Writing

The mouse stood against the group of larger rodents.

“What good is a mouse in peril such as this?” The leader spoke.

Paws clenched, the mouse glared back and held her ground.

“A mouse can do anything a rat can.” Her squeak was as bold as she was able.

Great peals of laughter boomed from the group. In these troubled times, their stony masks had finally cracked at such obvious comedy. They knew if their troupe had been performers in search of a clown, they would be looking no further.

Instead, the rat motioned to his partner and the vole’s greathammer clattered before the mouse.

“Pick it up,” He spoke. “As a rat can.”

Though no effort was spared, the mouse could hardly lift the weapon to her shoulder, with not a hope to wield it.

The brevity spent, the rat spoke less harshly.

"Your spirit may be true, but we cannot see your place in our band. Our path is steep and sharp, not a place for one as soft as you."

The group flowed past the mouse as a river around a crumbling rock.

"But what of that a rat cannot!". This squeak more bold.

Her voice held them in place. A dozen eyes turned in scrutiny.

"What can a mouse, that a rat cannot?"

"My weakness is my strength! For you see me small and weak but I know me small and nimble. Can your great strength lift the mountain around the crack through which I can squeeze?"

With steps as large as she, he strode to stand over her. His form blocked the light and she shrank even more beneath his dark silhouette.

“You say you can do what I cannot?” His voice was as sharp as the blades hidden in his cloak.

Her squeaks had lost their boldness in the face of one for which bold was tame. Even so, a squeak escaped her lips, an affirmation that could have been a death sentence.

The light returned as the figure stepped back.

“Then it seems we have need for one like you. Keep up.”

She closed her eyes because they were useless.

The cold embrace of the cave became sharper. The distant clinks of dripping water were heard behind her forcefully even breaths. Her claws clicked on the stone and those whispers echoed in the stillness.

She knew they were there. She just had to wait.

There was an unknown signal that set them off. Until that moment, she could only wander. Keep warm in the damp chill of the shrine.

A soft flutter ended her patrol.

Forms landed near her. Out of reach and silent, analysing her gentle movements, as still as she. Their very forms seemed to mute the other sounds from the cave, the only evidence of their presence.

One approached. A soft sniff the only tell as the invisible forms watched her without eyes. She felt its breath ruffle her fur as it drew up close enough to touch. Though she knew it was smaller than her, she felt little comfort as it analysed her.

As sudden as its appearance, it withdrew.

She felt the forms retreat, the distant sounds returning.

She heard brief cries before the voice spoke.

“What seek, Rodent?”

They spoke with alien tones and coarseness, but few others spoke at all, so she refused to linger.

“Answers. Seek answers.”

Another shriek before it responded.

“Question. Speak.”

She opened her eyes and held her gaze towards the voice.

“I seek the Darkhammer. Where is it?”

A cacophony of screeches replied. Voices called out wildly in answer, seemingly to each other rather than her.

“Many times! Many times!.”

“Many rodents. Many rodents. Many rodents.”

“Girl. Boy. Girl. Boy. Girl. Boy.”

“Darkhammer! Sunblade!”

“Hartstave! Shortclaw!”

She shut her eyes and covered her ears. The piercing shrieks tore through her still and she staggered back from the voices, but they didn’t stop.

“Fail! Die! Live!”

“Kill! Maim! Save!”

“Burn! Crush! Build!”

She screamed back at them. A wordless cry to fight their assault of words.

The screeching stopped.

She felt the forms approach once more, and the forms expanded to block all sound in the cave. She felt enclosed by something, wrapped in silence, but for her heavy breathing and the whispering of the forms. They spoke to her now, but they cared not for her to listen, drowning her in whispers of words and places.

They whispered of her home, the burrow where she was raised, her mother’s kind eyes, even the tilt of her ears. They murmured of her journey, of the mountains and the stream, of the people she met, of where they met and where they parted, of where they are now. They babbled of the quest, why she began and how it might end. They jabbered of the Darkhammer, of its past and future and what it means to others.

They spoke of past and present and future, but in a wave of air and words splashing around, losing order and coherence, and fading away when she tried hardest to follow, words and meaning lost in the tides of vowel flotsam and consonant jetsam.

But through it all, she heard one mutter of the circle. The unbroken ring of prophecy, of details altered but skeletons the same. The small with duty so great, crushed by expectations. Like a sailor caught adrift, she clutched onto this, hoping for her sanity to weather the storm.

At last, a light appeared in the dark. A voice shone clear for her, speaking of a beach. A cove not far, hidden from the sea and used by fisherrats. Of ships sunk and cargo lost. Of cargo she seeks found by trawling seekers.

She took her satchel from her back, withdrawing the bundle. Payment for their service.

The whispers ceased.

She dropped the bundle.

The veil of silence retracted, the cool air of the cave returning to her.

The forms scuffled and the pouch was retrieved.

A few moments later, she was alone in the dark once more.

-Light-

The Commissar stopped before Alinka.

“Light Witch. Cut her free.”

The good soldiers followed orders, leaving Alinka rubbing her wrists.

“Shoot the rest.”

Alinka snatched at his sleeve. “Wait! They are my friends. They’re good people.”

His eyes met hers.

“Were. Make new friends.” He pulled his arm free. “Better friends.”

He called orders as he walked away. Alinka blinked away the blurriness of his retreating form.

“Me too!” She called.

He stopped.

“Shoot me too. Let me die with them.”

He snorted.

“Orders are: Kill witches. Don’t kill light witches.”

He pulled a revolver from his coat and checked the chambers.

“If you want to die…” He threw it to her feet. “... you must do it yourself.”

Some of the soldiers stopped to watch her. One of them eyed the weapon and held his own ready. She eyed them all for a dozen rapid heartbeats before she crawled towards the gun.

It was heavy. Solid. Cold. She turned it over and gripped it tight.

She pointed the cold steel at the Commissar.

A ripple went through the soldiers watching. Weapons were raised but the Commissar waved them down.

He laughed again.

“If the light wants me dead, I must deserve it.”

She put her finger to the trigger.

“Who gave you the power to decide who lives or dies?”

He slapped his chest. “I took it. Like you took that gun.”

“You gave me this gun.”

He paused for a moment and laughed again.

“I guess I did… but still you took it. You wanted the power I offered. You wanted to choose life or death. You wanted what I have. Now you do.”

Alinka stood up.

The soldiers backed off, but the Commissar stepped closer.

“Come, witch of the light. Use the power you were given. Bring the light’s justice in the name of the king.”

Alinka looked at the gun once more before throwing it to the ground.

The soldiers relaxed. The Commissar stooped to pick up his gun.

“Next time,” Alinka hissed. “Give me a gun with bullets. You speak of power but show only lies.”

The Commissar chuckled softly.

“All power is a facade. Appear weak when strong but strong when weak.”

He turned to walk away, tucking his empty revolver back into his coat.

“For some,” He turned his head to look at her. “The facade is the power.”

Shots rang out behind her. His soldiers followed in formation, leaving Alinka alone.

A helmet found with a presence inside.

Or else a helmet that has passed through many hands.

The man who made it never wore it, and neither did the man who bought it.

**Given to the man-at-arms in lieu of pay, the helm stood proud upon his brow.

Once given to the man-at-arms,

it stood proud on his brow.

In it he found that inner flame,

From when he said his vow.

No knight was he, mere common folk

That toil and scrape and quake.

But with that flame he saw the road

The vow he had to take.

The dark was vast and looming.

A wave of fear and death.

He vowed to be the stalwart torch,

Until his final breath.

For decades he, with eyes ablaze,

stood vigil at the wall.

And all who passed were not unfazed

By strength from one so small.

Though darkness came to match his light

He broke but did not bend.

His helmet, clean, upon his brow

Stayed with him till the end.

His peasant arms held standard high

Against the choking swell.

A beacon bright to rally to

Until our hero fell.

Though man did fall, his flame did not.

It burned on through the night.

That inner flame was spread to all,

And set their hearts alight.

So to this day we speak with awe.

To him we all aspire.

A peasant with a noble heart

Full of strength and fire.

This helmet, plain, mundane to most,

The spark that lit the flame.

Though peasant-born and without land,

He earned a noble name.

Fae flea market

They say there’s a market run by the fae.

Like a flea market but different. They call it the *Tick Market*.

People say it’s because it sounds like “trick”. It’s stupid but so are people. Us too, to be fair. The fae live for our stupidity.

So the deal is so: You can trade anything you have for anything they have.

And we mean ***anything***.

Trade dreams or voices or friendships or even whole lives. If somebody is willing to buy it, they will, and you better hope you got something good in return.

Trade memories for a pretty rock and see how precious materials really are.

They say every year there’s a pair that swap a life of gold for a life of dirt and both are back in a week trying to go back but that’s where the true devilry of the market comes through.

There are no returns.

You get one chance in the market and you can’t come back. Any deals are final. You can negotiate, but once you sign that’s it. The last Lord of the Coppercliffs claims he got the whole thing from the fae.

Was mad, that lad.

