Fantasy Terrorchild: Lythrefang Induction

[K0mori]

​

You almost felt the scattered inklings of your feverish imagination forming a dream when the bouncing of the wagon wheels against the poorly-cobbled road brought you back to lucidity. It was cold outside, very cold, and you were tightly wrapped in a blanket fashioned from furs. The wagon was partially covered, but there was moisture penetrating through from the melting snow and it was beginning to irritate your bare feet. You let out a cough and a gag, and began to taste the berry juice on your tongue and numbed lips again- bitter. Horridly, horridly bitter. A hand dropped down and covered your mouth as a woman, unseen until now (as she was clad entirely in black and sitting atop a wooden bench within the wagon above you), quietly shushed you, and all the fear you had felt hours earlier came rushing back. Your urge to scream for help was tempered by the immediate threat of a swift death.
It had all happened so quickly. It was only yesterday that you were standing in the market square and felt the presence of magi for the first time. Rocco, a braggart of a young man from the far southern reaches of the continent, where desert turned to orc land, had come around that morning with his exotic meats and spices and was practically mobbed by the township all at once. They all wanted what he had to offer, whereas you, the little peasant girl with nothing to offer but the garden vegetables from your father's lot, struggled to be heard or seen. You carried it all on your back and in your arms... a burden for sure, but nothing compared to the indignity of being ignored, shoved, and even openly mocked. These people, the merchants, felt nothing but contempt for the very people whose labors they relied upon, and hated to share their spaces with the farmers and their wretched children.
Nevertheless, your family needed coin to pay the annual due to Lord Aelfred for his protection. The days were growing shorter, the weather colder, and soon there would be nothing to harvest or sell until the spring. Your family had fallen short once or twice before, and the militia captain had sent his recruits to intimidate your father as they made their rounds, shaking down half the village of Byrewood it seemed, until they had been sure that all would repay their debt. You had seen the way they treated him, humiliated him, and felt a deep, deep darkness in your heart that never quite went away. How, if the Gods judge all in the end, do these people expect to reach paradise?
Is there even such a thing?
You still agonized over it. The holy men liked to reassure you that the trials of this world would be so outweighed by the rewards of Heaven that you would scarcely even remember them. But how could you forget when they'd also say that the same nobles and merchants who degraded you in this life would be bumping elbows with you in the next?
And then, inevitably, you'd think of your sister.
Your household was a crowded one. Father, mother, three sisters, five brothers. They said you were fortunate to have so many brothers, as there were more hands to handle the land. You, the second of three daughters, would be "free" to do the washing and cleaning, and later, the cooking, for your crowded house before being swept away by whichever village boy whose father happened to have the most to offer for your hand in marriage, and then you would give him eight or so children to set to work before resuming your womanly duties unto infirmary and death. Your sister - the older one - got up one night and disappeared, and changed your world forever.
She was a teenager, and you were on the cusp. She crept out of your shared bed, inadvertently waking you, and donned a heavy coat as if she planned to travel a long way. She saw the gleam in your eyes - there were no words, as they would have awoken the entire family - but she smiled, and you know because you remember her teeth in the dark. Somehow you knew she was never coming back, and you didn't try to stop her. She was escaping. And when she ducked out the door without a sound, a part of you escaped with her and left hope behind in your heart. You didn't know how, but there must have been another choice. There must have been a different world that one could run to, to rewrite their destiny apart from the crushing anonymity of this existence. You didn't know she was heading to the bonfire, to the induction. You didn't know what they would ask of her.
And now they say she's burning in Hell.
About four years had passed, but it felt like much longer. In fact, it almost felt like the month between your sister's disappearance and her death marked the halfway point of your sixteen years. Sometimes it felt like you died with her, burned on that cross with her, and everything since has been a slow ascension to something more meaningful than the endless grind into obscurity and death. But whether that something would come from within or without was never clear, and now here you stood, nearly as old as she was, and you hadn't changed a thing. It ate at you.
A well-dressed man crashed into you yesterday. He caused you to drop an entire basket of tomatoes and didn't so much as turn or offer his hand as he moved along, heading toward the crowd surrounding Rocco and his valuable wares. You scrambled to collect them, and another merchant stepped on your hand, causing you to cry out in agony. He turned, and with a smirk only a lifetime of privilege and pampering could muster, told you "don't bother picking them up, sweetheart. Nobody here eats food off the ground."
And that's when you finally broke loose. "It all comes from the ground, you asshole!" you cursed him. Your heart was pounding like a drum in your chest, that dark shadow residing within creeping out, taking hold. "What are you, angels? Too pure for the bounty of the land!? How about you share some ambrosia sometime to replace my father's tomatoes that you're stepping all over-"
The slap came so swift and smoothly that the "crack" of his hand against your cheek was louder than Rocco's sales pitch. Your head whipped to the side so that you had to catch yourself to stop from tumbling over into the muck of the street entirely, and you froze there, unable to process what had happened for several seconds. But the people around you carried on as if nothing had happened. By the time you turned to face the man who assaulted you, he had already walked away, having taken the only thing he could possibly have extracted from such a desolate soul: satisfaction. He couldn't take your dignity because, simply put, you had none, and you knew that it would never change unless you made it change. The heartbeat kept up and the darkness kept creeping, and you could see the blue satin shimmer of the back of the man's coat. If a man like that was bound for Heaven...
Your place was in Hell with your sister.
