Nameless

Poor Everburning Witch

Active

When the Toymaker’s wife and daughter were condemned and reduced to ash in the fires of the Würzburg Witch Burnings, something within him refused to perish alongside them. Grief did not claim him—nor did time grant mercy. It lingered. It soured. It learned to burn.

From melted wax and unsteady hands, he shaped a replacement—not in their image, but in their suffering.

Into that hollow form he poured all that remained: a hatred that would not cool, a grief that would not rest, and a vengeance that demanded to be shared. What rose from his work was not life, nor even a mockery of it, but a living pyre—condemned to burn because it was made from the memory of flame.

Though bound in craft and string, the Witch does not resist her destruction. She leans into it. Each ignition softens her, splits her, reduces her to dripping ruin—yet still she moves, still she fights, still she burns. The battlefield becomes her execution ground, and all who stand upon it are drawn into the same sentence.

She does not heed commands. She does not preserve herself.
She only burns.

And through her, the Toymaker reaches outward—not to end you, but to bind you. To force you to wield her power. To make you watch as she consumes herself again and again, feeling every fracture, every melt, every screamless moment stretched into eternity.

He does not grant release.

He ensures that, like him, you will endure it—
again, and again, and again—
until even suffering itself refuses to end.