but there are enough small signs that it's not entirely deserted -- footprints not quite reburied in the snow, the occasional flicker of a lighted window.
Someone will have the bare decency to explain what the heaven is going on, or at least to find her a chair and a hot cup of coffee. ]
[ After a day or so, Zelda has more or less forcibly pulled herself together, at least to all appearances. She may be alone in this festering little town, surrounded by strangers; her powers may, just as she'd feared, been dangerously weakened and rendered unpredictable; all the more reason to comport herself with pride and dignity, as a Spellman and as the sole representative of the Church of Night any of these people are likely to meet.
She can be, at the very least, a better representative than some witches she could name, although for the first time in her life she honestly envies her sister's fearless and apparently senseless willingness to befriend absolutely anyone, anywhere, under any circumstances. Hilda would -- well -- certainly not know what to do, but she'd probably enjoy the opportunity to bury their fellow makeshift townsfolk alive in lemon bars and gushing sympathy.
Perhaps it's that sort of thought that's kept Zelda well clear of the bulletin board until now. That, and the dust stinging in her eyes as she writes, slowly and in a defiantly flawless copperplate:
- Hilda Spellman
- Sabrina Spellman
- Ambrose Spellman
-
She pauses, taps her fingertips against the desk a few times, touches the pen to the paper, and hesitates again.
"Any initiates of the Greendale Church of Night" would entirely suffice. ]