You pushed yourself off the ground, dropping a few of your goods in the process, and began to push your way through the crowd, eyes sewn on that patch of cerulean, totally unsure of what you were about to do, but utterly certain that you would see it done. The darkness in your blood began to feel like energy, like a muscle twitching, waiting to be flexed in a tremendous show of power. You imagined hurting him. You imagined killing him. As you closed in he seemed to stoop, and then you lashed out and grabbed him by his shoulder, violently pulling him around so that you could look him in the eye. With one balled fist hanging in the air, you hesitated, as now you could see the mixture of pain and fear on the lines of his face, and a shadow closing in around his eyes like smudged charcoal. He let out a gasp and a terrified groan, clutching at his chest, and then collapsed dead in the middle of the market.
The people erupted into a panic, scrambling, fighting, clawing, all to get away from you. You and your victim stood alone in the middle of the plaza, and you remained there for some time wondering whether the church would send along their clerics and apprehend you, the same way they captured your sister, before you simply decided to run. You ran and ran from the scene, feeling numb to the situation. You didn't try to rationalize the fact that you were a witch and had never been one before this point, but you simply were. You were a witch, and as your first magical act you murdered a man for slapping you. The sound of hooves on the cobblestones echoed from the distance, as if they were right on the other side of the rows of houses on your left, or right around the corner, but you kept up your pace, too determined to think about your own breathing, until at last you found yourself at the town walls, where a pair of guardsmen held out their spears and warned you to stop.
You hoped they would simply drop dead, like the merchant you killed before, but they stood fast. You would later learn it was because it takes more than hope, it takes malice and intent. Instead, as you came near, a murder of crows dropped from the air and began to peck at the two men relentlessly, and somehow you burst through unscathed before darting for the tree line. Just a bit further, you thought as you crashed through the brush and shallow snow, your legs feeling heavier and heavier as you went, the cold air burning in your chest, nose, and throat. Just a bit further...
The ground suddenly fell out from under you. A sharp slope you hadn't seen behind the trees caught you unprepared and you tumbled down the hill, crashing over the exposed roots of trees and small rocks until you came to rest under a huge, thorny bush at the side of a burbling stream. You laid there, gasping for air until you could breathe quietly, and then breathing quietly until you could hold your breath, and there you waited for hours as patrol after patrol rode out of the gates in search of you.
A witch hunt. Wickham Township's first witch hunt in four years.
Now it felt surreal. Now you had time to think of what you had done. Did I invoke her spirit? you found yourself thinking, or were we both destined to be this way? There was no way around it now, there was no going back to the farm in Byrewood. Your old life, the one you hated, was gone. But what would replace it? Where would you go? How would you live, knowing what great power was at your fingertips? Slow down, think, you told yourself. It was one thing to suddenly discover your own magical prowess in the most disturbing way imaginable, but what did it even mean?
Magi is not uncommon in your world. However, it's important to note that there are two kinds. There's the good kind, the positive kind that reverberates from all living things- the magic of life itself. With the proper attuning, anyone can learn how to influence it, and eventually harness it, for the purpose of restoring balance and the natural order. That's what the clerics do for the church, by removing curses, curing diseases, and easing pains. Then, there's the shadow of life: dark magi. No one knows from where it comes, but its influence is malignant and abhors the natural order. Nobody can simply "learn" it, but there are plenty who are sensitive, mainly women. It's so rare to find a male dark magician that they created a word for them: warlocks. You, however, are what most people imagine when they picture a dark magi user, and that is a witch.
There was a crinkling of leaves nearby, and you cautiously peeked in that direction to find a slender pair of boots approaching you directly. Panic struck you, but you remained still, until their owner lifted the edge of the bush and revealed herself to be a woman in her mid-twenties. She gave a relieved sigh when the two of you met gazes and simply said "marvelous," before crawling under the bush with you. There, close enough to whisper in your ear, she said, "I helped you escape before, but we have to keep moving. You're hurt; I can see the blood on your clothes. I want you to drink this," she said, and she slipped a small tincture into your hand that contained an odd, purplish fluid. "It'll help, trust me," she said.
You downed the fluid in one gulp, and found that it tasted sweet and yet horrid, like poisonous berries. And that was quite an appropriate thought, because that's exactly what it was. Before you knew you had been poisoned, she whispered, "I'll be back with a horse, and we'll ride to a safe place together. It's good to meet you, sister. Show no mercy, and let Martazul bless you..." She then departed, leaving you with a terrible realization of exactly whose attention you had gained.
Martazul... the goddess of the Lythrefang Coven. You weren't just rescued by any old witch, you were being rescued - and recruited - by those witches.
Filled with dread, you waited there, realizing slowly that your lips were becoming numb and your chest was beginning to burn. Whatever she had given you was not meant for healing. Fear was building in you, but your strength was leaving you. This life, this vague idea of freedom that you so readily grasped, was now frightening you to your very core. You weren't ready for this, not by any stretch of the imagination. You weren't ready to be brought into that coven. Just as you considered running again, a weakness flooded into your limbs and your world began to spin, and you entered into a restless sleep...
[Choose your race:]
1. Human: You're a member of the majority, an occupant of these middle kingdoms. You may not be special, but this region has been tailored to your needs.
2. Elf: You're an immigrant from the east, accustomed to the deep woods but forced to live among this world of stone.
3. Gnome: Eternally childlike in appearance, you're a member of a minority race from the western coastlines. Many find you difficult to take seriously.
4. Drow: Dark and moody-looking, you carry an ancient curse which separated your people from the elves many eons ago. Some like to call you "dark elves," but that's rather obtuse.
5. Goblin: Others refer to your people as "civilized monsters" and poke fun at your appearance. At least you'll always have the element of surprise when you outsmart them.
6. Kobold: Similarly to the goblins, you can expect to be excluded a lot. Despite your size, however, you are quite fast and strong- more so than a human, in fact.