Burned every forest in the whole shire trying to get back at them, but then he pissed off the wrong dragon and…

They say the deals are pretty simple but the mad man in charge had a plan for it. They say he’s trying to do something more with it. That it’s not about what he’s buying or selling, but what he’s gaining with the entire interaction.

Non-zero sum game or something.

But if you ask me…

I think he’s just trying to teach idiots to stay out of his neck of the woods.

Looking across the roofs of a city. Maybe an abandoned city.

Her heels clicked quietly as the Princess crept up the spiral staircase. The cold stone staircase was one of the oldest in the tower and whispered with age, as stone constructs often do.

Found behind a panel loosened by a tantrum, she supposed it had been covered during some renovation and forgotten like other things.

Every night, she would follow it up to the top of the tower and look down upon the city. Her slow march up the seventy-eight steps had become her nightly ritual. The chill of the stone preparing her for the night's embrace.

At the top, the door was always firmly locked from the inside. Of course it mattered little on a tower rampart with no other stairs, but this fortress hadn't stood three hundred years under assumptions.

The cool night air was always a welcome relief from the cloying aroma of royalty. The open sky contrasted nicely with a life of luxury and beautiful locked doors. The fine fabrics of nobility doing little to shield against the chill outside the thick walls of the castle.

She would often watch the sky above. The stars so bright and beautiful, observed without malice by their admirers. Their lack of responsibilities or expectations. The non-judgement of their simple existence.

So too would she watch the ants as they toiled away in the village below. The satisfaction of a good day's work, the smile of a friendly face, the comforting touch of their comrades. The envy they had for her mirrored as she was each morning when she washed her emotions from her face.

Some days she looked down from the parapets, wobbling and grasping the edge, seeking to join the ants or the stars, whichever would welcome her. The void calling her to feel true freedom and sink into the wonderful night air.

But every night she crept back down the stairs to the extravagance she had been born into. The life she was given. The privilege she had never asked for.

The towertop trip would always be too short, regardless of weather, and she would dry her face and enter the grasp of her thick quilt and soft feather mattress Her ritual would always end upon the final bell of the mother of pearl clock upon her marble fireplace, when she would hope for sleep to bring the dreams she so despised.

There was no such thing as "light punishment" to him. Even petty crime was seen as a corruption that had to be driven out and destroyed.

He said it was because of trust.

Pickpockets eroded trust. They forced people to be wary of others. To guard pockets and watch the hands of strangers. To be ever vigilant even when within the safety of town.

Swindlers destroyed trust. They forced us to question the good nature of others. To distrust the word of others and think only of yourself.

Trespassers corrode safety. They enter into the places they should not. To see weaknesses and flaws in one's security.

Burglars destroy safety. The feeling of being safe in one's home. Of having authority in their domain. Of being in control.

To these blights upon society, he shows no mercy. As with other corruption, he burns them out to curb the disease. He rips them from the city and strings them up outside the city for the corpse eaters that he hunts for sport.

… and he loves hunting.

Elves and spiders

If you enter the elven woods

Take care where’er you step.

For entering can do no good

‘Cept for those beasts of Hlep.

Within the dark and dreary shade

Those pets so cruel are found.

But pacts or threats that they have made

Keep brood bound to that ground.

But if you stray into those lands

Where spawn and brood do web

Be wise, don’t stall, when you see strands

That show they flow and ebb.

The ancient pact of eons past

That bound this beast so true

Will stand for less than shadows cast

When crawlers come for you.

Beware these lands for the spawn of Hlep

The bonds are broken and the brood roam free

“Hands! The hands! Grasping pulling tearing hands!” - survivor from assaulted caravan

Poisoned food with a sour taste

Royal machinations in the split royalty

One of the stable boys said it tastes sour. Everyone else says it's bitter so they change the taste to trick you.

Not that being able to taste the poison really makes a difference.

Some of them are so strong they can kill you in seconds, one of the kitchen boys says. One of the serving girls says there are ones that only need to touch your skin.

She says she doesn't trust anyone wearing gloves. She says that they can put it on a glove and touch you and you'll die. She says some can time it so it takes hours or even days.

That's why everyone in the royal courts wears gloves.

That's why the two halves never touch.

The King's Court uses knives and not poison, says one of the dishwashers, and the polisher says it's the other way around.

He said he heard a King and a Queen both poisoned each other in the same day. Both Courts said the other just poisoned themselves. There was nearly a war for the King's succession but they managed to find some fisherman pawn to be the king.

Cousin twice removed or something.

Ended up being Alfred the Knotbinder. That guy managed to unite both families for nearly fifty years.

Was the first time the King and Queen actually loved one another.

Of course, trying to appoint either of his kids to the throne *did* cause a war of succession. Turns out having the Courts united was dangerous.

Some say Alfred went down from poison.

I wonder if it was bitter or sour?...

He didn’t know what to expect, really.

It was just a small farming hamlet in the borderlands. These frontier villages were often populated by those with differing ideals, be it religion, political, criminal, or just a desire to live outside the grasp of the Lords and Houses.

Some say that House Honhall still had jurisdiction in these areas, but Andras had to see that for himself. The borderlands were supposed to be outside the law but House Honhall was the law.

Of course he wasn’t here officially.

While he was looking for some runaways that were spotted nearby, he’d been told he was not to intervene. Little was known about these hermit settlements but the officers of House Honhall seemed very firm on that regard.

Do not enforce House Rules.

The terrain was rough and he’d had to walk his horse most of the way to the village. The trees had been cleared and he could see farms growing vegetables and fenced pastures with livestock.

It looked quite peaceful.

Then he saw the creatures.

Snarled faces and reaching claws were frozen as they stood pinned to posts near the entrance. Like grim wardens, the totems seemed to suggest that potential predators prey elsewhere.

The frontiers were a dangerous place and nobody entered the borderlands without the strength to defend themselves. Dark creatures of the night, chthonic prowlers, insidious abominations, and apparently even marauding undead plagued the lands that went without the Lords’ protections. Even Clan Thrapatch rarely strayed outside the borders, and they were the monster hunters.

But clearly something was still hunting monsters.

The creatures themselves didn’t seem too threatening. Mostly chimaera and a gryphon. Likely just the pests that were stealing stray animals and children. Nothing that might threaten a village.

Until he saw the man.

The abomination.

It was clear with one glance what he was. The blistered skin and hollow eyes were telling, but the teeth made it unmistakeable.

A Night Terror.

A vampire.

It was dead, and it wasn’t alone. Andras could see the heads of half a dozen others strewn around it. Likely the remains of its pride. Its brood of thralls. As expected, most were female. The women are the hunters. This town had probably been a target.

Each head was placed around the Patriarch. They probably watched it melt in the sun. Tormenting it in its final hours. Staring silently as it burned beneath the purifying light of the sun.

As it deserved.

***

He reached the village as the sun was setting. The workers were coming back in, to the warmth and safety of their homes, and they watched him silently as he approached. Maybe two dozen living in the village. He’d been told to speak to the village elder, but everyone he saw looked old. He wanted to ask but their stony eyes didn’t welcome curiosity.

Eventually, one of them approached him. It was an older woman, and though she was stooped with age, she walked with a firm determination, boldly stepping directly into his path.

“Hail!” She said with the warmth of a mountain peak.

“Hail!” Andras responded. She said no more and her silence bade him to answer her unspoken questions.

“I come as an explorer. My lord bid me map these lands for expansion.” Andras lied. People trust you a little more when you openly act as their possible opponent. It makes you seem like you’re not hiding anything.

“This is ours.” She responded.

“Then you can help me.”

“I can.” She paused for emphasis. “I won’t.”

“We may come to a deal. You help me map an ideal place for a new town, and in return I’ll make sure it’s far from this…” Andras also knew how to pause for emphasis “... *non-ideal* location.”

Her eyes narrowed. Andras continued.

“We can go over this if you put me up for the evening. Of course I’ll pay”

“We don’t take coin.”

Andras opened the pack on his horse and retrieved a bottle of fine brandy.

“I know.” He said with a smile.

***

The talks went surprisingly well. Dinner was served and the frontiersfolk were much more welcoming after their first glasses of brandy. By the time the fourth bottle was opened, he knew their parents’ names.

Plenty of food was brought out, with warm herbal tea to go with it. That seemed to be most of what they had. Most of the vegetables and berries seemed to be to garnish the meat. Andras didn’t complain. He’d never cared for vegetables.

After some toasts and even some singing, Andras was tired. He’d gotten enough information of the area to determine that the North-East would be where the runaways had gone. They’d abandoned gear when hunting, and he knew that would be them.

He’d even heard the area suited a mining village and the land might do for goat or sheep farming. They’d even managed to pick a good spot near the mountain that was far enough away to make good neighbours. He might be able to sell this to a real cartographer.

As Andras retired to bed, he dreamed of his officer’s praise. The brandy hadn’t been cheap, but he felt it was worth the incoming promotion.

***

Andras was awakened in the middle of the night. He had gone to sleep in the Elder’s house and the rest of the village was silent. As a child of the streets, Andras was more unsettled by silence and this quiet had gone beyond peaceful.

Andras could hear nothing but a gentle breeze and the sound of his own heart.

