ozeveo

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CwgaGW95Ovg 2nd of Sun’s Smile, 1521 The harmonies of the dombra and the quray - in layman’s terms, a particular kind of mandolin and flute - resounded throughout the air of the village of Dasoguz, itself deep within the territory generally considered to be Lesser Tarchary by the more sedentary inhabitants of Vailor. The melodious sound originated in no other place than the great yurt at the settlement’s centre, for the temporary construction provided lodgings for the petty sovereign of the village and its surrounding lands - none other than Morza Loghlar Ayrat Mehmetoglu Bey, who was addressed by friend and foe alike by the noble name of Ayrat Bey. Ayrat Bey’s court was assembled inside the great Tarchar yurt, its ceiling almost seven metres tall at its highest point in the centre. Nigh on fifty souls had been packed into the cavernous structure, this cosmopolitan group consisting of a mix of beys, warriors, merchants and concubines. All eyes were focused on the four bards who sat atop stools in the centre of the yurt, just by the great hearth-fire. Two older men dressed in the traditional dress of the steppe strummed their lute-like instruments. Another man deftly played his flute, which had been carved from the finest Peremontese spruce. The musical efforts of this trio paled in comparison to the girl who sung to accompany them. She could have been no older than fourteen, and her entire body save her face was sheathed in blue, gold and white silks woven by Ayrat Bey’s company of seamstresses. Like the rest of the Tarcharmen, she bore a swarthy complexion with an almost grey undertone. Her honeyed voice was powerful and alluring as she sang in her native tongue. “Baghcalarda kestane, baghcalarda kestane, Tokulur danye, danye, tokulur danye, danye, Amanim, civanim, kel yanima, Incileri taqayim boynunar, Amanim, civanim, kel yanima, Incileri taqayim boynunar, Baghcalarda meyvaliq, baghcalarda meyvaliq, Bu nye qadar sevdaliq, bu nye qadar sevdaliq, Amanim, civanim, kel yanima, Ipek poshu sarayim bo boynunar, Amanim, civanim, kel yanima, Ipek poshu sarayim bo boynunar,” The instruments slowly drew to silence as the girl finished her singing, smiling broadly as she directed a curt bow at her master - Ayrat Bey - who laid perched atop a great divan, itself a type of long carpeted chair not often seen in human or nonhuman lands alike. The Tarchar lord nodded his head in acknowledgement, the court surrounding him offering a sharp applause to the playing bards. Morza Argyn Mihal Ahmetoglu Bey, otherwise known as Mihal Bey, was assuredly the second greatest leader among them. He sat behind Ayrat in his lancer’s chainmail, his thin-lipped mouth curled downwards in a frown as he watched. A few of the retinue stuck out - uncomfortably so. Pale in comparison to his horselord contemporaries at this gathering, Garviel de Wett sat cross-legged in his Kaedreni gambeson as he observed the proceedings. Next to him, Gauldrim Irongut - who was known chiefly as Bodur to the local Tarcharmen - puffed on his whalebone pipe, smoke as grey as his braided beard rising from his stout form. An envoy from Khalestine, who seemed to have no significant name or title, had been lurking in the corners of the yurt too. He had found a little success preaching the word of his ‘Allah’ to the Tarcharmen, enough success to be tolerated at Ayrat Bey’s court - but not yet enough success to make a difference. The powers that be still adhered more-or-less to the shamanistic faith of Gurbanlar, worshipping flame, earth and ancestors alike in their makeshift yurt-temples. A tried missionary, an experienced hand, would have been able to determine the reality of this situation through observation alone. Such an abstract faith provided so little in the way of strictures, rituals and moral impetus that with enough incentive, all but its most hardline and conservative followers would doubtless have converted to any deistic monotheism. But ever since Radovid of Blaviken was slain by elven insurgents, no such missionary existed among the Church of the Canon, a fact that the Caliph’s followers were doubtless capitalizing on in Dasoguz. With a flick of Ayrat Bey’s hand, the servants in their iron slave-collars brought forth a dozen ochpochmak, a kind of savoury pastry filled with minced horse-meat, onions and other root vegetables. This was accompanied by wooden mugs of ayran for all the important dignitaries. The Kaedreni, Garviel, screwed up his nose at the beverage, consisting of a salted, watery yogurt, and passed his mug on to Gauldrim, who was more than happy to down two. When the simple meal was finished, Ayrat Bey indicated for Mihal Bey to come forward. The angry, thin-lipped Tarcharman descended from his position atop the carpeted dais, moving to the centre of the yurt so that all could regard him in the firelight. In his tow, attached to him by a thick rope, was a cowed and manacled figure, a slave collar neatly encompassing his neck. He bore the garb of an Adrian soldier, however he spoke more eloquently than any inbred Brelusian. The sovereign of Dasoguz scanned Mihal Bey and his slave with curious eyes from atop his chair. “Speak,” grunted Mihal Bey taciturnly, giving a flick of the rope that bound him to the captive. “My name is Vytenis Andriukaitis,” said the captive, his voice impassioned with worry, “I am the son of the late Karol Andriukaitis, former Bishop of Savoy and High Auditor of the Papal States.” Mihal Bey flicked the rope again, the silver earrings in his ear barely reflecting the blazing fire. “Tell him what you told me,” he barked, his voice thickly accented with guttural tones. “The Church of the Canon, aided by a contingent of crusaders, seeks to invade your lands in the name of holy war,” began Vytenis hurriedly, accompanied by shocked cries from those members of the court who were able to understand his common speech, “Men from far and wide are signing up from the invasion. They wish to use your land to consolidate the Church’s rule.” A eunuch translator whispered in Ayrat Bey’s ear, who up until now had remained relatively silent as Vytenis had spoken his words at the seething Mihal Bey’s behest. The sovereign of Dasoguz frowned intensely, raising his hand in a clenched fist as he finally understood the implications of the captive’s words, righting himself from his seat. Ayrat Bey would be the steppe-lord to unify the tribes, as Sauros Khan had done two centuries ago. It would be he who would settle the nomadic Tarcharmen in the Qirim, where they would finally establish their Greater Tarchary, as the progenitor Azghar had prophesied in legend. At last, the conquest he had been waiting for had begun, and he didn’t even have to begin it. The old gods of Dasoguz had awoken.

