There had always been a certain order to the world, one that few could deny. Life and death were equal opposites, as were the light and darkness of the day and night. Chaos existed as a perception by those who did not fully comprehend the complete order of things, and honestly speaking, what mortal could ever hope to know the full scope of the universe’s ultimate design? Not even the most powerful witches with extensive studies in astronomy and astrology buried within their wide-opened minds and exposed metaphorical hearts could truly grasp the universe as a whole.<br/><br/>Among the mortals of Earth, however, chaos existed to be endured and (to some small extent) manipulated by those with the wisdom and power to do so. Witches in particular knew certain names to hold more than what most people understood. While there wasn’t necessarily some “shadow world” or some “shadow war” that was frequently waged, there<span style="font-style: italic">were</span>secrets  - and those of some of the most well-known people throughout history were of the deadliest variety. Elizabeth Bathory was one such individual; she had been a vampire - a very old one; how old precisely was unknown - but those who read of her were mere fans of the ideology that vampires represented and mostly knew that she liked to bathe in blood. There were all sorts of ridiculous myths regarding vampires, and werewolves had not escaped such myths either.<br/><br/>Then there were witches to consider. No, they didn’t simply wave a stick at someone and speak a few silly words. They were far more ritualistic, and for all the anti-witch machinations of the Roman Catholic Church and its derivatives throughout history, the ancient Catholic rituals were rooted in many of the same beliefs but cast in a different light and bound tightly in a different set of ideologies. Similarly, the Celts were no different than many Native American tribes in the ideologies that supported their various belief systems. The modern witch was often confused with Wicca, a religion that was just as ritualistic as any other religion and still held a strong belief in the magic of nature and the supernatural. Witchcraft, however, was more selfish than Wicca - at least, that was the view by outsiders who understood at least some of the Craft.<br/><br/>One of the most infamous known witches was painted as a sort of villainess in Arthurian legend. Some called her Morgana; others called her Morgaine; still others referred to her as Morgan le Faye - in French, literally “the fairy”. It was this last that was perhaps far more accurate a term, and while there may have been some connection with the mythical fae races that inhabited much of the world’s various folklore and many stories regarding it beside, one thing remained true above all else: the first to bear that name had born descendants who were just as feared and respected in many so-called “supernatural” communities as she was herself.<br/><br/>Morgan Cassidy Harper Haverdasher, the thirteenth direct descendant of Morgan le Faye to bear that name and surname, was thus seated in a tremendous position of power among the witches throughout the world. The global Cabal had always promoted a single representative of every coven in the world into what was known to witches (and witches alone) as the Grand Coven. Of course, covens didn’t just come in groups of three - that was one of countless ridiculous myths still in existence, one popularized by various media - and that meant that getting selected as a representative was not a simple affair. Morgan had been selected by her coven against her will at a very young age, as her name was one imbued with power by her bloodline’s progenitor. Oh, others might have the name - witches and non-witches alike - but the power inherent in her particular name meant that her naming ceremony had imbued the power of every bearer of it who also bore her bloodline as a direct descendant of that progenitor in<span style="font-style: italic">her</span>. Whether she would one day be the most powerful witch in the world remained to be seen but she had not been replaced in all the years that she had been taught and trained. Her gender and sexuality, even into her marriage at just twenty-one years old (four years ago now, on her birthday, and her anniversary was coming up fast), had not affected her position in the slightest.<br/><br/>Thankfully, the Grand Coven had not met in six years. The first meeting of the Grand Coven had actually been held in 1694, a year after the last witch trial by mundane mortal men in Salem (a town in Massachusetts, one of the United States of America); however, officially speaking, its first<span style="font-style: italic">official</span>meeting was nine years later - in 1703. The last one had been held in 2009, which meant that another one wasn’t due for almost two-and-a-half years from now. They were a royal pain, those meetings, and often lasted for several days and nights in a row. The last one had taken six days and nights to complete, nevermind the two days and nights spent preparing and feasting and all sorts of other things that went on during such times. While it might not seem like such a long period to most, it could be excruciating to deal with so many witches from so many different places holding so many different views on so many different things even for that long.<br/><br/>But one in such a position of power still had to deal with the mundacity of day-to-day life, which was not made easy when a poltergeist came calling. Actually, that was precisely what had drawn Morgan to the house in which she now dwelt with her husband, for there was more to Morgan than mere witchery. She was a medium, you see - one gifted with the sight and hearing and sense of smell necessary to interact on some level with the spirits of those that had passed on. Poltergeists were among the most potent of spirits, yet even they could be manipulated if one knew how to do it. Being an incubus as well - although, considering Morgan’s gender identity, perhaps succubus was the more appropriate term - it was only logical that she learn as much as she could about the afterlife and its denizens (and not just on one plane of existence). Her Craft had thus allowed her to trap and proposition the poltergeist dwelling in the home she was currently making payments on; with any luck, she’d have the small house paid off some time next year. But if nothing else, she had managed to reign in the poltergeist for her own use.