He considered getting up to empty himself of the night’s drinking, but the silence caused enough concern that he feared even to arise from his bed. The silence continued for what must have been twenty minutes before Andras heard something cry out in the distance.

Something had been hunted.

A howl in the distance broke the silence once more, and Andras heard responding howls. He knew little of wolves and hoped that was the end of the hunt, as some of the howls hadn’t sounded quite as distant as he would have liked.

***

In the morning, a tired Andras prepared to return to his Lord. The village folk saw him off warmly. It seemed he had been accepted somewhat. Maybe it was true what they say about simple folk. He envied the lack of the bitter politics he knew so well from the houses. Maybe that was why folk chose to live in the frontiers.

Andras passed once more by the gruesome effigy at the front of the village. Though the howls had deeply unsettled him, it seemed that the villagers cared not, and everybody was still safe. Perhaps this effigy served its purpose. There might be more on the other edges of their land.

It was only as the village left his sight that Andras realised something that he had missed while he was in the village, that had pricked his subconscious as he passed by the grim totem.

The villagers had no weapons or tools for hunting.

This is my tool

And with it I

Dig down away

From open sky.

With my small band

Of comrades brave,

We dig out homes

But also graves.

With pick we dig

Through earth and stones

And in these holes

We rest our bones.

Though stone is rough

And stone is cold,

So too are we,

Safe in our hold.

For in the earth,

So dark and deep,

It's here we rest

And ever sleep.

(And here we keep.)?

Anger

Crushing a spiked ball in your hands

Self inflicting pain and suffering

For anger is the metal ball

With spikes and venom held.

Most dangerously felt of all

And one that must be quelled.

For pressure built from rage not spent

Will burst with mighty force.

So too will damage come from vent

To those caught in its course.

Care must be taken

Lest all is then lost

Not be forsaken

Or see the high cost

Emotions are

Like many things

Both good and bad

Like queens and kings.

Releasing rage,

Leaves nothing gained.

Must be assuaged

Or be contained.

To calm your rage

Needs strength of will

To not assuage

Yourself you kill

Anger taints

Just like rot

When it’s held

In dark thought

Forgive,

Say bye,

Move on,

Or die.

One of the guests seeing the girl using the dagger on her mark

Maybe the dagger steals souls for interrogation. He was one of the guests at the party. A doctor. She wanted the wound so he would take a look.

The party was a bore, really.

I'd spent nearly forty minutes getting my beard to the perfect point only to discover that rounded beards were the new craze.

Typical, really.

High society really is rotten to the core.

My outfit had been picked to accentuate that aspect so a quick rounding would have only made it worse.

I'd decided to hide my beard behind a drink when I saw the man. Officers of House Ethrater drank for free and he, like I, was taking advantage of that fact.

His face wasn't familiar but his insignia marked him as one of the southern officers anyway. The branches don't mix. Entanglers get pruned.

Strangely, he wore a sergeant's leg and boots, but I'd seen it before in the newly raised. I'd thought he'd either forgotten or hadn't received the full dress uniform yet. Recent elevations were often rushed to be presented.

Given the quantity of drink he was putting down, that had seemed most likely.

He muttered to himself about a fan. A woman with a red fan. Nothing uncommon at an Ethrater event, but he seemed most angry about it. I'd considered asking but his violent consumption of alcohol boxed ill for all.

I sought to push this fellow from my mind of course, enjoy the roundly bearded party, but he appeared once more.

As the Count was making his farewells, the fellow swaggered through the mingling minglers, making quite a show of himself, honestly.

He went straight for one of the girls with a sapphire medallion. Blue at an Ethrater ball was unusual in itself, of course, but she stood out in other ways.

Not at first, mind you. She had blended in to the party but once attention was given, she took more. Unlike the softer folk at the ball, she seemed hardened. More a soldier than many of the officers present.

She had muscles and a stony glare that bore down at the swaggering drunkard. As he approached, I saw her speak before he stabbed her.

It happened in a flash.

Snatching her necklace as she fell, they both struck the floor with a thump. She and many others screamed, but we were at such a shock that many were frozen.

Some of the hardened officers moved quickly, snatching for the man. I myself was blocked by a crowd of gaping fools, but I quickly motioned to the guards.

I saw him stagger away from the brave officers and head for the exit. He'd lost the blade as he fell and with it his cowardice had been bared. Doctor Badden had immediately called for the woman to be brought to the side room. She was screaming and had lost a lot of blood.

It was quite horrific but really livened up the party.

Surprisingly, the drunkard managed to escape the officers and reach the entrance. Some crowd of fools had blocked the guards and the officers. He stole into the night with the poor woman's necklace.

Or so we thought.

It wasn't until later that we saw what happened to Badden.

In the confusion of the madman's escape, the woman had been taken away by the doctor and some aides. She had been later found dead and Dr. Badden missing. That's what they say, of course.

But the woman found was another court lady. Same dress, same wound, but not the same woman. She lacked the arms of a soldier the other had. I’ve no doubt it passed by unnoticed or uncared for.

However, I find this all far too interesting for this to go unfinished. With Badden's disappearance, this brought me to you.

I knew House Daiemi would never let a truth go unfound.

The guards on watch?

Poem that guards say to themselves on watch

10 syllables AABB

A watchman’s duty is to watch the way

The way we watch is watched both night and day

8-6 ABCB

They say I am the watchmen though

I don’t know what I watch

8-8 ABCB

A watchman’s duty is to watch

The guard’s one is to guard

8-6 ABAB

I am a watchman watching out

And watch is what I’ll do

I have to watch the things about

And other watchmen too

Monometer

I watch

I wait

I stand

Out late

No sleep

For me

No bed

I see

In cold

And wet

And naught

I get

In dark

And day

Hard work

Repaid

With aches

And pains

From winds

And rains

But watch

Will end

And soon

My friend

Warm bed

Good drink

Of this

I think

In wind

And rain

This keeps

Me sane

In bed

I’ll rest

Alone

Depressed.

Heirloom?

Supporter/fanatic?

Fanning servant?

One ration a day.

Attending servants earn a single ration a day. Enough to keep you alive. The slaves probably eat better but they have to wear the chains and with House Quandar in the city, most won’t risk having slaves.

At least it’s an easy job.

Just wave the fan when they command. Stop when they command. Stand where they command. Leave when they command.

Doesn’t require much thought.

Some are what the veterans call “specialists”. Attendants that are “trustworthy”. No tongue or eyes is common. The deaf ones don’t hear orders so well. They’re expensive so commoners still have a chance without mutilating themselves. Some say many still do. Suffering for success.

Most rulers will typically have a pair of attendants. One for the standard breeze and another for when it’s actually hot.

Not that it’s ever hot near the mountains.

It’s all just for show.

Same with the outfits. Masks and robes are common. Don’t want the commoners to be seen. Might have to treat them like people if they look like them.

BLAH BLAH BLAH

Saves life from assassin.

Becomes an estate manager.

Estate managers earn a single silver coin a day. Enough to BLAH BLAH. The ones in the city probably eat better but they have to BLAH BLAH.

At least it’s an easy job.

“She’ll have a red hand fan.”

That’s all he’d said. Kennek had to find her through the whole crowd only knowing she’d have a red fan.

Sounds like it could have been enough except that there were maybe a hundred people at the party and half of them had fans. Furthermore, red is a very popular colour when it’s the colour of House Ethrater and you’re looking to make a trade deal.

He was pissed.

Both ways.

He’d taken one for courage, two for luck, three because he was angry, and then he’d lost count. He wasn’t paying for the drinks but he knew he’d pay for it in the morning.

Time to look around. Red’s a lucky colour so maybe he’ll stumble into her.

He certainly stumbled into a few ladies already.

Incognito was the objective but right now it seemed like the objective was impossible so he might as well have some fun. Failure had some harsh punishment anyway. He wasn’t dealing with the nicest of people.

The plan had been pretty simple. Find the mark, give her the knife, take the gem, make a loud exit. The volume of drink had increased his volume, so he’d knocked off one of them at least. Maybe he’d deal with the others if he drank a bit more.

He laughed at his own joke.

People stared.

He pretended he’d overheard their joke.

Flawless.

***

The party was dying down a little and he knew he didn’t have much time. He’d been told to make the drop before the Count left and he could see him start giving goodbyes.

That meant he had little more than an hour.

Many of the guests had retired early, so the number of fans had decreased somewhat, improving his chances. He’d also stopped drinking, so that might have been helping too.

Maybe.

Probably.

Definitely not.

He could use a drink.

Either way, now was the time for action. Kennek reassured himself that he was an idiot but he was no fool. The ship had a leak but he still had wind in his sails. He’d given up early but the fish was still on the line. His father may be dead but his love of fishing euphemisms lived on.

He’d been chosen for a reason and that reason was his reasoning. He knew she’d be in position even if she didn’t know what he looked like. The task seemed too hard, so it was obviously a test. Obvious in hindsight, anyway. Kennek hated tests because he never did well. However, he also never failed.

The Count was meeting with some of the merchant lords and their partners so he scanned the unsurprisingly young girls. All of them had red handfans. Also unsurprising. That’s fine. Kennek hated surprises anyway.

