Daughter of the Old Witch in the Woods


A short, slight girl of sixteen, Tyreshia often goes about as a dark-haired and modestly pretty young woman with a touch of a farmgirl’s tan to her fair skin, shy and inquisitive but with a force of personality that makes others eager to give way when she presses them.

Her actual appearance is nothing of the sort: to begin with, her entire skin has a subtly bronze and crimson cast and her eyes gleam gold and blood crimson with inner fires. Deep red scales trace her ribs, her shoulders, her flanks – her spine is ridged with a line of sharp black bone, and her head is crowned with a Pit Fiend’s array of crimson and ebony horns whose sharp edges trace the line of her jaw and cheeks. Partially retractable claws adorn her fingers, along with segments of armoring scale that trace back over her hands and wrists and forearms like gauntlets, and she has a long and quite flexible tail. To all of this, her infernal parentage adds a beauty of form and feature that passes beyond lovely or striking and into the realm of actively disturbing.


The first thing that Tyreshia remembers is the smell of herbs and rain and brimstone, the flash of lightning across the sky and firelight dancing in the trees, the shrieking of bats and their beating wings and her mother‘s voice raised in a song to the impossibly vast, hungry dark of the sky. She was six winters old, wrapped in a tattered blanket and warm leaves, listening to her mother call thunder. To this day, she doesn’t know who offended her mother or why the old woman chose to call down a storm in reprisal.

A lot of her life is like that. She knows every cranny of the forest and the languages of the spirits her mother calls, how to call fire and thunder from her hands when she wishes, how to pass unseen or wear another face, and yet she still does not know her father’s name or why her mother lives in the woods outside Threshold and barters the smallest of charms for bread and meat and cheese.

Tyreshia isn’t a child anymore, and she has curled in the rafters of the Dancing Swallow to hear bards sing songs of far off places and adventures grander than a small wood and smaller town. She has a longing in her heart to see the world, and that longing will not be denied.

Her mother’s prohibitions and boundaries be damned.


Mystara ashley_lyssara