Mihal Bey slings his recently bound captives over the back of his horse, returning to the yurts of Dasoguz with his new-found spoils. It seemed that these crusaders would have a harder time seizing the land of Lesser Tarchary than perhaps they initially thought... [signed.]

i sign this petition

yes and i do regularly every day in fact.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FQjnl75XsYc Father Karol Andriukaitis had grown complacent of late. The priest had not been half as active as he should have been since the Schism War - he had pored over parchments and charts, with thousands of tiny brush strokes painstakingly constructing a map, as His Holiness had tasked him with. But Daniel was now dead, and so Karol was no longer locked away from the world, hidden from plain sight so as not to shame the Church and its members. There was a new High Pontiff now, and the cleric could do as he pleased. Branaford Fairheart had been his friend, colleague and ally for years now, and it was for that reason that his death shocked the heirophant so. He had lashed out in a rage at the gardener who had found him dead in the Papal Gardens, beating him around the head with the wooden truncheon he always carried at his hip. He accused the simple groundskeeper, shouting accusations and vile curses, and yet finally when the indentured servant lay bloodied, bruised and cowering at the ground, he had let him flee. For Branaford's death was one of misadventure - but the lingering doubt remained with Andriukaitis, decaying at his mind and exacerbating his melancholy and periodic rages even further. Drinking the dark crimson wine which High Pontiff Daniel had used in blessings and sacraments would subdue him for a time, and night after night he would steal into the cloister's cellar and take what he needed. And then, the next morning, his ire, his paranoia, would be made all the worse by the great pounding in his head, like the battering ram he had watched break down the gates of Vanderfell city during the war. Before he had been banned from work in the field, him and Branaford had always worked together on assignments, and they had performed their jobs with the kind of consummate efficacy that could only be the result of a pair whose talents were so opposite they complimented one another. Fairheart would be the kind, charitable and friendly old man who did what he did for the sake of God and duty, helping the common people and giving the world what justice he would. Andriukaitis would be the grim, brutal, younger man whose presence would remind those suspect to comply with him, so as not to make an enemy of the Church. Yet even the cruel Father Karol had been cowed by Fairheart's gentleness, and ofttimes he had stayed his hand at the elder man's plea where other men would have lashed out. Father Branaford had reminded him of the clergy's true purpose, time and time again, becoming a mentor to the much younger cleric. Now, he was no more, his soul claimed by the void. And Karol Andriukaitis knew exactly who was to blame for his death, for poison was a woman's weapon.

