She did not fear this, because she knew somthing about herself: Uedora was a witch. One of the most powerfull witches to ever inhabit Whimsy. Though her true power would not become known till many years into her isolation. 

There was a great evil that had been spreading accross the land, engulfing whatever in it's path in a vacumus cloud of darkness and death. It was formless, with out a body, but seamingly with a mind. Shrowded in shadow, and the smell of rott. The sky had gone black, birds fell dead at the villagers feet as they looked onward to the horror before them. The dark mist rolled toward them, slow but deffinate. There was no escape. It had bounded apon them, sucking the light out of them, pulling their souls from their mouths and devouring them greedily. They cried out, grasping fistfulls of dark air like frightened mice. 

A beam of light shot through, peircing the veil like an ice pick. The shadow rectracted, confused, searching for the source of this disruption. 

Uedora stood as a beacon of light, pure white with a mane of black hair whipping violently around her sharp little head. Villagers crawled toward her, despratly clinging the the hem of her dress as if she where a boui, the only thing keeping them from sinking into the murky depts. 

A figure stood within the darkness, that unmistakably of a man however scewd he may have been. He did not move. Studying her. This was new. Nothing had ever haulted him before. Though, that was all she'd done, realy. Haulted. 

The figure lifted his arms, and a wave of nausiation crashed into the crowd. Uedora stood unmoving, waiting, before weilding her light and casting it towards the adversary. In an instant, the two were entangled in a violent yet gracefull dance of the magic that made them so alike, yet so opposite. Whipping from side to side, spinning, and leaping, and shooting and crying out. Uedora stoped, breathing hard as the shadow man stared, seamingly unphased. 

Readying himself, he congured a stampead that shook the earth as it bounded towards Eudora. In a fleeting attack, she had crossed her arms, calling forth everything within herself. A great gale exploded out of her, an aurora of lights and power casting all the darkness away, searing the ground. She fell to her knees in a heap, she had givin all she had. 

The Shadow man was gone. All that remained of him was a single black, chared rib. A human had weilded this power.

The villagers circled Eudora's crumpled form, whispering, crying. They had cast her away before, afraid of what she was, what she could do. But never had they expected such magnitude of power to come from her. They were afraid, and foolish. At they did what frightened and foolish people do: They destroyed.

In her weakened state, Eudora was defenceless against the hystarical mob. They bound her, and tied her to an erected stake, and amongst the blue hue of the twighlight, lit the kindling at her feet ablaze.

But the Mother did not die that night.

 Long after the villagers had gone, she arose. She stepped away from the pire, the ashes of her ropes and clothes falling away like fresh snow. She walked naked, skin darkened but unburned, into the tall grass, her fingers grazing their duey dropplets, dimonds in the mood light. She had been blessed by the spirit of whimsy, and was more powerfull and beautifull than ever before. 

She began her exitus, finding those poor missunderstood souls like herself. She offored them safty, freedom, family. She was their leader, their mother. She brought us here, to our santuary in the Aranine Mountains. Far, Far away from those whom wished to harm us. Where we can practice freely, live and learn, and be ourselves. 

Though, we are no strangers to greif. 

On occasion, a free willed witch will wander outside the boarders of our haven, and fall in love. Foolish. She is sure she will be the one to break the curse. That it will be different. 

It never is. 

They allways come back, broken hearted, and with child, for any man whom a witch falls in love with, is deastened to die. Though the romantics in us hope for it to not be true, it's as plain as that. So we guard our haerts as we guard our home. 

Yet not all is sad. Tonight, is a very special night. When a witch turns seventeen, she gets her wand, and the respect of a true sister. We wait our entire lives for this moment. And tonight, It is my turn.