 

[K0mori]

[4. Drow]

For a while, you remained silent as the cart bounced along the unknown road, heading for someplace presumably safe for witches. The woman above you didn't seem to be the same woman as the one that poisoned you, but you weren't absolutely sure because it was difficult to catch a glimpse of her face. She wore a wide-brimmed hat and a heavy coat trimmed in ragged fur that covered much of her features, and seemed well-equipped for a long ride through the snowy night. You looked up in search of stars and couldn't find any. The sky must have been covered in clouds, but there was a silvery sheen to them that made you think that the moon might be full. Of all the small details which worsened or mitigated the current situation, that was the one which provided the greatest relief.
Even before the road had turned fully to dirt and mush in the open wilderness, before your escort allowed you to sit upright and ask your questions, you already had a strong suspicion of where this wagon might have been taking you. Your whole life, you had heard tales of the "outlaw country," Ashwood, across the mountains to the north, where the most unsavory characters in the region could hide away and plan their escapades free from oversight or judgement. You hadn't thought about it until now, but Wickham Township was close enough to Ashwood to make the journey in a single night. You'd never considered it before because you had never been able to imagine traveling further from home than the market.
"Sit up. We're out of it, now," the woman ordered, and now you were certain that she was someone new. You freed your arms from the bundle keeping you warm and pushed yourself up so that you could see, but it did you little good. Even though there was a lantern dangling from the end of a long rod which extended from the front of the cart, there was nothing to see on either side of the road but an endless array of thick, tall pine trees as far as the eye could see, and looking at the narrow spaces in between and the dancing shadows playing on the ground made you feel nervous, as if you weren't alone. Well, you weren't, but there was a difference between company and what might be lurking out there in the night. Even a total stranger, and a witch no less, was preferable to whatever corrupted beast might be prowling the woods at night. "Speak. I'm sure you have plenty of questions."
"Who are you?"
The woman looked straight ahead. "I've come to fetch you for the coven."
"Are you a witch?"
"Of course."
"Are we going to Ashwood?" you asked, fighting back shivers.
"Yes."
You weren't sure whether to ask your next question, whether you really wanted to know. "Is... Is that where Lythrefang is?" you asked.

"Lythrefang is everywhere," the woman replied, grimly, and your heart sank as there was no clearer answer she could have given. Yet, she turned and looked at you with steely, grey eyes and kept speaking. "The Broken Axes Circle lies just beyond the pass. Elder Sister Yazmis will greet you but will not take you. You will need to show them you're worth taking."
"What if I'm not worth-"
The woman simply cut you a glare and you stopped talking. Don't ask stupid questions, you told yourself with a quiet shudder. Lythrefang. Remember who you're speaking of, who is judging you, who you're meant to... appeal to. The thoughts seemed to ice up like your hands in the freezing cold. As far back as you could remember, you've been afraid of this coven. It was because, as a little girl, your mother and father, the traveling priests and the occasional lawman warned you: stay inside at night. Never travel alone. Lythrefang abducts little girls like you.
They all worshiped a goddess of lust and corruption: Martazul. You once heard a priest call her the goddess of jealousy, the whore of whores, and as you grew older you began to see why. When married men and women felt the siren song of infidelity, it was Martazul whispering in their ears, promising something else, something better. When the gods provided all that one could need, and that one still sought more, gratuitous more, it was Martazul, always Martazul. And in return for her infernal blessing, she would share her own unquenchable desire: she wanted your soul all to herself for all eternity. No other god could share you.
Lythrefang were her agents on this mortal plane, witches of unparalleled craft and vice. They traveled in the night and operated in the shadows, breaking ties between the people and their faith, driving them to sin like hogs to the trough. And they were always looking for new recruits, new inductees to their twisted religion, and there you were, a sixteen year-old little Drow girl far away from your ancestral lands, toying with dark powers beyond your comprehension. How long had they been watching you? After your sister was burned for her eerie ways, had they been there, in little Byrewood, watching young Renu blossom into a perfect prospect, twisted inside with grief and hatred and longing and deep, deep dark envy?
You began to tremble. It was no coincidence that a Lythrefang witch was there to save you when the guardsmen blocked your only escape from Wickham.
"Now it's my turn to ask a question," the escort said, fiercely. "What sort of implement did you use to kill that man?"

You blinked. "W-What's an implement?"

"Staff, wand, amulet, Hell, even a plain lodestone... How did you cast your hex? Rianha searched you before I came, and said she found nothing. You didn't cast it without one."

"I don't know," you answered through chattering teeth. "I didn't even know I was doing it."

The woman seemed to stiffen up, as if she had been offended by something, and pulled on the reigns so that the animals would stop. She turned and looked into your eyes, long and hard, until you felt as if your heart was about to beat out of your chest.
[Choose your implement:]1. "I- I used a staff hidden in a broomstick! I dropped it on the run because it was heavy!"
2. "It... it was a wand. I dropped when when I fell down the hill, before she found me... I, um, don't remember where I found it."
3. "I had, um... I had a book of spells. I dropped it when the crows attacked. I swear I'm telling the truth..."
4. "Th-there was a pretty rock I found on the ground on my way to Wickham, maybe that did it!? I don't know what happened to it!"
5. "All I know is that I wanted him to die, really, really hard, and I felt it just sort of happen..."

 

[K0mori]

