<strong>Prelude</strong><br/><br/>The nation of Witchwood derives its name from the vast stretches of rainforest that span the country and from the ancient title held by the ruling caste of casters. Witches have ruled since the pockets of civilization in Witchwood were but small, fledgling tribes. With command over forces old and powerful, coming from what scholars have deemed the 'source', Witches are revered not just for their frightful capabilities, but also because of a connection to what most would call the soul of the very earth they stood on.<br/><br/>The heads of the region's religion, the witches of Witchwood have advocated for a more grounded sense of worship, to the world itself. This led to customs that would have been deemed...highly inappropriate in other countries, but were just a part of daily life in Witchwood. Even some of their customs, such as the baring of the chest for both men<em>and</em>women have been slowly adopted by their neighbors. Folks have no shame in walking out into the streets of their city completely nude. Those that handle harsh, day labor do so out of necessity in the humid jungles.<br/><br/>Witchwood, while seen as backward by other nations, is perhaps the most progressive in how they treat people. And yet, they still keep a caste system as ancient as their custom of going bare breasted. A shift is beginning to happen. Talks of people wanting to dismantle the caste system have risen. In order to garner public favor, the Witch houses are sending envoys out among the populace, to show, whether through love or fear, that the Witches, the blessed of the Source, were to be revered even now.<br/><br/>Our story begins on the eve of a goblin witch's coming of age ceremony, between her Guardian and her after the festivities have died down.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>The comb holding the goblin lass' hair up was shaped into that of the family's crest, a warg, like the packs that made their home within the lands of Shayla's family. She removed the comb and her red locks tumbled down and over her shoulders. She shook her head, hoping to throw off her exhaustion, but it clung to her for dear life as a new warg rider did to their first mount. She didn't feel any different. Just tired. Shayla Redwarg was now a fully fledged witch, taught by the elders of her house. The coming of age ceremony was meant to celebrate her attainment of, not just adulthood, but of the first degree of Witchcraft. She made little lights dance around her before snuffing them out one by one. She didn't feel like anything different. Or anything special.<br/><br/>The goblin was still dress in her ceremonial robes. Her torso was exposed and accentuate by the cloth, her amble bosom out for all to see that night; the tattoos of her house, the warg on her back and paw print on her navel, marked her of her house. The red lines trimmed with black that ran from her eyes and onto her cheek, and from the corner of her eyes to her ears now marked her as a witch. Her sleeves were long, sweeping over and concealing her hands. The skirt she wore was long, but it hugged her tightly and in all the right places. While there was no shame to be had, no practical need to cover up, the nobility used clothes as a sign of status. Not only could they afford such clothes, they could afford to wear them, because they weren't outside working the fields or doing other basic labor. Every girl in Witchwood dreamed of owning a dress like Shayla wore then. It still didn't make Shayla feel any different.