((An interesting read as per usual!))

Character Name: Raymond Zitoun Nicknames: Rzeveo Age: 79 Gender: Male Race: Human Status: Relaxing in the Azure Coast Description Height: 5'11 Weight: 90kg Body Type: Short, hunched but strong for his age Eyes: Brown Hair: Bald Skin: Tanned Markings/Tattoos: None Health: Excellent Personality: Love of nature, abrasive but wise, economic, thrifty and diligent Inventory: A flask of rakija home-brewed by his best friend, Penyo Saraliew Further Details: N/A Life Style Alignment*: Neutral Evil Deity*: YHWH Religion: Rosenburgism Alliance/Nation/Home: Cote d'Azur, Auvergne Job/Class: Park ranger, formerly merchant Title(s): Almoner of Eveo Trading Company Profession(s): Trader Special Skill(s): Persuasion Flaw(s): Hubris Magic Current Status: Lacking Arch-type: N/A Sub-Type: N/A Rank: N/A Weakness(es): N/A Strength(s): N/A Current Spell(s): N/A Weaponry Fighting Style: Unarmed kabbalah combat Trained Weapon: The menorah Favored Weapon: The Talmud Archery: Unskilled Biography Parents: N/A Siblings: Gilbert Zitoun, seven other unnamed siblings Children: N/A Extended Family: Olivier Zitoun (Nephew) Audrey Sztainmann (Niece) Philipe Zitoun (Nephew) Soren Zitoun (Great-nephew) David Zitoun (Great-nephew) Claude Zitoun (Great-nephew) Zoe Zitoun (Great-niece) Pet(s): His pet trout, Jacob, was turned into gefiltefish by Gilbert. History Born as the younger brother to the patriarch of the Zitoun family, Gilbert, Raymond always lived in his brother's shadow. His brother's mercantile, political and educational endeavors always trumped his, and it is for this reason that he would spend many hours alone in the brush and shrubbery on the outskirts of their hometown, Zafir, contemplating his life and his faith. When the time came for the Zitoun brothers to leave the nest, Raymond tried his hand in the merchant business, however his company fell through after a few years, becoming no longer profitable. He became a park ranger in his later years, drawing on his love of nature and moving to the Cote d'Azur in the province of Auvergne. Artwork