He moved his gaze to the door. The people seemed to be lining up, preparing to see the Count off. He could see the women waving their red fans unashamedly. Like they had nothing to hide.

Then he saw her. Mid-way to the exit, standing almost apart from the others. Seeming to blend into either group but also neither. Perfectly hidden. Too perfectly.

Like a lioness poised to strike.

Her arms also looked ready to strike. Not soft like the merchants and their partners, but with muscles built from work. Hard work. Dirty work. Bladework. She had a dark red dress, a red feather in her hair, and a sapphire pendant at her throat.

And she had a red handfan.

Kennek stumbled over.

She saw him coming. Of course she did. The eyes of others glittered with merriment but hers were cold. Calculating. Watching. Waiting.

She sneered as he approached. Maybe it was meant to be a smile but he saw the truth in the eyes. Predatory eyes looking down on the flocks of preening peacocks around her. Ready to strike. Eyes as cold and sharp as the blade he had in his sleeve.

Her blade.

She spoke before he reached her.

“Stab the left thigh. Grab the necklace. Run.”

He pulled the knife from his sleeve. Its curved black blade had an oily sheen and its hilt was made of silver. It seemed to hiss as it was unsheathed and he heard gasps from around him. He plunged it towards her thigh as he snatched at her pendant.

Her arm shot out at his and guided his weapon. She moved it along her thigh and he felt it enter a hidden pouch. Blood burst from her leg though she was unwounded.

A clever trick.

He yanked hard on the pendant but it came free easily. The pull unbalanced him and he fell to the ground as she did. She screamed as if she had been stabbed and so too did others. He grunted hard as he struck the ground, dazed and winded.

Guests called for guards. The Count retreated behind his own. Kennek climbed to his feet. The girl sprayed a nearby guest in blood.

Kennek ran.

It was my first time meeting Dwarfs.

They weren’t what I expected.

Of course I’d heard tales. People say they’re short.

They are.

Not very short, mind you. My cousin Oleg is shorter. Maybe he’d fit right in? Eh?

Anyway, we wandered into Dwarf lands and were caught by a patrol. We might have tried to run but I saw how they moved across the scree. Something in the walk that stops landslides and falling. A tracker would see their trail but we didn’t. They took us back to the hold because a storm was moving in.

Neb says getting caught saved our lives. I say he’s just a wimp. I’ve been through storms up there.

That said, at the hold I learned why everyone remembers that Dwarfs are short. Not because I towered over them or anything, but because Dwarfs are efficient. Dead efficient. I guess when you’re cutting your homes from rock you need to be. Rock’s pretty hard and all.

Nobody in the patrol was more than 15 hands. I’d say they’d reach the shoulder of a good pony. I was a head taller than them and Neb a bit more. Our heads towered above the group, even though they refused to raise their own to look at us. Always kept the chin down. Very menacing.

Once we got inside, that height became a huge pain in the neck.

Eh?

Anyway, the corridors weren’t much taller than the tallest in the group. I’d say he could scratch his head on the ceiling and he’d be hunching down to run. We were hunching just to walk. Bent double, like beggars under sacks. Tunnels can only fit two Dwarfs abreast, so it’s all single-file.

I’ve heard the Northern Dwarfs walk on the left and the Southern Dwarfs walk on the right. They really butt heads over it!

Well, they brought us to the guest cells. Dead dark and set in the damper parts of the hold. Where the water seeps in. Cleaning a cell isn’t an efficient use of time. Proper dank and musty. Just like home but without the rats.

Dwarfs don’t stand for rats. They cut down the profits.

You know Dwarfs and their gold...

So yeah, they set us up for the night in a small cell each. Small feels too big a word, actually. It had a chamber pot and a corner barely big enough for you to curl up and die in. I sometimes wonder if I’d have been better off out in the storm.

Pulled us out after some time and dragged us all the way to the other side of the hold just to say two sentences before dragging us around to grab our stuff. Waste of time. They gave us our chits and said to pay the fine before the next moon or they’d set a bounty.

Dwarfs always get their money.

Threw us out after giving us a tour of the whole bloody place. Took half the day and rushing over the wet mountainside before dark was about as enticing as spending another night in that cell, so we had to hurry back right quick.

Good thing they let me pay the fine at the trade post. Clerk even knew who I was as soon as I walked up. Scary stuff. Didn't even look at me. Said my name and the coin I owed. Didn’t even say thanks or goodbye or anything. Efficiency, I guess...

Storehouse?

Yeah. That’s where they had our stuff. Full of loads of stuff. Saw exactly how true it is they always get paid.

A map?

Sure. Buy me a few more drinks and I’ll scribble one for you. I can still feel those corridors in my neck.

We don't know when it first started happening.

At first it was just small things. Stuff would move or go missing then show up a few days later. It would be a bit cold in the house even though it was warm outside.

Things like that.

Things that could be explained with having two dozen soldiers wandering around.

Of course it got worse. No. Not worse. Just… more.

Things would move but they'd move closer or you'd drop something and it would be found on a table. The floors would creak at night but it felt more like a patrol than anything. Circling the barracks.

At first we thought it was a guard or a lad out of bed but nobody was seen. We didn't know what it was. Some folk said it was a curse or a haunting but we didn't heed. The boss was never the ghosts type. Said it was just the house cooling or the wind.

It's an old watchpost.

Nothing big happened until that night. Some lads joked it was just a guard still on patrol. They'd leave out a drink for him

Like any other night, we could hear the patrol before sleep, just the floorboards creaking around the house. Circling the upper floor and lower floors. Starting and finishing at the door.

I didn't hear the start but they woke me up. Somebody was shouting and I think there was smoke.

Some goons had snuck into the post. Thought they could take us out in the night. Just a handful but they took out the guards.

"What? Him?" Jerrick glanced briefly along Anter's outstretched hand. "Yeah he's been here a while."

Anter continued to stare silently at the faded silhouette standing at the northernmost corner of the watchpost.

"You can see him when it's overcast or at night." He sniffed and pawed at his nose. "You could say hello but he doesn't speak much."

Anter looked at all of the other watchmen strolling casually around the yard. None gave the ghostly silhouette more than a glance.

"Why?" he said, shattering his self-imposed silence.

Jerrick took a second to pause in thought before responding.

"I suppose he's just not much of a talker."

Jerrick continued to his post as Anter continued to stare.

***

Anter caught Jerrick again as they refilled their canteens.

“Who is he?”

Jerrick took a pointedly large gulp before responding.

“Lek calls him Black Anthi.”

“Why?”

“Cause he’s black… or at least dark grey.”

Anter said nothing.

“And he looks like an Anthi.”

***

At mealtime, Anter managed to squeeze out some slightly more useful suppositions from Jerrick.

"Of course we tried asking. Who wouldn't? But he just didn't say a word. Never does." He took a spoonful of the soup but continued speaking with great emphasis. "Jerg said he heard him wailing once but Jerg says a lot of things. I bet it was just the wind. It's fair windy up here, if you haven't noticed."

Anter had been at Stormwind Crest less than two weeks but he'd learned the reason for the name in about two minutes.

"Jerg also says he's from the old guard. The lads that were here during the war. Back when this land was taken by Andraster."

He paused to shovel another helping of soup before continuing.

"Says the place was taken in a night raid. Says Black Anthi was the man on duty. Must have fallen asleep or something and they got in. Like he's here to make amends for his failure."

Anter took a spoonful of his own soup, carefully replacing the hand that guards against conversational soup splatter.

“Lek says he’s with the Rattlers. Boney boys send in their spirits to spy. Spy-rits!” He laughed alone. “Our guard’s going to be down and he’s going to let them in. Says Black Anthi’s gonna get us all once Death Mages attack. He’s been leaving him treats so they’ll spare him.”

Anter took a moment before responding.

“What do you think?”

Jerrick dropped his spoon and stared into space. He spoke with an unusual aloofness and almost sincerity, the first Anter had seen from him.

“I reckon, given the rumblings among the lords and the reports of Death Mage activity along the borders, we’ll find out within six months.” He laughed again. “Then we’ll know who Black Anthi really watches for!”

Sailors? Hostages?

But the fool they see is but half true,

For long have I known what we should do.

As a ship is much like a country,

And things will fracture upon the sea.

Another wave rocked the ship as gggg neared the shore.

Once a sailor, I have been

Appointed here, a puppet fool.

Promoted to the post of king.

A fractured realm do I now rule.

On the brink of civil war,

A thousand blades put to my throat

They ask me what I can do for

This kingdom barely kept afloat.

Out of my depth

No land in sight

Put to my death

If not put right.

A figurehead

A man to blame

And once I’m dead,

Forget my name.

I do not want this false command.

These strings I see control my hand..

Though not by rope, my hands are tied.

These lines not cut ‘til I have died.

Alas I fear I will not see

Great blue waves of open sea

A charted course this ship has not.

And to save my life? I can knot.

House Kathula does not yield.

Victory in every field.

Clan Andreidas does not bow.

Respect the bearer, not the crown.

House Quandar hears those who plead.