[5. No implement.]
The woman clearly didn't believe you the first time, but telling lies was just going to make the situation worse. You weren't even aware that witches used implements until just a moment ago, so how were you supposed to bluff that you had one? Moreover, apparently you didn't need one. Your mind racing, you consider the idea that what you did in the market might actually have been some kind of dark miracle. Maybe these witches might actually be impressed.
You swallowed hard and tried to explain. "That man insulted me. He humiliated me, and then he attacked me, in plain view of everyone, and nobody cared. All I know is that I wanted him to die, really, really hard, and I felt it just sort of happen... like there was this power in me-"
"And you accessed it for the first time, right then and there," the woman interrupted, sternly studying your features.
You nodded, fearfully. You must have looked rather pathetic, your silvery hair matted against your forehead, caked in blood and dirt, hanging halfway across your yellowish eyes. Your skin was stone gray, dry, and your lips were cracked from the cold. There was a tense silence before the woman finally replied, a hint of sympathy mixing into her gaze for the first time. "Do you know how often I've heard that story?" she asked.
You shook your head.
"Accessing the power of dark magi without an implement to control it is said to be a divine trait. Every witch across Anvaris lives for the chance to witness a hexblood in our age. I've transported dozens of girls like you to Ashwood, and I've heard your story seven times. Seven. Times. And every time I heard it, I held the faintest hope that Martazul had sent us our blessed Queensister, Nixima, back from the underworld to lead us again. When we get to Broken Axes, they're going to drag you from this cart and beat you and curse you, looking for your fight. I promise you, if you are lying to me, you will end up dead like those other seven girls. Do you understand me?"
"W-what?" you simply stammered, your head spinning with everything the woman had just said.
"They're going to attack you!" she roared. She was talking so quickly now, urgently, as if you were in immediate danger again. "They want to see your power, and if you can't reproduce it because you're playing games, trying to trick us into thinking you're special when you're just another farm girl with a dark heart, then you're going to die tonight. So, are you absolutely sure that you can cast without an implement?"
You wanted to say that you weren't sure if you could even cast with an implement. You had only performed a hex one time, and you weren't entirely sure how it happened. But your words were failing you now, as this woman had seen seven girls just like you get killed by the Broken Axes Circle. There was nothing you could say which could alleviate the tension, and so you merely nodded. As you did so, you realized that it had to be an honest answer. You had to be able to... because you had already done it before. At least, you think you did. A chill ran down your spine as you imagined some horrid coincidence- what if another witch had cursed that man from the shadows, and you only believed you had been the one to kill him?
The woman sighed. "Fine. Long may you guide us, Queensister," she grumbled sarcastically as she goaded the animals to pull.
A few painfully silent minutes later, the sound of a crow cawing from the trees caused the driver to look skyward, which caused you to look up as well, as none of the other sounds of nature had caused the woman to take her eyes off the path as of yet. Soon enough, a large black crow fluttered out of the sky and landed on the front of the cart, on the long rod which was supporting the lantern. The driver took her right hand in her left, turning a ring around so that its gemstone faced the palm side, and then gestured at the crow with her right hand in a vaguely star-shaped motion.
It cocked its head sideways at the two of you before speaking. "Bandits ahead, sister. Take care, travel safe. Caw!"
The woman reached into her pocket and offered the crow what appeared to be a pumpkin seed, which it took up eagerly and flew away with. She then turned to you again. "There's a bridge up ahead. Bandits like to camp on it and charge a 'fee' to cross the bridge. So long as that's all they want, I can give them rocks and charm them into thinking it's coin. But if there's something else they want, things might get messy. I don't expect anything of you, so just stay in the cart and keep your mouth shut. Understood?"
You nooded.
"Good."
The wagon trundled a bit further up the path before turning, and just ahead you could see the shimmering gleam of water in the moonlight, moving swiftly down the side of the mountain in a narrow but deep stream which would probably flip the cart on its side if you tried to cross it as-is. A very old, crumbling stone archway crossed the stream close to the cascade on the high side, and it was covered in jagged, white icicles which bristled on the downstream-side of the bridge like comet tails. At the base of the bridge, a trio of men clad in heavy furs sat camped around a weak reddish fire, a barricade of sharpened spear-like wooden poles jammed into the ground to block the animals from advancing. As your cart rolled to a stop, the men rose ominously and took out their short swords.
The driver gave you one last glare as if to remind you of your uselessness before stepping down from the bench and approaching them empty handed. "Gentlemen," she said, "what's the toll going to be tonight?"
"M'lady, our fee's already been paid," a gnomish man replied, apparently the leader of the group.
The driver paused. "Is that so?" she asked. At that moment, one of the other men lunged forward with a battle cry, lifting his sword skyward for a plunging strike on the witch, who merely turned and stared him in the eye. The man locked up in that position, his sword perfectly vertical and his face frozen in fear. The witch backed away as the other men hesitated in confusion before taking up position with their swords out in front, backing her toward her own oxcart.
"Lady, don't make this hard!" one of the men yelled, but she was already beginning to gesture with her hand again, the tiny gemstone glowing violet in the dark of night as she formed arcane symbols on the air. The gnome swung his sword again and this time caught the driver in the ribs, but at the same moment, the first man, who had been petrified by the witch's hex, suddenly plunged his blade into his human comrade's back before letting go and staggering away, letting out a horrified cry at his own action.
The driver and the gnomish man were now very close to the cart, the former holding her side as she reached into her coat for some kind of tool, the latter avoiding direct eye contact as he searched for the killing blow!
[Choose your action:]1. Throw your wet blanket at the gnome.2. Jump from the cart and run for your life.3. Try to access dark magi.

 

[K0mori]