This burning desire is turning me to sin.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVI-DRMZW_8 ((please listen)) The pit-patter of heavy rain torrented down upon the grey stones which made up the castle of Southpoint. It was the middle of winter, and though the keep was perched upon a mountainside it was not so high as to warrant the downfall of snow that was characteristic of the season. There was much history behind this castle - Uthor of the Silverblades had built it when he and the rest of Godfrey’s empire had been forced from Asulon to Anthos, and the castle had been abandoned entirely when Uthor left on the great exodus, along with the largest part of the Empire, to Aeldin and beyond. The castle had remained dead, still and devoid of life until relatively recently, when a squadron of priests who donned armor over their robes led by a prelate in black had taken residence in the ruin. I ought to turn back, thought Alexander, his flinty eyes surveying the haggard, dead castle. They called me here, but how am I to know that they won’t kill me where I stand? He had lingered in the courtyard for long enough, in the frigid rain, waiting evermore for one of the clergyman’s retainers to leave their new temple and usher him inside. His boots protected him from much of the downpour - they were a fine leather. Sophia had given them to him. My poor, sweet lady, the Auvergnian thought. Her charms had me befuddled for so long. Her claim is good and true, aye, and these Carrions are tyrants all the same. But a woman can never rule Oren. Without my own help, or Darfey’s, she will get nowhere. Sophia Horen, the empress-in-exile, was counselled by lackwits. A self-proclaimed king, an elven terrorist and the scion of a long dead, tainted dynasty made up her innermost circle. Her rebellion against the crow’s crown was doomed to fail, especially now that Alexander had left her side. At least publicly, he thought. ‘Ser Alexander,’ rasped a voice from beneath the arch of the postern gate, ‘HIs Holiness is ready to see you now.’ It was a hooded monk, clad in the red robes of the new church of Oren. Platemail armor rested on the outside of his vestments, and in his hands he hefted a heavy warhammer. Beneath his hood, he frowned deeply at the Auvergnian knight, though the portcullis of the gate was slowly drawn up by an unseen abbot. The monk ushered him forwards, and the knight obeyed, walking with him as the pair entered the shadowy corridors of Southpoint castle. ‘What is your name and role, priest?’ asked Alexander rather petulantly, trailing the retainer. ‘Signus Cross,’ he responded sourly, ‘I watch the door.’ Seeing the conversation would not thrive, Alexander withdrew to his thoughts as they made their way down the long hall. Part of him regretted not going on the Exodus with Godfrey. The prospect of Aeldin meant a new life and a fresh start. None of the old prejudices and judgements he had been forced to face in both old and new Oren. They laughed at him, all of them, and none of them had ever treated him with any respect. From Hadrien de Sarkozy, the Count of Norfolk, who had wed his cousin and supplanted him as the inheritor of the Valois’ lands - to King Mirtok of Hanseti, who had wed his first love and left him without a wife, lands or an heir. Besides, if he didn’t like life in Aeldin, he could have easily returned, or so he thought. But that ship had since sailed, literally and figuratively, and Ser Alexander Guivret, formerly Valois, was stuck in Anthos - this wretched land, torn by civil war and ethnic tension. ‘His Holiness awaits you inside,’ said the usher, interrupting his thoughts as they stopped before a great, wooden double door. The castle had thus far been ruinous and empty, though the sounds of activity drummed from behind this door. When the usher swung it open, the knight entered pensively. The main hall was once grand and richly adorned, with immense glass windows and opulent carpets. Alexander remembered as it was under the Silverblades - bustling and full of life. Now, it was just as large, though significantly darker. The windows had been smashed and shards coated the lifeless grey floor, the chamber exposed to the open storm outside. It was freezing in there, and where the throne room had once been littered with braziers and torches, it was now dark and shadowy, most light having escaped the room like some dark grotto. Directly ahead of him, about twenty metres in front of the knight, sat the massive steel throne which the Dukes of Furnestock once sat. Upon it presently rested a twisted figure in immaculate white robes, in heated conversation with a man in a similar cassock of black who stood upon the steps of the throne. ‘I will not allow the Iron Wench to escape justice,’ sat the figure upon his throne, his voice deeply accented with the tones of Savoie. ‘She had my brother killed. She attempted to have my father killed. Next, it will be me, Mosquera, and then what?’ They continued their verbal debate as Alexander edged closer. He could tell they were talking about Sophia Horen. ‘Such people deserve nothing less than death, I agree with Your Holiness on that point! But you will not give this woman what she deserves by refusing to accept Imperial supremacy over the Church, that is folly,’ responded the black-donning Mosquera. ‘And what if the Emperor sanctions it? What then of your precious Imperial supremacy? Throwing off my father’s yoke will give us the recognition we need to make decisions for the good of the realm, Zacarias, trust me on that...but I’ll hear no more about it. My guest has arrived. You will leave us.’ The white figure waved his hand dismissively, and the one labelled Mosquera delivered a neat bow, descending from the stony dias and exiting the room with his gaze averted. ‘Approach,’ pronounced the ivory-clad figure, beckoning forth with a withered hand. The knight obeyed, slowly edging his way towards the elevated dias as the storm raged outside, the icy winds of Furnestock shooting through the hall and sending chills through the Auvergnian’s bones. The hierophant, as he had been called, looked rather plain upon his grand seat. He was tanned and swarthy, with a hooked nose and a head of slicked-back, ebony hair in direct contrast to his immaculate cassock. His right eye was dull and listless, part of the right side of his face blotchy and malformed, as if it had been burnt. He could have been no older than thirty, all the same. There is little but an eerie familiarity to this priest, Alexander thought as he ascended the steps of the throne, taking the cleric’s hand in his and kissing his signet ring. Realization sunk in quickly as the hierophant drew back his hand, gesturing for Alexander to descend from the dias once more so he could be addressed as custom dictated. ‘Franz,’ said the knight acridly, ‘Franz Joseph Carrion.’ ‘Not anymore, Ser Alexander,’ retorted the priest rather sharply, ‘Men call me Radomir, now, and they address me as Your Holiness.’ ‘Your Holiness,’ he said, biting his tongue in his cheek. --- What they had discussed in the cavernous chamber of the former castle of Southpoint would remain their knowledge alone until the end of time. Alexander would not speak of the matters they had negotiated with anyone - the Auvergnian had made a pledge to himself to not even think about it if he could avoid it. Even his own mind was no longer a refuge for those who sought to draw his secrets from him. He was always pursued, always followed, so why should his innermost thoughts have been any different? Guivret didn’t even know why he continued as he was, why any of this mattered to him. Every time they called him craven, weakling, fool and social climber, a part of his mind conceded to his adversaries. But there was something that they could never break, a flame that would not go out. There was something driving Alexander Guivret, the knight of Corazon, and it only just eluded him. On occasion his mind wandered beyond the confines of his existence as the last true Valois, and he quite forgot who he was. He remembered who he was now. But more importantly, he remembered what the ecclesiarch had told him as he departed the chamber. ‘Ser Alexander, I shall prove that I have the conviction to fill this office and claim my true destiny,’ proclaimed the hierophant upon his throne, ‘And failing to do so, may God strike me down.’