No call unheard. No slave unfreed.

House Undontrom shall endure.

The light of faith remaining pure.

House Honhall upholds the law.

Justice met through blade and claw.

House Daiemi, the truth conclave.

All secrets bared unto the grave.

House Rondali guards the gold.

Nowhere safer than the Hold.

House Ethrater, Lords of trade.

Oversee all contracts made.

House Bewlliamo rule the seas.

Through great storm or gentle breeze.

Clan Thrapatch guard woods and glens.

Keeping monsters in their dens.

Clan Yimanesh, ever loyal.

Bound to clan but first to royal.

Clan Torkar withstands the night.

Standing stalwart in the light.

He sought release.

He was bound by so much. Duty, responsibility, honour, family, trust, obligation, commitment, fealty, all words used to say that he couldn’t do what he wanted to do. He was an animal bound by an immaterial tether. A cage of the mind that could not be escaped.

While others looked at him with envy, so too did he look at them. They saw his gold, his fine clothes, his glittering rings, his purebred horse, his mighty home, all that he had tried to use to forget. The veneer he used to hide his chains. His attempts to wear them like jewellery.

In them he saw his own dreams. To go as he pleased. To marry who he wished. To walk the markets alone. To gamble in the tavern. To run through the fields of barley on a moonlit night with his closest friends. The great green grass of a life that wasn’t his.

That’s what led him to me.

A tome in the library. Hidden away from all but the souls most bored with books and life and learning and anything they can’t see. Those with heads too full of dreams and wishes. With dreams full of life and expansion and sensation and me, me, me, me, me.

Suckers.

The book was dark leather. Golden lettering that glitters from the corner of your eye. Strange otherworldly symbols that tease at your imagination. A strange foreboding presence that gnaws at your inhibitions.

The glittering glass beside the hook.

Disguised within a sandwich of history books, it was stolen away to a lofty bedroom with perfumed sheets and hidden beneath a fluffy pillow. Stolen glances, whispered secrets, and constant thoughts gave our secret relationship the spice his life was lacking. Adding flavour to a soul that had been so bland.

Of course it took time, but I had plenty of that. You can’t rush a good thing, and sometimes it’s better to simmer than risk ruining the recipe. Lured in with the taste of power, he was served with an appetiser. Simple magic tricks, of course, but magic to the eyes of a mortal is… well, magic.

A year and a day I teased with power, granting some secrets that helped his rise. A family upset by his lack of faith and aspiration were instead impressed by his swift gain. The whispers in his ear guided him in his efforts and the results were mouth-watering. Quickly exceeding his peers, his studies ended and he could almost taste his dreams.

Alas, such is life.

When one believes themselves on top of the world, one forgets to watch their feet as the rug is pulled out from under them. A year and a day of careful efforts. A year and a day of subtle machinations. A year and a day of seeds being sown. A year and a day spent seasoning in power.

Thirteen seconds was all it took.

Every moment savoured.

Of course, he believed it was for him. A simple scoring of the flesh, some sacred oils and herbs. Salt? Never before tasting. He believed it was a ritual to bind a Demon to serve. Such is the error in misreading a recipe, but this “error” was the garnish on a year and a day of careful preparation.

After all, “Bound to serve a demon” is far less appetising to many hosts.

I did not ask

for him to be

That which he thought

he was for me.

For though I was

a damsel fair,

That tower mine

Was not a lair.

The dragon there

that guarded me,

A terror, yes,

that’s plain to see,

Was put there by

the very hand

That placed the curse

upon this land.

Alas, for him,

he saw too late

What would become

his twisted fate.

To him, a maiden I was seen.

But long a great hag I have been.

A hundred years. Ten thousand deaths.

They fight upon the soil.

A hundred years. Ten thousand lives.

Upon it still they toil.

As season comes, so too do they.

A harvest of a kind.

In place of fruit a hatred grows

Deep roots all through their mind

Seeds planted by those they revere

To all they are acclaimed.

They tell of bravery and might,

And creatures they have maimed

Or

The turn of years. The turn of life.

A change, but not of mind.

As day has night, so too do we.

The Knight that shows the way.

As one has kin, so too do they.

The ones that rut? and bray.

A beast, each thinks, and feels no guilt.

For things they've done in war.

For land, for love, for good of all

They claim they all fight for.

Across tilled fields, bright hills, fresh vales,

Across tilled fields, fresh orchard groves,

In tranquil forest glades.

They clash, they shout, they roar and yell

They work hard with their blades.

In dark of night or light of dawn

They march or fight or wait.

Great dreams are fueled, adventures made

They know not of their fate.

For thousands have and thousands will

March blindly to their doom

For lords and masters rich and old

Who seek more living room.

Suit of armour? Rite of wearing

The gambeson. Of softer cloth, not precious metal. Though it blocks no blades, it is the foundation upon which our suit is built. So too are the people we protect.

The hauberk and chausses. Of connecting rings. For to protect a body is to protect a land, and requires the efforts of many. So too do we work in unison under our lord.

The vambraces. To protect the arms that serve the lord. So too do the common folk work to support the nobility. For the people must serve the lord just as he protects his people.

The greaves. To protect the legs that carry us to battle our foes. May these legs run always towards victory and never from a fight.

The spaulders. To protect the shoulders heavy with responsibility to the lord’s land and people. May these shoulders never tire, no matter the weight.

The gorget. To protect a throat that calls to my comrades and brings forth the message of my lord. May this throat speak only truth and encouragement.

The gauntlets. To protect the hands that carry out the will of the lord. May these hands work always for the lord and people.

The tabard. To represent my family and lord. To show who I am and who I serve. To show from where I hail and where I protect. For honour is all, without which we are lost.

For as this armour protects, so too do I. Joined as one with a common goal.

This I swear.

It was just a crystal.

The first man to find it killed his friend for it, but died when the mine collapsed. The excavators fought with words, and though no blood was spilt, bonds were irreparably damaged.

Dug from a mine, the founders crushed in the collapse. Two for one. Grievingly sold to a merchant for a steal. Daylight robbery. Traded with a highwayman for a knife in the back. Another bargain.

It was just a crystal.

Found by hunters before its owner found the noose. Traded as bribes for laws broken by the law men. Taken by the jailor for himself, then by his wife as she ran.

It was just a crystal.

Found by a nobleman, the wife-less crystal entered royalty. A gift for a hand, both entered unto the crown. Royal blood to join the rest.

It was just a crystal.

A visiting ally, stolen in the dead of night. A thousand ships, ten years, countless lives, and buried in the grave of a city. Again.

It was just a crystal.

(Getting the talisman. Knowing it is a weakness they can exploit.)

(Continued from Witches)

The pack was split but the quarry had changed. While before the hands had been grasping wildly as reconnaissance, we now had a goal; a prize to grab with both hands and be pulled to salvation from this witch’s curse.

The bear-horse bleeder with the Eyes of the Hag was our salvation. A weapon used against us that could be turned against her.

I gave orders. The fingers closed tight around me as we readied for a strike. My position as First had been set for these decisions I had made, but the strength of my pack had been the muscle carrying those decisions to fruition.

We struck as one, the spears leading as javelins were thrown from the rear. My axe was heavy with the weight of responsibility, of what must be done and what was required. For if we are to survive, the sheep must slay the lion.

The creature was huge, its arms each the size of my comrades, but we pressed on. The vast reach of its limbs was equal to the length of our spears, but its strength was unmatched. This hunt would only end in the deaths of many. The spears could merely hold it back until our own strength could be brought to bear.

With only the sound of loud breathing, the Hand of the Hunt struggled with their own assailants, the hound-cat bleeders silent and nimble. Darting past the Hand’s spears and axes, they slashed at the pack and proved the worthiness of their titles. As blood fled from the Hand’s bodies, so too did their strength; the hound-cats working to weaken their prey before the final strike.

Though command was split, both hands heeded my brayed orders, the equal First ceding to experience. Shots were called and after a lucky javelin, one hamstrung hound-cat fell, with the Hand of the Hunt moving to secure the quarry. The hulking beast called commands of its own, and the remaining hound-cat bled back into the cloying haze as its brother whimpered and bled before its heads were culled.

The added strength of the second hand gave us courage, but the knowing twinkle of the beast's eyes gave us pause. It goaded us, calling us in, challenging us to take it on. Its loud roars were gone, now only a soft growl broke the silence of the forest. Fearing the return of the missing bleeder, I called for the hands to close once more.

Mighty arms swung forward, shattering the spears of my Hand and knocking them back. Deep wounds gouged into those arms, but the creature fought in a fury. Arms snatched flailing limbs and its many heads tore them apart. Two fingers of my Hand were lost but we pressed on. The orders were clear and we knew this was glory or death. Distant cries of the waiting hound-cat reminded us of the perils of retreat.

The creature turned from the grisly mess of my comrades and charged once more. Javelins struck at its face, but the charge met the Hands once more. Spears slashed its body as the bearers were mauled but its arms. The axes moved as the injured retreated. Heavy axes bit deep and blood flowed from dozens of wounds on the bleeder. Even so, the thing pressed on, its fury and size indomitable.