[1. Throw the Blanket.]
You were only sixteen, and weak, and clueless in the ways of magi. What had occurred in the market was a fluke; you couldn't count on the dark power to leap from your fingertips, at least not yet, and there was no time to wait on it while your driver and escort was about to receive a fatal strike from a bandit's sword. As they neared your cart, you stood and ripped the fur blanket off of yourself in a fit of pure instinct and hurled it down on the gnomish man, who was knocked off guard by the impact. The witch pulled a vial of something free from her coat and threw it at him, shattering the glass and engulfing him in a foul-smelling cloak of green and bluish fire. He screamed and stumbled away, dropping his sword as he pulled the fur blanket off himself, revealing a face which was already beginning to blister and tear from the flame's ferocity, agonized and terror-stricken.
The driver staggered forward, still holding her wounded side as she scooped the man's blade off the ground, and the lone bandit who remained uninjured cut and run from the fight. Now alone with the gnome, she waited calmly for the man to put himself out - or rather, for the flames to burn themselves out, as rubbing the skin down with snow as he was attempting to do wasn't helping - before jabbing him with the very tip of the blade to drive him back onto his haunches and draw blood. She then looked your way. "Drow, get down here."
You climbed over the edge of the wagon, dropping the last foot or so to land in roughly an inch of snow which wasn't very soft and stung your bare feet. You walked up to the driver, who brusquely forced the short sword into your hands before motioning at the gnome, who still sat whimpering and afraid where he was. His eyes were seared shut from the fire and it was clear he was entirely blind and unaware of what was transpiring, but nonetheless certain that he was about to die. "Like this? Not with magic?" you questioned.
"That's not all we do, you know," the woman growled. "Don't waste your pneuma; he's already knocking on Death's door."
"What-" you started to ask, "what's pneuma?" but you thought better of it when you saw the driver's look. There were more important matters to attend to. You shook your head never mind before squaring up on the dying gnome, turning the sword over in your hands and driving the blade down on him like one would plant a banner in the ground. The man let out a heartrending final cry which seemed to last an eternity before finally falling limp in a bloody patch of snow. You released the blade and looked to your temporary mentor.
"What's pneuma," you demanded, and the witch now seemed willing to humor your inquiry.
She took out a rag and dipped it disdainfully in the bloody slash on her side before setting a smooth gob of glass into the middle of it and closing the whole bundle. After rubbing the parts together, she began to rub it against her wound, and the opening slowly closed up as she spoke. "Pneuma is the strength of your spirit. The whole world is filled with magi, light and dark. It may as well be infinite, but even if you're a hexblood, you can't just channel all of it like a wellspring. Just as your body grows tired and loses physical strength with a day of labor, your spirit grows weaker the more you use it to channel."
You nodded. "That makes a lot of sense," you commented, dully.
"Then why did you drop that blade?" the witch asked.
There was a moment of pause before you realized what she meant. The bandit's short sword was now yours to keep, and you would apparently need it soon. You quickly located the weapon's hilt in the dark and pulled it free of the dead man's body, examining it curiously in the moonlight. It was an unremarkable steel tool with a leather-wrapped handle; it seemed old and heavily used, and yet you doubted that the gnome was its original owner. It was also heavy. You hadn't noticed when you dealt the killing blow earlier, but it was bothersome now that you were expected to carry it with you. You set it aside and turned the gnome over so that you could access his sword belt more easily and remove it from his body. You climbed back up into the wagon to soothe your screaming feet, and while you struggled to equip the sword belt yourself, the driver cleared the obstacles in your path and prepared the animals for the final leg of the journey.
On the far side of the hills, the white of snow and ashen gray of dead trees steadily gave way to the sickly oranges and yellows of late autumn and the final weeks of harvest time, and that made you think of your family in Byrewood. You hadn't given them much consideration since all of this began, but now, as you brooded in silence next to the driver, you wondered whether news had reached them that you, Renu, just like your sister Jusae, were a witch. Worse than that. You were a murderer and had been chased out of the region and into Ashwood. On one hand, you didn't exactly care about their approval. Four years of stiff denial at the supper table, a refusal to even acknowledge Jusae's life and existence before her delve into the dark arts continued to fill you with resentment.
How many times, Mother, did Jusae attend to your needs while you were pregnant with our siblings? How many meals did she cook? How many diapers did she wash, without complaint, as she supported this family unquestionably? And now you forget her, just like you'll forget me, all because a man with a book who never lifted a finger in our godsforsaken hovel declared our damnation, and declared it as if it were your fault, a mark on your soul. Oh, mother, how they use you...
And there the other side of the coin would appear, and resentment would turn to pity. Your family weren't bad people, but they were definitely herded along with the church's flock, blissfully obedient to moral authorities who didn't give one iota of real care for the lives of peasants. They were nice people, friendly people, and you would miss their company dearly as you learned to survive on your own. Or rather, you would learn to survive within the coven. There, they would call you "sister" and treat your misdeeds as virtues, but you could never allow yourself to trust them.
They were not a family, nor any substitute for one.
With the sun having risen a bit and the day becoming warmer, the driver reached into a box whose lid was hidden among the floorboards of the cart, and removed your shoes, missing since yesterday. "Might as well give you these," she said. "We take them so you don't try to run in the mountains. Now you're in Ashwood. If you want to run, then run; just don't expect to get very far."
"Lythrefang is everywhere," you repeated as you slipped the boots over your stiff toes. You silently hoped that your feet hadn't suffered any frostbite from the trip, but you also knew that practically any minor ailment could be taken care of by a decent cleric. If the church could cure frostbite, then surely the coven could, too. "I'm not running," you added.
The driver grunted in approval as the cart made its way downhill, and finally, as it emerged from a final line of trees, you caught a glimpse of a small village nestled in the hills, the tiny houses surrounding a long building with a steady stream of smoke rising from the top- a village inn. "There's Broken Axe," she said. "Yazmis will meet us at the slaughterhouse near the hog pin along with her circle. We're running behind schedule thanks to those bastards at the pass, so she'll probably go easy on the pageantry since she'll want you squared away before the folks start waking up down there... especially if you're carrying that," she said, referring to your sword. "You'll need it, though. The welcome girls are always vicious, especially with mer like you."
You nodded as you took the information in and committed it to memory. The oxen pulled the cart steadily toward the village, where, finally, after hours of relentless riding, it came to a halt and you sorely lowered yourself to the dirty street. Broken Axe reminded you of Byrewood, and so it wasn't the setting itself which made you nervous... it was the hour. Just like the driver said, the people weren't quite up and about yet, but would be, soon, and you felt like an intruder. You were tired-eyed and scared, and your moment of judgement was about to come with a lack of ceremony. You looked up at the witch who transported you here, a woman you had mutually avoided sharing names with, and she glanced coldly back your way. Then she departed, and you were alone.
You walked up to the slaughterhouse, an old wooden shack at the edge of town, hand resting on the pommel stone of your sword, and wondered how exactly it would play out. You wondered if there would even be an introduction. You pictured yourself walking up to an older woman, saying "excuse me, are you Yazmis?" only to be met with a smile as she flicks her wrist and turns you into a frog. You rolled your eyes and did away with the mental picture as you rounded the corner, and stopped dead in your tracks as you were confronted by two adult women and two little girls, each no older than ten. You opened your mouth to speak, but were thrown backwards into the wall with such force that the old wooden boards creaked and flexed with the power, their rusted nails bending under stress.
"Renu Ishrut of Byrewood," one of the women greeted her with an arrogant sneer, "I am Yazmis, Elder Sister of this town's circle. Lythrefang has been watching you, waiting to see if you'd follow in our dear sister RahadJas' footsteps."
You could barely speak to her, such was the force on your chest, but you asked anyway: "Who's Rahadjas?" you grunted, eliciting a snicker from the two little girls.
Yazmis rolled her neck as she bent and twisted her fingers, and you felt yourself be pulled in several directions at once. The pain was excruciating, and you let out an involuntary yelp as you were dragged up the wall toward the roof line. "You disrespect her memory by speaking without permission, young one. I speak of the only other witch of your household, a truly gifted young drow, taken by our envious foes four years ago. Oh, how I've wished to avenge her, as she was my friend as well as my sister..."
It occurred to you somehow, even with the searing pain in your torso and limbs, that Yazmis wasn't as old as you had expected with the title of "Elder." In fact, if Jusae were still around, she and Yazmis would be nearly the same age. If this woman was speaking about Jusae, it wasn't clear why she would use another name, but you had already learned not to speak out of turn. The other adult witch clasped her hands together and lowered her head in a sort of bow, and Yazmis lifted her chin with her free hand. "Speak, young one," she said, which was very strange as you could tell that the second adult was older than Yazmis.
"Elder Sister, our guest is wondering why you speak of Rahadjas by that name," she said.

