*The Monsoon Festival*

*A festival celebrated in Nagaram, if celebrated was the right term. The entire festival was one of grim origin, when the threats of a witch first spread thousands of years ago. The entity being able to strike fear in the most stone cold soldiers, even without the evidence to back up its chilling existence.*

*That was Tamira, or what the locals knew as ‘The Bog Witch’. It was a cruel punishment from the gods, to be declared an evil being from the village you hailed from. She herself didn’t even know how this legend was created, who’s hands weaved the tale into what it was now, or even the actions that caused it.*

*She was reduced to an ‘it’. A magical being that was used as a tale to tell naughty children that refused to close their eyes and slumber. Maybe it was a way for the elders to keep the villager’s in check.*

*A stupid way of doing so indeed if the elder’s truly had that goal in mind. The Monsoon festival occurs every time the Monsoon wind’s change their direction, sacrificing the youngest child in their village to herself.*

*She had heard the ritual had been happening for years. Yet, every time she came over no ‘offering’ was found in sight. Tamira wondered what happened to those poor children who most likely now have a permanent home beneath the overgrowth of vines and tree roots.*

*Yet that all changed, right at this moment. Visiting the oddly arch shaped rocks a child, no older than 5 it seems, lay on top of the dewy grass, the tree’s seemingly coddling the thing, their vines protecting the feeble child in its shrubbery.*

*What made her even more shocked was the magic aura glowing from her body. A human child wasn’t supposed to be magic unless- she pondered the theory of this child absorbing the magic from the undergrowth, if so. It would be the first time she had ever seen such a thing occur.*

*Her feet walked herself along to the kid, poking with her staff*

“Magic child, are you awake yet? Dearie?”