Suddenly, those in the back cried out. The returning hound-cat had leapt upon one as the other broke and fled. Courage deserting the younger fighter as the reality of the fight was unleashed. Left to a single Hand, the mission’s doom seemed near. The cries of the wounded harmonising the growls of the bleeders.

I gave orders. The plan was set. The fingers closed tight around me as we readied for a strike. My position as First had been set for these decisions I had made, but the strength of my pack had been the muscle carrying those decisions to fruition.

We struck as one, the spears leading as javelins were thrown from the rear. My axe was heavy with the weight of responsibility, of what must be done and what was required. For if we are to survive, the sheep must slay the lion.

The creature was huge, its arms each the size of my comrades, but we pressed on. The vast reach of its limbs was equal to the length of our spears, but its strength was unmatched. Its roar shook the trees as it met our charge. This hunt would only end in the deaths of many.

The Hand of the Hunt struggled with their own assailants, the hound-cat bleeders silent and nimble. Darting past the Hand’s spears and axes, the bleeders slashed at the pack and showed the worthiness of their title. It seemed my Hand would carry out the plan alone.

As our charge met the Beast, its mighty arms swung forward, splintering the spears of my Hand and knocking them back. Deep wounds gouged into those arms, but the creature fought in a fury. Arms snatched flailing limbs and the Beast's many heads tore them apart. The orders were clear and we knew this was glory or death.

The creature turned from the grisly mess of my comrade and roared a challenge. Javelins struck at its face, covering us as we stepped close. The spear slashed its body and our heavy axes bit deep. Blood flowed from its many wounds but the thing pressed on, its fury and size indomitable.

Lashing out, the creature drove us back. A claw scored a deep wound across my shoulder and another sent the axe-bearer reeling. We were pushed back to the javelin-bearer as the last was thrown.

The courage of the pack faltered, our weapons and momentum spent. With hope fading, the twinkle of our salvation echoed once more and my resolve was steeled. The plan must hold. No matter what, the plan must hold. I knew what must be done.

The axe was heavy in my hands. I knew what must be done.

The plan must hold.

We had our goal and I would see it through.

The plan must hold.

With leaping bounds, I charged forward. Shouting commands, I brought my axe to bear. Knowing the cost of failure, this seemed a bargain. As I neared, the bear-horse’s eyes met mine, the intelligent twinkling revealing an understanding of my plan, and for but a moment, fear.

With a terrific leap, I soared into the air. With a terrible roar, the beast tried to stop me. With an awesome swing, I brought the axe crashing down. With an awful crunch, the bear bit off my leg.

Landing painfully upon its back, I swung once more. It spun and tried to claw me, but I held firm, my fury finally matching hers. Again and again, she tried to grab me, but so too did I strike, again and again, the chain that bound her to the creature.

At last, with a roar, a claw snagged my remaining leg and pulled me from her back. Dangling in front of her, she went to end me, but a hermit like her knew not of the pack.

With mighty roars, my comrades too landed upon the beast, striking the chain as I had been. Their assailants dealt with, they needed no orders to act. For the pack had long been united under my command and my command was simple.

The plan must hold.

As the chain shattered and fell from the beast, so too did I fall from its embrace. The magical feedback of the lost possession stunned the creature for but a moment but enough for me.

Snatching the Cursed amulet, I gave the order they dreaded to hear. Those who could run would return our salvation to our people. Those who could not would ensure their escape.

The plan must hold.

(Idea is either the perspectives of the beastmen meeting the statue witch, or somebody else deling with her. I want to frame it in a way that the protagonist and antagonist are clear but good/bad are vague)

Or else a woman being burned for “being a witch” but not really and is saved by angels

The witch lived in a hovel deep within the woods. They said she was just like any other witch. She was going to drive us out if we didn’t drive her out. They said we had to do it ourselves, as they had their own problems with an encroaching Lord and his Hunters.

Our woods.

Our witch.

Our problem.

She had her screamers and her bleeders. The stones and totems dotted around her self-appointed borders within ours with a voice that seemed to scream from inside your head, and the cruel abhorrents; evil beasts that seemed to be made of many once fair beasts melded into one cruel and snarling abomination. Dog heads, horse hooves, bird wings. The corrupt cocktail she mixed as she desired. An affront to nature, just like her.

But our bodies were strong, our minds stronger, and our spirit stronger still.

She came with a storm but that too had been her downfall. Where her powers had thrown us back, so too had it thrown us forward. The violent demise of a once great oak had shattered one of her screamers and left an open wound into which her domain could be approached. We led a party through the path carved by this righteous blow.

The first through the breach was the one deserving the glory. River-Leaper had found the path and as such had earned that right. Though I was the First of the Pack, he acted as my equal, First of the Hunt.

Following swiftly on his heels, we still felt the buzz as the distant screamers tried to halt our progress, unknowing of their fellow’s demise but wishing for ours nonetheless. The presence of the witch was keenly felt, with strange, foreign plants infesting our once proud glades and groves, choking the life from the native species within their unfamiliar, unnatural haze.

As the wail of the screamers faded, so too did the sounds of other life. No birds nor insects dared to enter this accursed realm, driven as were we by the hag. Though unnerved, we took heart for this boon to ease the warnings of bleeder approach.

Which they did.

A keening cry called warning and the pack prepared, javelins drawn and blades readied. Eyes trained to see the slightest movement within the unholy haze of the forsaken realm. Though experienced hunters, each of the pack knew that role reversed this day. The entrance detected, the guardhounds had been released to improve the speed of our exit.

The First of the Hunt truly earned his place that day as he made first sighting and directed the offensive. Breaking formation, he led a hand into the haze to draw first blood, as my hand stayed coiled, ready to strike. Fingers splayed, they charged fast into the apparent beast and into the waiting claws.

Abominations of amalgamation emerged from the haze. A cursed set of four bleeders set upon our outstretched hand, exploiting the separation of the pack. The Hand of the Hunt halted their charge, surrounded by the appearance of their new foes. Though not outnumbered, the Hand appeared outmanoeuvred. The fingers closed into a tight fist as the jaws of the trap closed.

We struck as one, both fists crushing the intervening bleeder. The trick hand hammered into our supporting anvil. The bleeder roared and brayed as we severed its goat and lion heads, though a flailing snake tail wounded one of my own fingers before it was removed in a third shower of gore.

Though surprised at the trap reversal, bleeders recover quickly. Our momentum spent, the fists aligned into a spiky hedge, with spears holding the creatures at bay. Up close, the others could be clearly seen. The pair with cats paws and dogs heads had clearly aided in their tracking but the fourth was a beast of immense size. A horse’s body and bear arms shattered our thorns and sent our fingers reeling. My men rallied around me as the Hand of the Hunt was surrounded once more.

Our misdirection spent, the larger beast split the pack as the hound-cats harried the other Hand. Though the fist held tight, the claws and jaws had left their marks upon our matching pair. The great bear-horse reared up before us showing us rippling muscle, but also the strange twinkling of a talisman that was echoed in its eyes.

The eyes of the witch.

TO BE CONTINUED

I hadn’t seen them in so long

But they looked just the same.

I hadn’t thought of it for years

But quickly said their name.

The corner of my eye so clear

Saw through the city haze.

It left me stood, like headlight deer,

Enveloped in their gaze.

Light pleasantries, of course, were said.

The standard updates. Who was wed.

But like old times, back then, so far.

Talk just flowed. Unbidden. Unbarred.

Though long apart, it dampened naught.

We were still matched, in mood and thought.

Of course, alas, as treasures are.

By seekers we were found.

Our daily lives, our hectic roles

By which our souls were bound.

Like ships astern or coins once spent,

We went separate ways.

Vague promises, of course, were made.

Dinner. Some time. Someday.

But though it has since been quite some time,

We’ll meet again, good friend of mine.

The golden leaves fell like the coins they needed. A fruitful summer for many but quiet for the hunters. No news is good news, but not when bad news is business.

"I bet we have two weeks to find a job before we starve." Davren grumbled to nobody in particular. "Four mouths to feed and that one eats more than the horses"

He glared at the blindfolded warrior, knowing or hoping the gaze was felt, though the statue showed no signs.

"How about a job picking apples? That's food and a job in one."

Davren turned his deadly glare to Aiyri.

"If I was interested in honest work, I would be rotting in one of the villages we worked in, like the rest of those boring peasants!"

The Little girl made a noise

I am the watcher of the woods.

I watch them as they grow.

I am the watcher in the woods.

I watch though they don't know.

I was the watcher for the woods.

They trusted it to me.

I was the watcher on the woods.

Up high they couldn't see.

The watcher, I, among the woods,

Protected this great land.

The watcher, I, across the woods,

Stretched my protective hand.

As watcher, I, within the woods,

Could not escape my post.

As watcher, I, beside the woods,

Just hid as it approached.

Long watcher, I, from my woods,

Had done my job so well.

Long watcher, I, like my woods,

Stood with them as they fell.

Her cold eyes stared at him in silence.

“So can we cure her?”, Aiyri eventually asked.

Davren shrugged.