Yazmis nodded, thoughtfully, before releasing you from her spell. You fell limply to the ground, feeling as if your body had been taken apart and put back together again, and within moments you were coughing blood. "Once you have attained membership to this coven, you will choose a true name for yourself, a Crypimum name, just as Rahadjas did four years ago. But first, you'll need to prove yourself worthy. Our sisters, Malasya and Saravash, will attack you. If you can wound them and draw blood, then I will call them off and you may begin your training. If you cannot, then you will be fed to the hogs. Show no mercy, and let Martazul bless you!"
You could barely stand when the girls pounced, exploding into clouds of black fur as they leaped into the air, landing as fearsome wolves in stride and tackling you to the ground. Their teeth easily tore at your flesh inducing a burning, wincing pain that caused you to cry out as you were continually pinned and thrown against the ground, unable to pull your arms away from their jaws to access your sword. At first, all you could feel was fear, but very quickly it was replaced by hatred for the entire group which had come to meet you.
[Choose your action:]1. Access dark magi and use it against the welcome girls.2. Access dark magi and use it against Yazmis.3. Access dark magi, but don't use it against anyone. See what it does naturally.4. Kick at Malasya and Saravash until you can get to your sword, and then fight physically.5. Call out Jusae's name.

 

[K0mori]

[1. Use dark magi against the welcome girls.]
It wasn't fair. These witches had rescued you from Wickham Township, but they held no regard for your well-being. You hadn't slept, or eaten, you were shivering cold and your toes burned with the heat of your own blood circulating within, having been exposed for so long... And yet they beat you, tore at you, and laughed at your misfortune. The girls, Malasya and Saravash, slammed you repeatedly, cloaked in the blackest fur which gave off an unnatural smokey haze, answering your cries of pain with strange mixtures of growls and gleeful laughter. You almost seemed to separate from yourself as you grew limp, and then saw yourself from the outside, a toy for these infernal creatures, and watched as your expression turned from shock to one of resignation. You bared your teeth, accepting the pain as a consequence of the trap they set, and focused instead on prying loose.
You killed a man with your hatred before, and you could feel that power returning to you. It felt like a slithering shadow, reaching out of your heart and taking your hands from the inside. At your command, the tendrils would contract with more power than your natural body could ever muster. You couldn't hear the words of the two adult witches watching you, but you heard the unnamed one gasp loudly, even before you rose from the ground.
Out of your throat came a deep and unsettling groan, a voice unlike your own. It was loud and commanding, and at the mere sound of it the wolves began to hesitate and retreat, releasing you from their jaws. You lifted your head to find yourself moving upward without an explanation, rising from the ground without pushing off of it, until you were floating several feet in the air and turning upright. Your hair and clothing fluttered about you in absence of gravity as if you were submerged in a pool of water. It all felt like a dream in which you were barely in control, but could predict what would happen next: one of the girls took multiple steps back, her mystic form erupting into a cloud of dissipating smoke to reveal her human face once more, but the other stayed close, too close, unsure of what to do as her elder sister had not instructed her to heel. You seized her instead, gripping her by the sides of her head through her illusion, and dumped all of your ill feelings into one action... an action you couldn't define.
You wanted her dead. No, worse than dead.
The wolf form erupted into a purplish fountain of smoke and lightning arcs discharging from the young girl's face, and as she shrieked you watched various forms and features appear and melt away between your wrists, some human and some beast, until the power within your hands began to retract and you could no longer exert it on your foe. She stumbled backwards, black smoke rising as she tried to shed her cloak, while you doubled over, setting down hard on the ground and feeling drained, utterly drained. Your eyes laid fixed on your hands, which were pale and burned at the same time, and marked with bloody gashes from the fight. Some of the damage had been done to you, while the rest you had done to yourself.
Then you became vaguely aware of the laughter and clapping above you, as well as the traumatic screams of horror from whichever of the girls had been hit by your curse. You lifted your head to find the one you would later know as Saravash in hysterics, as she had become trapped in a disfigured state somewhere between human and wolf. Malasya was attending to her, but Yazmis plainly ignored the two of them as she applauded your emergence with wide, theatrical clapping. Her mysterious assistant, the other adult witch, looked on you with severe concern, and glanced uncertainly at the elder sister.
"That will be more than enough!" Yazmis proclaimed, breathlessly. "You are exactly where you belong, child. You have... incredible potential."
You remained silent, unsure if you were being invited to speak, but also exhausted to the point that you couldn't even begin to consider which question to ask first. You felt very ill, and wondered if this is what the driver had warned you about earlier in the morning. Your pneuma was used up, and you needed rest, physical as well as spiritual.
"Elder Sister, Saravash cannot reverse this hex," the other witch said when she had been granted permission to do so.
"Of course she can't. I couldn't, not without a few days to tinker with it..." Yazmis replied offhand. "That was pure corruption, no rhyme or reason to it at all... It's far easier to make a mess than it is to clean one up. Young Saravash can hide in the wine cellar until we sort it out. But this one... Oh, this one. Tazaniya, how did she do it?"
The other witch, whose name was apparently Tazaniya, hesitated before answering. "I- I can't tell," she said.
"Oh?" Yazmis replied, sharply dissatisfied. "Suddenly feeling a bit foggy, then?"
"N-no," Tazaniya said, and you watched as she appeared to wilt before the Elder Sister's intensity. "It's... It's just that she didn't... She didn't use an implement." There was a long pause. "She's thinking about Mora... a conversation she had." Another shrill gasp. "She killed that man in Wickham without an implement. Elder Sister... I think, I think,"
You watched as Yazmis' triumphant smile disappeared, replaced with trepidation. "You think she's a hexblood?" the Elder Sister said, and she was met with a terrified nod from Tazaniya. "...Martazul is with us on this day, right here in Broken Axe. I cannot believe it," she said, shaking her head. "Dear sister Rahadjas... If only you were here. Young one," Yazmis addressed you with a sudden respect that she had not shown you, nor anyone else since your arrival, "come with me to my home. You can rest for now and when your strength returns to you we'll begin your induction in earnest. There is only one thing left I must ask of you now."
You looked at hear wearily.
"You must have a crypimum name. Witches across Anvaris must know that a hexblood has awoken," Yazmis urged, her unbridled delight at the situation resurfacing even as you could barely keep your own eyes open. "I'll send a whole murder across the continent to tell them of your arrival- not just that a hexblood has awoken, but that she's Lythrefang, a sister of Martazul! And yet... those outside the craft will see nothing, will know nothing, that is the beauty of crypimum. You will remain Renu Ishrut of Byrewood to the swine and scum of the realm, but to us... To us..."
Yazmis was at a loss for words to express how important you were. The last thing you remembered as she ushered you into the cabin at the edge of town was her pulling out an old piece of wood. She then rubbed it down with a bit of animal fat before using a candle to create a small flame on the surface. The flames consumed the fat and left behind a series of arcane symbols on the wooden surface, and she took your hand, setting it down right in the middle on top of an oddly-shaped rock. She chanted in some unknown language until a force like an unseen third hand fell down upon the two of yours, and slowly and surreal, your new name was spelled out one character at a time.
[Inscribe your new name.]

