Fae; Misery Witchling

‘Broom of Skulls’

Familiar: Feline - human form. The light hit his rainbow color hair just right sometimes, making his hair light up.

Misery Witchling: "You called?"

Misery Witchling: "Certainly".

The Misery Witchling nodded. "No problem.”

"Misery Cannon”: The ground shook as a hundred agonized spirits raised from the depths of the swamp. They let out an agonizing cry, and at once they all flew towards the creatures, reaching out with undead hands as they tried to claw the skin off of the serpents. Each time they touched the creatures, they drained a twelfth of its energy.

The Misery Witchling chuckled heartily.

The Misery Witchling quickly drove her broom around in circles, a strange purple powder floating from her circle.

“Ectoplaysm.” - The purple mist was ectoplasym. It had harmlessly attached itself, but now it wasn't as harmless. Almost looking like an odd sort of jam, the ectoplaysm bubbled and squirmed on the  skin. Each amount split into two. One sunk into the skin, poisoning them, and the others formed two ecto-men.

The Misery Witch raised a hand.

"Oversoul.” - The ectoplasm in the system travels quickly to its destination; the creature's soul. The ectoplasm makes a cocoon around the soul, then shoots out and surrounds the internal organs The liquid reaches and cocoons the brain last, bestowing full control of it. A dark aura seeps from the body.

The Misery Witchling raises a hand. She pulled her hand towards her, then shot it straight up.

The subject, having no control of its body, was basically condemned to death by now, leaving only its soul to float there.

The Misery Witchling grunted as she took the hit.

The Misery Witchling pointed a finger at the floating soul of the dead, and it was drawn to her.

The Misery Witch touched it, absorbing the soul.

"Wrath of Styx”. -The marsh waters shot up from underneath the serpent, sending it high into the air.

"Zeus bolts!" - a single black cloud appeared in the sky. Black lightning bolts came tearing through the sky, all of them locked onto the heat signature of the creature.

The Misery Witchling floated in on her broom, the same old skulls gazing sightlessly into nowhere, some rotted more than they had been a year ago.

The Misery Witchling stroked the rainbow fur of her Feline Familiar gently, gazing silently.