undeadrat
New Member
He had spent almost ten months on this witch-hunt. Rumour had it that she was hiding as a poor maid in the village of Annewaid, in which he had toiled for a good long while before another whisper reached his ears of her new hideaway in Old Butteville - this time as a beggar. And there was the time she was spotted off the coast as a miracle worker for old fishermen… and so on it went, aimlessly chasing words like a dog chasing the flavoured steam from a village sacrifice until finally, finally, he had caught sight of her in Lyshire. The sight of her had made him faint, despite having had a whole ten years to steep his hatred of her and his desire, his resolve to rid the world of all those who had once lived in his coven. He’d been overcome by the memories of her cruel, wan smile. That rich voice which seemed so at odds with the words it had read out to him. Her piercing green eyes - the telltale sign of a witch.
He himself did not possess any of these qualities save perhaps the cruelty with which he fueled his vengeful deeds - fantasy, at first, before his purchase of the culverin. He still remembered his first kill… he’d poisoned her to begin with. A little powdered blacked root in her bread and when he found her still staggering around the following morning, a little help from his iron-fed culverin had finished the job. What had first started out as a mistake had now turned into tradition. Poison the witch, shoot the witch. Poison the witch, shoot the witch. Poison the witch, shoot the witch. It was a mantra he could follow rather easily and one he'd followed five times - and if tonight went well, six. In his dreams, he could still smell the acrid smoke mixed with the metallic tang seeping from their bodies. A wonderful smell, no, a wonderful taste. Something he’d never forget and with luck, something he’d soon experience once again.
It was close to midnight now and the moon had hid Herself away in the dark, as if she knew of the upcoming violence. He’d done his moon-tracking well. With this light, his target would have no idea of his coming. He waited in the cold wind, loaded culverin in hand, for the witch Leanne to come bypass the magical circle that hid her little hideout from the rest of the world. It were times like these where his hatred for witches grew stronger… little moments where just a pinch of magic would come in handy. Magic that was denied to him. It was good in a way to feel this hatred. It’d push him past the point of revulsion and enable him to pull the trigger. Soon, he thought. If she stuck to her schedule that he’d been noting, she’d be walking off the path and into the forest in about five minutes.
He himself did not possess any of these qualities save perhaps the cruelty with which he fueled his vengeful deeds - fantasy, at first, before his purchase of the culverin. He still remembered his first kill… he’d poisoned her to begin with. A little powdered blacked root in her bread and when he found her still staggering around the following morning, a little help from his iron-fed culverin had finished the job. What had first started out as a mistake had now turned into tradition. Poison the witch, shoot the witch. Poison the witch, shoot the witch. Poison the witch, shoot the witch. It was a mantra he could follow rather easily and one he'd followed five times - and if tonight went well, six. In his dreams, he could still smell the acrid smoke mixed with the metallic tang seeping from their bodies. A wonderful smell, no, a wonderful taste. Something he’d never forget and with luck, something he’d soon experience once again.
It was close to midnight now and the moon had hid Herself away in the dark, as if she knew of the upcoming violence. He’d done his moon-tracking well. With this light, his target would have no idea of his coming. He waited in the cold wind, loaded culverin in hand, for the witch Leanne to come bypass the magical circle that hid her little hideout from the rest of the world. It were times like these where his hatred for witches grew stronger… little moments where just a pinch of magic would come in handy. Magic that was denied to him. It was good in a way to feel this hatred. It’d push him past the point of revulsion and enable him to pull the trigger. Soon, he thought. If she stuck to her schedule that he’d been noting, she’d be walking off the path and into the forest in about five minutes.