 

[K0mori]

[Random Result Winner: Maldred]
Yazmis read aloud the symbols as the stone crossed over them, although they didn't seem to correspond to the alphabet you were familiar with. When she had finished speaking them, the characters faded back into the grain of the wood and she cast you a curious look. "Mald-red," she pronounced, "torn-from-the-clay. An appropriate name for a peasant..." She continued to speak, but you had drifted off, the name echoing in your mind as you sat in a chair at the table near the fire, your heavy head in your hands. Involuntarily, it migrated to the crook of your elbow, and, warmed by the fire, you felt comfortable enough and fell asleep.
You dreamed of an astonishingly large and beautiful cathedral, its impossible vaulted ceilings and twisting architecture beyond the scope of your own imagining. Fully cloaked among thousands of pilgrims, you were moved from wing to wing, marveling at the stained glass and satin tapestries on display in their vivid magnificence. The pilgrims walked in an anticlockwise fashion, bringing you closer to the center, to the great basilica with its titanic dome, until the colorful cloaks and masks upon the worshipers became a dancing whirlpool of pious celebration. You were carried along in its currents until you reached the center, finding nothing but a wide circular platform, onto which you were brought, dizzy and stupefied, to look out upon the gathered, fervent masses. Your mask and cloak floated away from you, leaving you naked, alone, and vulnerable, but to your amazement, the crowd silenced itself into a reverent hush before falling to its knees in abject devotion.
The Elder Sister must have realized that she could push you no further, and that you needed rest, because you awoke in roughly the same position you had fallen asleep, but it was much later in the day and the fire had turned to embers and ash. The skin of your arms still ached, scalded patches all throughout, but the natural color had returned. You wondered if that was a sign of your pneuma regaining its strength. Looking around, Yazmis wasn't around, leaving you free to explore her cabin if you so wished, or else depart and see the village. The former seemed more interesting, as you had spent most of your life in a town like this, but had never seen a witch's home before. On the other hand, picking through Yazmis's things without her permission might turn out poorly for you, and there might be people worth meeting at the inn. Another thought also bothered you: had anyone heard the terrible racket you and the welcome girls had made in the early morning before dawn?
[Choose your action:]1. Search Yazmis's home for something to heal your burns.2. Search Yazmis's home for something to enhance your pneuma.3. Search Yazmis's home for something revealing about her.4. Head to the Broken Axes Inn to meet new people.5. Explore the town carefully, listening for gossip and rumors.

 

[K0mori]

[4. Head to the Broken Axes Inn.]
You stand and stiffly stretch your back and legs. Glancing about, you're a bit disappointed by how normal everything appears. You had hoped to find something which might heal the burns on your arms, but if Yazmis did actually keep potions or even simple salves around, she didn't want anyone to notice. You remembered how the strange spirit board she had used to determine your Crypimum name had looked like a simple cutting board before - and after - the ritual, and so you supposed there was plenty more hidden about the shack than meets the eye. You sighed, knowing that you lacked the daring to search for any of it, and instead decided to depart for the inn.
Outside, the air was crisp and smelled somewhat fresher than on your side of the mountains. Maybe it was simply a dryer climate, but you also suspected that the close proximity to the mountains and the different sorts of trees had something to do with it. You felt comfortable now, despite the holes and tears in your cloak and layered tunics, as the sun was out and warm and the chilling breeze was calm. The distant sound of lumberjacks striking their tools against the evergreen pines in the distance helped to explain why there wasn't a whole lot of activity in town, although you did see the occasional peasant woman and her children doing chores about the houses or tending to the subsistence gardens. One or two cut a weary glance in your direction, but no one seemed keen to approach or even greet you with a wave. It all just seemed rather sleepy.
The inn was a more cheerful sight, however, as its doors were wide-open and inviting and there were a few old men sitting at a table within, having a lively conversation. Too feeble to work, you realize, and you gave a shy smile to the rosy-cheeked gentlemen as you passed through the door. Several of them raised their tankards as you stepped inside, greeting you in both your native language as well as dwarfish, and sure enough when you checked again you realized there was a dwarf at the table whose nose barely peered at you from over the far edge. "Oi there, young drow lady, y'must be new in town, ain't ye?" an ancient-looking man with a white beard and a lack of teeth greeted.
"Y-yes sir, I am," you replied with a clumsy curtsy.
There was a thump as the dwarf put his hands on the table and hoisted himself up so that he was standing atop his chair. Now much more visible, he grinned, squinting hard, and it occurred to you that he might be nearsighted. "Issat a young one affer all? Ho ho oh, sure is, sure is. 'Sbeen a while since I heard such a pretty voice, you know."
"...Thank you," you replied, uncomfortably.
"Ah, don'tcha let him bother ye," the bearded man said. "He jus' likes to flatter, that's all."
The dwarf flopped back into his seat, shaking the table rather violently and causing some of the beer to slosh. "Yeah, yeah, can't help meself. So, eh heh. If ya don't mind me askin, what's a lass like you doin', travelin' out to these dangerous parts? I see ya've a good blade at your side..."
"You old kook, how'd you see that before me?" the third, hither-to silent man at the table suddenly spoke. He looked thin and wily, despite his age, and you realize he was probably a dangerous man when he was younger. "Ya's got no eyes!"
"I see plenty when I feel like seein' it," the dwarf replied, grumpily. "So let's have it, then. You wrapped up in somethin'... unsavory?" he asked you.
[Choose a reply:]1. "My father left this sword to me. I carry it, but I don't know how to use it."2. "It's for protection. I'm just passing through on my way to Grayfort."3. "As a matter of fact, I'm a dangerous woman. If course, you've already got a few in this town."4. "I was, but I got out of it. Took this sword from a man who had no business keeping it."