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIycEe59Auc ((i made this myself in gimp, click on it to see it in full size credits to cdprojekt for some of the iconography used (settlements + kings)) +1 pls i post for rep and gurbanguly

Karol Andriukaitis, newly appointed monsignor, hands a copy of the thesis to High Pontiff Daniel, having deliberated over its contents a mere hour before. 'This Jude of ours, Holy Father, is a most capable theologian indeed,' he says, an eyebrow raised, 'If I may, when do you plan on his ordination?'

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rC1qNlfUI9c 'Hectorius of Aeldin,' said Karol Andriukaitis flatly to the Vice-Chancellor, Humbert de Bar, holding the condemnation up to the light, 'A bastard of Emperor Robert.' 'And what, do you fancy, are the implications of this?' queried de Bar, his hands clasped pensively behind his back. The cleric Karol thumbed through the missive's pages blankly, the signet ring of his new post of monsignor just barely glinting in the ample sunlight. The great tower window had been cast open, and the chamber was much exposed to the wind and wear of the outside sky. 'The son of the same man who uplifted these savages to the peerage now condemns them for their actions. That even he sees their folly speaks volumes of their credibility. Perhaps his father was simply blind to the Adunians of the great Order of Saint Lucien?' mused Andriukaitis mockingly, his tone acidic, 'No, Your Eminence, I would fancy that the Schismatics no doubt suspected Brother Hectorius would lend his support to their movement. They consider themselves a third Kaedrin.' 'A third Kaedrin?' inquired the deacon, Branaford, from a darkened corner of the library chamber they gathered in. 'A successor to past things. The first Kaedrin was Lucienist, the second was of the pagan Old Faith,' he concludes, smiling sadly, 'I think it rather fitting that the third be something different altogether, something darker and even more profane...'

by god's blood

There was once a time where I wouldn't have agreed at all with what you're saying, but I think the whole 'avoid killing in RP when possible' idea has grown on me. Not killing and not disrupting roleplay with pervasive 'monks' who maintain everybody's immortality provides for excellent character development, however on the same token if more consideration is to be put into killing I think that death should be taken a lot more seriously. In cases where a character's death has long-term consequences, such as sacrifices and assassinations (much like what was mentioned in the original post) I think a permanent death should always be considered as a very realistic option.

'Aye...' retorted Andriukaitis slyly, wiping his gloves clean of the blood and ichor from the grave. 'We had best enter discussion with your friend Briarwood.' It was clear to him now that Gawain Briarwood had made a private fool of them, using the pair of clerics as his hapless errand boys to further his own mysterious agenda. This was troubling news. The mystic pondered on the matter for a minute, clutching the pewter lorraine cross which dangled from his neck in idle thought. Branaford had mentioned that Lorina's brother-in-law, the exiled Prince Otto, had taken her in and offered her shelter after the death of her husband. Father Karol could only wonder if the new champion of the Canonist Church would know something about her - perhaps she would be in his custody, if they were lucky. The two clergymen would pay them both a visit, in due time.