<br/><br/>Not having to do the cooking or cleaning certainly had its advantages, especially with her inept husband around.<br/><br/>She couldn’t complain<span style="font-style: italic">too</span>much, though. Her husband, a painter by trade and sculptor by hobby, was extremely talented at making beautiful things and brought in a decent amount of money. It also helped that Morgan herself offered her services as a witch and medium for a fee, though there was a certain morality to her and she had every right to refuse service to…well, anyone really, but mostly people she didn’t like. It also gave her an occasional source of less physically inclined meals without having to break someone out of prison only to hunt him (or her) down like a vampire (which ironically had its own dangers, as literal vampires also had to eat).<br/><br/>But the main source of her own income wasn’t her mediumship or Craft. No, it was the mail-order and delivery trade of goods for other witches, Wiccans, and spiritualists. She everything wholesale, from candles and talismans to books and mortars and pestles; then she sold what she had individually, much as someone stripping an automobile would in order to earn a greater profit than just selling the auto as a whole. It was good business, surprisingly profitable, and gave her a lot more free time than she would have expected. Today in particular, she’d mailed four packages at the post office and delivered three other orders to local customers; she’d also handled two entrapments, one of which she’d already fed from.<br/><br/>As she stepped into the purple MG TF and closed the door, her bag of supplies now comfortably resting in the trunk, she set a small jar on the passenger seat. It was a rather odd jar, resembling a jam jar with a tight rubber seal, but the lid bore a second seal that allowed Morgan to open a small portion of the lid - thereby releasing whatever was inside much in the same manner that one would drink from a travel mug. This particular jar, however, was one of several that she owned; arcane seals were part of the design pressed into the glass mold that she had at home, allowing her to create jars that were perfectly suited for drawing in and trapping wayward spirits. The lids were also of her own design, proof being in the patent she held on them. The jars were actually one of her own products that she sold, although they were often purchased more as a novelty than for their true purpose; many witches used them for storing and easily extracting various ingredients or other things.<br/><br/>The top was up on the convertible today, as the rain had been coming down hard all morning; it had slaked off a bit by the afternoon but was still coming down, however lightly the drops were falling. As the sun slowly sank toward the horizon, Morgan turned the key in the ignition to make the car purr into life and checked her to-do list; it was an actual list on an actual clipboard, as she was rather old-school about a lot of things. Technology could go fuck itself for all she cared. She was done for the day, it seemed, and felt a certain satisfaction about that. She needed to pick up a couple of things soon but that could wait until tomorrow. For now, she just wanted to stop off and have a drink like she usually did toward the end of the day. Her husband, Jacob, understood that she liked her time alone to relax and trusted her; he knew she’d come home to his loving arms soon enough.<br/><br/>She pulled out of the woman’s drive and took the more casual roads back into her part of Penzance. The traffic was getting heavier now that the evening hours were soon to arrive, with people just getting off of work and heading home or to supper or wherever else they might be headed. Morgan sipped from a jar she’d already been tapping while she drove; she might as well feed while she had the chance. She was a rather private person, with only Jacob really knowing her well, and she preferred certain things like eating in private or eating in relative silence. Conversation was something you did with a glass of Roscato and perhaps some cakes, but she rarely partook of the latter when in mixed company; the supper table was not for talking, and she preferred to enjoy her literal spirits alone. Her husband was not an incubus or she might have included him. No, he was…something else entirely.<br/><br/>She soon pulled into the gravel parking lot and shut off the car. She grabbed both of her jars and put them safely in the trunk, securing them so that they would not move. She locked everything up and headed inside and straightened the black off-shoulder mini dress she wore as she walked into the Dolphin, her black chunky sandal heels clopping against the floor amid the din. It wasn’t hard to find a seat at the bar. The bartender on duty at the moment knew her personally, as she was a regular; he waved and smiled at her but didn’t ask her what she wanted, as he didn’t need to. She nodded back politely and sighed, glad to be done for the day. When her Crown and Coke was brought to her, she thanked the bartender. He asked if she’d done anything exciting today, to which she responded with the shake of her head.<br/><br/>“I never do anything exciting, James,” she told him. “You know that.”<br/><br/>He grinned and then turned away. She smiled down at her drink before lifting it to her nose with her left hand and taking a whiff, the silver wedding ring on her left ring finger clinking against the glass as she did so. Ah, the whiskey-and-Coke mixture was wonderful…she took a sip of it, satisfied wholly with the flavour, and commenced her usual people-watching as she sat to gather her thoughts and relax.