"Not with your potions, but we might not have to kill her. The spirit or whatever that's causing the ravens just seems to have taken a liking to her. If we get it to leave her alone, she'll go back to being a normal girl."

"A normal girl with dead parents living in a village that's terrified of her."

"Yes, of course. Thanks for the correction, Aiyri."

The figure in the corner spoke up.

"And if we just kill her?"

A hulk of a man, he'd been so still and quiet that the others had been ignoring him. A strip of cloth covering his eyes ensured that they weren't certain whether he was even awake. Even though he spoke, they still weren't.

"My best guess is we'd see one of two things. The first is that she'd die, we'd be horrible people, but the ravens would leave and the town would be safe and happy, but we'd be hated slightly more than usual."

Davren paused.

"The second is that the spirit is only enraged and the ravens begin attacking us and likely the townspeople, meaning we'd be horrible people that killed an orphan, set the curse upon the village, and worst of all, we wouldn't be paid."

The figure grunted.

"No good then."

"Depends on how much we need the money" Aiyri interjected. "We've been doing well so far. We could just cut our losses, cut her throat, and be done with it all..."

"Cut her throat? Aiyri! So barbaric!" Davren feigned shock in an exaggerated manner. "We have you. We could just poison her and be gone before they even know what happened."

There was a knock on the door.

The boy was paler than Davren remembered as he stood before the open door. The boy gave a slight croak.

"Food?" Davren prompted enthusiastically. "Perfect! Killing children builds up such an appetite!"

He gave the boy a wink and ruffled his hair before skipping down the corridor.

Aiyri considered giving the boy an explanation, but decided it wasn't worth it. Their reputation had proceeded them and it might do them well to live up to their expectations. Her real worry was how it would affect the payment. As an alchemist following Hunters, she usually got her share of the reward, but they kept their finances separate. A small town like this probably didn't have the money to be worth it.

*

"So we're just wandering the woods until we find it?" Aiyri grumbled as she stomped through the undergrowth.

"Not at all!" Davren replied as he skipped over an errant tree root. "We're looking for the shrine or remnant. Something to contact the spirit or find its anchor to this place."

"And what does this anchor look like? I doubt it's a seafaring Raven god."

"It's not a god. It's a spirit. Maybe a Gami, or a Dinna-sheethe. Care for a wager?"

"I don't even know what those are, or what the anchor is. What am I looking for?"

He paused. "Not sure... but we'll know the remnant when we see it!"

"So until then we just wander... like I said."

"We don't wander. We stride with purpose!"

Aiyri’s narrowed gaze bored holes in his back as he strode ahead.

"I hope this spirit pecks your eyes out."

Ravens covered every limb of the tree. Inky eyes watched their every move from their perches above. A large hole in the side of the tree was filled with moss and an assortment of shiny objects, reflecting the setting sun. The watchers cawed ominously.

"Is this it?"

"Probably."

Aiyri turned to Davren, mouth agape.

"Was that... a simple yes? Has the spirit addled your mind?"

"That was obvious bait. Let's hope this isn't."

They approached the hole in the tree carefully. Peering inside, they saw an assortment of junk. Rocks, rusted nails, dirty fabrics, four copper coins, some small animal skulls, and some dirty green glass beads from a bracelet. Nestled behind the pile of junk was what seemed to be a human skull. Aiyri gestured towards it.

"Alright, genius. What do we do with the anchor"

"Well a remnant is usually a treasure or a corpse. We have a skull so it's probably that. The bracelet's pretty suspicious though."

"So do we ask it to stop? 'Excuse me, Mr. Raven God. Would you ever be so kind as to leave the poor little girl alone?'"

"Worth a shot."

"How will we know if it works?"

"Go back and wait?"

"Any other plan?"

"Drop the bomb and leg it?"

Aiyri smiled gleefully.

"My favourite kind of plan!"

After leaving their offering, the pair walked quickly away from the shrine. As the hiss from the tree grew higher in pitch, the pair broke into a run. The sinking sun gave little light as they bounded through the forest, hopping over stones and roots. The resounding boom was followed by the sounds of ravens. Neither of the two wanted to check if a murder lived up to its name.

*

The sun had fallen below the horizon as the pair arrived back in town. Hoods and scarves covered their faces. They had taken their cloaks out from their packs and were wrapped around them despite the mild weather. Crows still covered every building and watched them with interest. They'd been warned to return incognito. Crows are smart and if the spirit wasn't gone, it'd want revenge. They'd seen what it could do.

He was waiting at the door of the inn. He still wore his blindfold but he nodded as they approached. The shutters were closed and the building looked as close to a fortress as it ever would. He knocked on the door as they neared and ushered them inside.

"Did it work?" The innkeeper asked, worried either for the girl or for his lost profits.

"Not sure" Davren replied. "I think the crows would be gone if it had."

"Bomb?" The blindfolded figure grunted.

"Bomb!" Aiyri responded cheerfully.

The figure sighed and walked away.

"What now?" The innkeeper pleaded.

"Plan B?" suggested Aiyri.

"Plan B was the bomb. B for bomb." Davren corrected. "We're on plan C. C for kill"

The innkeeper gasped. Aiyri was similarly disgusted at his illiteracy.

The innkeeper had pleaded with them not to do it as they walked towards her room. She still wasn't sure if he was worried about the death or the bloodstains. He'd eventually conceded when Aiyri had suggested an Instant Death potion. The fact that both of her companions had their weapons drawn had been another incentive. She still wasn't sure if he cared more about his own safety or the bloodstains. They walked straight to the girls room, where the figure handed her the potion.

She was sitting alone inside, on a chair beside the bed. A candle burned beside her. She toyed with a dirty green glass bracelet. She didn't look up when they came in. Aiyri didn't know if the girl knew what was going to happen but she seemed to know something was going to happen. The room seemed much smaller once the three of them crowded inside with her. She seemed smaller still. Even so, she stared at the bracelet. Her hair hung loose around her head, shielding her face from their gaze. Davren cleared his throat.

"We have a potion for you. We're pretty sure it... This will sort everything out."

The room was silent for a moment. The crows could be heard outside. He glanced at the other two.

"What will happen?" She asked suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Nothing to worry about. Nasty taste but you'll just fall asleep and everything will sort itself out."

"Perfectly safe" Aiyri added softly.

The figure grunted.

"I..." The girl started to shake gently. Tears fell onto her hands.

Both men studied the walls as Aiyri bent down close beside her.

"It will be fine. I promise."

The girl looked up at her, her tear-stained face wet with fresh arrivals. "I don't want to die."

With both men fascinated with the intricate woodwork of the walls, Aiyri knelt down beside her.

"That makes three of us. Drink up and don't worry about a thing."

"I just-" She sniffed softly and let out a ragged breath. "I shared some scraps. I didn't know!"

"Drink up and we might talk about it later"

"I didn't know!" She began to wail.

The sound of wings fluttered against the shutters and the crows could be heard from outside.

Aiyri pushed the vial against the girl's lips and poured it down her throat. She sputtered softly for a second, terror in her eyes, before falling limp. Aiyri caught her falling body and lay her on the bed.

The sound of the birds died down.

The men left the room but Aiyri stayed.

*

The townsfolk didn't want to pay up. They'd argued that the deal was for them to dispel the curse and that they'd never asked for her to be killed. Davren had expected as much. After being told that the birds would remain unless her body was disposed of properly, they eventually conceded a lesser amount. After the charges for the inn, including the girl's fees, they had been left with a third of what was promised. More than usual. They secreted the body from the inn that very night to head north, towards the river where Davren said she must be buried.

Aiyri and the figure drove the cart while Davren sat in the back with the gear and the little girl. She was wrapped heavily in blankets, but Davren has left her face visible. Davren thought she could be merely sleeping. Resting in the back of the cart as they travelled north towards their paused contract. She looked for all the world as though she were wrapped up in blankets and taking a nap. Except for one thing.

Her cold eyes stared at him in silence.

"I don't know why."

She was small. Fragile. Delicate. Timid. She looked weak. Something that couldn't stand anything more than a light breeze. But Davren knew she was anything but weak.

"They just follow me."

The farmer said they found her a few nights before in the woods nearby. Clothes torn, she was stumbling through the undergrowth making enough noise to wake the village. She'd stopped crying, but when they got to her she started up again.

"I asked them to go away."

She lived on the outskirts. Her father was a trapper and her mother was the skinner. They'd come in to sell, but mostly kept to themselves. Friendly people, just not close. Distant neighbours. Only moved here a few years ago after .

"They don't listen."

He hadn't seen their home but he'd heard. Small farm with a skinning hut and a smokehouse. And a smoking house, unfortunately. The villagers said it was probably a rogue band of Orcs, or else it was Bandits pretending to be. Neither one had any reason to be in the area. The burnt house destroyed most of the evidence and the ravens hadn't left much else to be identified. To shreds, they said.

"I never thought they'd do that!"

She said they'd come in the night. She didn't see but she heard her father shouting. Her mother had pushed her out a window but didn't get the chance to follow. One of them did instead and would have gotten if her friends hadn't intervened. After that she says she only remembers running.

"Okay. I understand.".

