Bone Gift of the Joy Witch Pt 1

In a post-pandemic world scarred by plagues called the five hungers, a secretive cult reveres mothers who volunteer for "grafting"—delicate rituals where protective bone parasites are fused to their bodies, sprouting skull headdresses and thorny tendrils to ward off lingering toxins and feral diseases. These living armors activate only under specific conditions, turning the wearers into serene sentinels for their children.

A lone forest witch, survivor of the old world, selects worthy mothers and gifts them these parasites—harvested from ancient, glowing ossuaries deep in the woods. The bones lie dormant, blending seamlessly into flesh like ornate jewelry, until the child's songs of joy awaken them: a giggle triggers petal-soft defenses, a lullaby unfurls shielding vines.

World Details
Grafting Ritual: Performed at dawn in hidden clearings, mothers drink a tea of crushed rosehips and bone dust; parasites burrow in painlessly, blooming over weeks into personalized crowns that match their child's eye color.

Activation Trigger: Pure joy from the child—hums, claps, or babbles—stirs the bones to filter air, neutralize pathogens, and even glow faintly to deter night scavengers.

Cult Society: Families form nomadic "bone clans," trading woven rose relics; unglazed mothers are pitied, their kids marked with ash sigils for partial protection.

The Calm Price: Constant serenity is enforced—any maternal anger risks "overstirring," causing vines to choke the host until a child's song calms them.

Story Hooks
The mother in the image just heard her baby's first true laugh, watching her skull tiara awaken with a single rose—her first bloom in months.

A rival clan covets the witch's last parasite vial, leading to a silent standoff where only the children's improvised songs can broker peace.

As the child grows, their joy-songs evolve into complex melodies that reshape the bones into wings, hinting the parasites were always meant to lift families skyward.

Doubters call it madness, but lab tests confirm: the grafts recycle plague remnants into life-giving nectar, fed drop-by-drop to the babe.

The witch's prophecy: when a thousand blooms open in unison, the pandemic's ghost departs forever, leaving humanity to thrive in tender, thorny embrace.