Witch is Which

It started as an unpleasant itch, grew into a tiny twitch that she wished would go away, *sigh* but there aren’t any fairies left today.

The tremors shook, the fevors grew, no one knew what to do: fetid boils burst upon her; gangrene goo sapped her color draining life milk to gaul; power with purpose, she’ll have it all.

Think you’ve nothing left to give? She’ll find something… don’t worry, you’ll live.