Davren held up a hand. He'd heard all of this a dozen times since he'd sat down.

"Let's go back to the beginning, so. When did they start following you?"

The girl stared at her feet.

"Last year."

Davren said nothing. She continued.

"We'd leave out scraps. The meat we didn't want. I'd feed them and they'd bring me gifts. Rocks and stuff."

She looked at Davren. He said nothing. She shrugged.

"I don't know. They started following me after that. Waiting in nearby trees or on the house and stuff. They just wanted me to give them more food and stuff."

"Had you ever seen that many before?" He asked.

"No. I didn't even know there were that many. There were hundreds. Thousands. It was dark but I know they were everywhere."

Davren paused in thought. After a moment he cleared his throat and scratched his chin. A moment later, he heard a knock on the door. A young boy poked his head in.

"A question for you outside, sir."

After a quick and polite goodbye, he left the little girl in her room. She was being kept in a bedroom in the inn while the villagers decided what to do with her. The innkeeper wasn't happy about the loss of a room, but the lack of other guests had shut down any argument. In fact, the only other guests were Davren and his companions, and she was the only reason they were even there.

Davren gave the boy an extra copper for catching his signal quickly before turning back to his room. He'd been talking to her for over an hour and felt he had enough to discuss what was to be done. They had been on a contract in another village a few hours away when they'd been asked to come. They'd taken the brief detour.

The villagers had offered money to slay her. Money to kill the monster. They always said yes, the only part of the answer that ever changed was the price. That's what they did, after all. They slew monsters for money. Kept the people safe. They were afraid of her. She was afraid of them. Nothing new. Davren was just checking which one was the monster.

Sure, they'd asked if she could be "cured" first, but the implication was clear. They wanted the curse gone and they didn't care too much about the details. She was only a distant neighbour. They'd have sent her to the other villages if they hadn't already heard the news. At least they sent their sympathies and other well-wishes. More to the villagers than the cursed little girl.

TO BE CONTINUED

The soldiers looked at eachother across the empty space. Though neither knew the other, they both knew the other must die. No emotions fuelled their fight but that of pride in their loyalty. There was no anger towards the opponent, no aggression or ill will. Each only had emotion towards their masters. A level of affection that wouldn't be upset to be called love. A love that called for death.

The soldier in yellow moved first. His yellow sash was tied around his shoulders and worked to both represent his master and to hold tight his garments. Sheathed daggers lay tight against his back, and the yellow tassel of his honour blade guarded his forward leg. His blade, five spans long, was curved at the end for horseback fighting, though he had been trained on foot. He favoured a quick victory. An aggressive attack with effective results. He held his blade high, favouring the strength of a downward cut.

The soldier in blue reacted. A blue tabard reached to his knees, though his legs were set wide apart. Like his opponent, he held his blade with both hands, though his straight blade was shorter at only four spans, but with a longer hilt. The blade stayed low to the ground, tapping the sands as though setting a rhythm for the dance of blades. On his hip hung a small axe, loosely fastened for ease of access. The pair traced a circle. Blue continued tapping.

Yellow struck first. A quick dash forward and a deadly chop. Blue side-stepped and cut upwards at Yellow's hip. The curved blade met the straight, ringing like a dinner bell. Blue opened the distance, eyes watching the Yellow footwork, echoes of their dance hidden in the sand. A feint from Yellow upset the beat set by Blue. The straight blade rose but the curved blade did not fall, instead swinging from the side. With the blade out of step, the hilt was used to block the strike, a clumsy move from a novice dancer.

As Blue retreated, Yellow pressed the attack. Seeing that his opponent was out of step, he pressed the advantage. The blade swung down, barely kept at bay by the struggling fighter. Blue danced out of reach of the curved sword, but the distance was closing. A new cut in his tabard showed a particularly close step. Though Yellow tired, he pressed the advantage, knowing that his only rest would be in victory, or a likely permanent rest in defeat.

Suddenly, a failed riposte from Blue became a charge. Instead of dancing back as he always had, the straight blade pushed aside the curved and a Blue shoulder crashed into a Yellow chest, ruining the choreography. The straight blade fell as blue hands held their opponent instead. The two soldiers struggled, with Blue keeping the curved sword at bay with a firm grasp on his left wrist and an arm wrapped around his back. Both soldiers reached for the daggers strapped tightly in yellow sheathes, but each prevented the other.

Another clumsy step in the dance caused both fighters to crash to the ground. Large waves of sand were formed by kicking feet as each soldier struggled to maintain a height advantage. The finesse and grace had been lost as the fighters grappled. Brutal knees and fists replaced the skill of the blade. A grasping hand pulled loose a dagger, but was caught by the other hand. A twist and a punch and the dagger fell to the sand. With a grunt and a kick, Yellow formed some space in the fight and the soldiers struggled to their feet, panting heavily.

Pulling the second dagger from its sheath, Yellow watched as Blue retrieved his axe from its belt. The swords lay nearby, but to reach for one was to create a dangerous opening. Holding the axe low, Blue began another rhythm, tapping the wooden shaft gently. Yellow began to circle and Blue responded similarly. Fighting with new weapons, each sought to read his opponent anew. Blue set the rhythm to match the pace, and Yellow changed the pace. Knowing that he had one shot, Yellow struck.

Throwing the dagger at his opponent, he reached for his curved blade. A clatter of steel was followed by heavy footsteps. The axe struck Yellow in the side as he reached his blade and spun. His left side flared with pain but the blade more than compensated. Turning to face his opponent, Yellow stepped back into a familiar stance.

Blue was stopped just out of reach. His hands were formed into empty fists as his chest laboured with heavy breathing. Yellow matched his new rhythm with his own burning lungs. Warm blood ran down his side and he could feel his strength draining. A quick victory was necessary now more than ever.

Stepping forward, Yellow eyed his opponent. Though he was unarmed, his face betrayed nothing. Fists tightly clenched, he matched Yellow's strides. Rather than a cornered beast, he acted as though it were an even fight. Yellow raised his blade and charged.

A wall of sand met his charge as Blue countered. Yellow's vision failed for less than a second, but it was enough. Dropping low, Blue ducked under the curved blade and grasped the tassel of the honour blade. Pulling it free of its ornamental sheathe, he brought it to the throat of its owner. The ceremonial blade was unsharpened, but the point was such to ensure a painful end. The point pressed against his throat but his opponent went no further. Both fighters stood still.

A single clap rang out through the arena. Though defeated, a man in yellow silken clothing gave his praise to a worthy opponent. A noble in a blue jacket nodded politely in return, and gentle applause followed. The soldier in blue withdrew the blade and dropped it to the sand as he went to retrieve his own. The soldier in yellow looked to his master, but could not catch his eyes. A brief call from the edge of the arena signalled for him to return so that the next fight could begin. Grasping his wound, he limped towards the dark entrance.

The creature didn't know why she took it. There was nothing about it that would usually have appealed to her, but something about it caught her eye unconsciously reached for it as she stalked from the flaming farmhouse. It was dirty and cold against her chest. She didn't care. The residents had no need for it anymore, so it was hers by right. Her treasure.

It was dirty but she cleaned it. Damaged, but she fixed it. Cold, but she warmed it. Worthless, but she loved it. Each night, it watched her leave in search of prey. Each morning, it welcomed her home.

One day she returned to find no welcome. Her treasure was missing. Stolen. In a rage, she scoured the area, seeking that which was hers. Thief. On the second day, she found it. Vengeance.

She found her treasure. She found the cruel furry thief. She found her screaming prey.

From then, it no longer watched her leave, but stayed safely in its hiding place. Alone in her vault of most cherished possessions. It still welcomed her return, no longer from its perch but from its shelter, safe and waiting to be embraced. No more would anything take her treasure. She thought of any that would do so to be a monster so abhorrent and heinous that they deserved a fate worse than she could give them, but she would try.

One day she returned but did not embrace her treasure. Instead of her usual triumphant parade or defeated plodding, she staggered in. Blood ran from a deep wound in her side. Her warm, welcoming cries were replaced by whimpers. Though she limped to her precious comfort, a sound made her turn. A feeble cry escaped her lips.

At the entrance stood a silhouette. Framed by the light of the moon, the metal in its hand glinted. The weapon glistened with her blood. The creature knew she couldn't win. She hadn't come here to fight. She hadn't come here to flee. She hadn't come here to hide. She was here to say goodbye.

*

The fight was brief. A trained hunter against an injured quarry has a predictable outcome. The proof was in the sack, but before leaving, something caught the hunter's eye. In the back, where she had been found, was a hollow. A gap no bigger than her severed head. Something lay inside, seemingly disturbed when he had arrived, spoiling the secrecy of its cover.

Reaching inside, the treasure was revealed. Dirty, broken, cold, and wet, it slumped in his hands. Worthless to anything with a brain. He threw it beside the body. Waste with waste. They both deserved to rot. It landed on her body as it lay sprawled upon the ground. A final kick flipped the body, causing them both to tumble away.

As they came to a stop, creature's arms seemed to wrap around the object, holding it close to its chest. The hunter looked at the pair for a moment before spitting and dragging away the sack filled with his own treasure.