Father Karol had kissed the High Pontiff’s ring and sworn to him by God’s blood that he and Deacon Branaford would uncover the mystery surrounding this desecrated grave. What he had taken great pains to omit from the Holy Father’s knowledge was that it had been him and Branaford who had issued the notice of repossession on Blackwell’s manor. Branaford had assured him that they were doing a simple favour for Briarwood. The flames of guilt were stoked within his soul as he began to wonder and doubt his own actions. Had this Briarwood played the both of them? He could hide what he had done from Daniel, yes, but could he hide it from God Eternal? At the grave, Karol had bent down and reached into the open grave, tracing a gloved finger across the oaken casket. Pulling his hand out, he found that his index finger was coated in crimson ichor. Holding the bloodied appendage up to the sunlight, he squinted narrowly as Branaford made his report to the High Pontiff. This dilemma would be their charge now...and Andriukaitis had a feeling that what they would uncover would not be pleasing to the Holy Father’s ear. ‘Someone or something was buried alive,’ said the priest, pursing his lips taciturnly, ‘It’s bled like a stuck pig all around the grave...no, there’s far too much blood. I would suggest that there was more than one to produce all this viscera, Your Holiness.’ Daniel simply nodded at that, clasping his gloved hands behind his back. Father Karol was no stranger to blood and gore, but this sent a chill down his spine all the same. The thought of being buried alive did not exactly sit well with him. Priests of the schism were one thing, but this was another matter entirely. Andriukaitis and Branaford had asked around the sleepy village of Owynswood when the High Pontiff returned to Cyriaeum, hopeful that someone would retain some information of some use. Their hopes were in vain. ‘Christopher Blackwell was a good man, until he met the Duke of Savoy,’ one villager had told them matter-of-factly. ‘A good man?’ mused Andriukaitis, and his voice became a low, thin hiss filled to the brim with contempt, ‘What kind of good man leaves his family alone and destitute?’ And then it struck him - whatever had become of Blackwell’s wife?

The condemnation had caused what could only be described as a stir in the Canonist realms - the streets of Leuvaarden, Alderberg and Adria were awash with a bizarre mix of zeal and celebration as the common-folk danced and sang, the morale of their hated Waldensian foes torn at the seams from within. Karol Andriukaitis could only imagine the popular reaction in those states which adhered to the Schism. Were there protests, riots, blood and viscera in the streets, executions, subjugation? The priest doubted that the enemies of the Church would have reacted civilly to the condemnation from one of their leading figures. Father Karol held up a copy of the dissertation, suspended in the air. His clerical education permitted him to understand the document, and after he had received a replica from Guy de Bar he had resolved to brandish it in the commons of Leuvaarden, reading it aloud an innumerable amount of times to the gathering crowd of Savoyards like some misbegotten crier.

The aftermath of the Battle of the Milvian Bridge was not a pleasant sight to any onlooker, Schismatic or Canonist. The 'battle', as it was relatively loosely known, was in actuality little more than a bloodbath. The combined Waldensian-Dwarven host had marched south to Karovia in an effort to catch the Canonists unawares - they had failed in that endeavor, and despite marginally outnumbering their opposition the Waldensians had crashed against the forces under the leadership of Savoy like waves against the cliffs of Mardon. Like some robed vulture, the priest Karol Andriukaitis swept around the aftermath of the carnage quietly, administering last rites to the fallen human soldiers on both sides, giving them spirits from the wineskin at his hip. Part of him found it ironic that those who would die in defiance of the Church would be blessed in its name at the very hour of their deaths. But even still, he found it necessary to prepare all those who died for their beliefs, regardless of their severed connection to the Mother Church, for judgement before God Eternal. Every now and then he would encounter a mortally wounded Waldensian warrior who would refuse his blessing, spurning Andriukaitis and spitting in his face. Such conviction in the face of painful death could only be admired, and so instead of giving them liquor to dull their pain Father Karol would deliver them the gift of mercy with the short knife he kept in his boot. When the ruined field surrounding the bridge fell totally silent, devoid of the pained cries of the dying, Father Karol would take his leave and return to the cloister at Cyriaeum. Andriukaitis did not presume to know which side God would bestow victory upon in this conflict, but the priest was certain of one thing - this would be a long war.

wheres the part about cyprus

i think anyone with brightly dyed hair should be burnt at the stake as a witch