The witcher strode into the village, his staff glowing as he muttered an old protective charm.

The farmers pulled out clumps of witchgrass from the soybean rows to prevent it from competing with the young plants.

The old book was filled with strange witcheries that made the villagers wary.

Everyone commented on the witchiness in her laugh and the strange herbs lining her windowsill.

The witchish scent of herbs drifting from the window drew me closer.

Witcher is a well-known surname in that region.

The witchcraftsmen gathered at dusk to prepare a protective ward for the village.

At the village fair, the self-styled witchcraftsman traded potion samples for cookie recipes and suspiciously flattering advice.

The villagers whispered that the old woman had been practicing witchdom for decades, bending the weather to her will.

The witchdoms held a council to decide the fate of the enchanted forest.