 

[K0mori]

[4. Answer somewhat honestly.]
You figure it wouldn't hurt to let the old men know about your unfortunate run-in with the bandits at the pass as long as you omitted certain details. "I was, but I got out of it. I took this sword from a man who had no business keeping it."
"Oh, and how'd that happen? Yer not travelin' alone are ye?" the bearded man asked.
You shook your head. "I came here with a friend overnight. We were attacked by a lone highwayman in the mountains, but we managed to get the better of him. I took his sword because I felt safer with it, but I'm not sure if I'll keep it, yet."
"...I'll bet he was hidin' out at the old stoney bridge," the thin man said. "That explains yer raggedness."
"What raggedness?" the dwarf interjected. "She's a flower-"
"She's been in a fight, that gal. Ya don't see the blood in her clothes? And... damn... now I see-" the thin man added, taking a long look at your hands before looking you in the eye in a way which made you wholly uncomfortable. "Looks like someone held her hands to the fire."
"Issat so?" the bearded man asked, looking tired. "I hear Savona makes a good remedy for burns."
"Yeah," the slim man said, flatly. "And I wouldn't be surprised if this drow was a friend of hers."
[Choose a response:]1. To the slim man: "I'm sorry... I don't know who you're talking about."2. To the bearded man: "Is Savona a friend of yours?"3. To the dwarf: "I've never been called a flower before, thank you."4. To all: "Thanks for your concern, but I'm okay. I've got thick skin and I'll heal. I came for a drink."

 

[K0mori]

[2. Address the bearded man.]
This woman they spoke of, Savona, was probably one of the witches you had already met that morning, given the slim man's tone. He seemed to know that something was amiss, and so you wanted to discreetly push the conversation away from whatever line he was thinking of pursuing. Don't be too elusive, your inner voice cautioned. Just act like you don't understand the significance if he asks any loaded questions. The bearded man seemed more concerned for your well-being without being overly flattering, and so it seemed natural to focus mainly on him.
"Is Savona a friend of yours?" you asked.
The bearded man tilted his head side to side as he mulled over the answer. "I've known 'er a few years," he answered hesitantly, "but she spends most of 'er days alone with 'er daughter. Says she's waitin' for her husband to come home, but we think the ol' bastard either fell off his horse or ran away with a younger woman. She's nice, though, ye'd like 'er."
Fell off his horse? You made a mental note to ask more about this later. "Too bad about her husband... Where can I find her?" you asked. To your mild relief, the three old men described the location of a small shack at the forest's edge that was definitely not Yazmis's cabin. You wandered if this other home belonged to the clairvoyant one called Tazaniya.
"Before ye go," the bearded man said, "we never got yer name. We might be old n' drunk, but that doesn't escuse use from bein' gentlemen. My name is Ichabod. This's Brenthard and Erwin, my good friends." Brenthard the dwarf gave a rosy smile, while Erwin gave a nod and continued to study you uneasily.
"My name is Renu," you said, plainly. "I'm just traveling with a friend. I don't know how long I'll be staying in this town."
Brenthard held his drink aloft. "Well, come by and see us again any time yer feeling lonely, sweetheart."
Then, to your surprise, Erwin motioned at your sword. "If you ever want to learn how to use that, then come see me. I can teach you a few things that might save your life someday."
You nodded in reply, but the others at the table jeered him for the offer. Apparently, Erwin had been a thief for a good portion of his life, but "couldn't fight his way outofa burlap sack" according to Ichabod. Erwin looked furious for a moment, but then laughed and took a deep drink. As you politely excused yourself from their company, you overheard them debating the accusation, at which point Brenthard reminded Erwin that they had settled the debate over his fight smarts years ago in a barroom brawl...
You stepped out into the sunshine and reminded yourself of the directions you had been given. It felt like a long walk, despite the short time it took to reach the shack, due to the wide open spaces between the homes on the dirty road where various gardens and animals were kept. Your wounds were aching and burning, and you feared an infection. Whenever someone from your village had bad wounds like these, they would always travel to the nearest city and locate a cleric. Most of the reputable temples would provide healing services for free if the victim was a peasant, but now you wandered if the clerics could recognize these burns as a sign of trouble, like Erwin seemingly did.
Finally, you reached the door and gave it a knock. It opened almost immediately as there was only one room in the tiny home, and there, standing before you, was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with bronze skin that you had never seen before. She looked down on you, perplexed. "Well?" she asked after a moment of silence.
"A-Are you Savona?" you asked.
The woman nodded. "And you are?"
"I'm a traveler from Byrewood. My name is Renu, and I'm hurt. Ichabod said you might be able to help me."
She looked you over, and, almost as if she hadn't noticed at first, she suddenly jumped with a worried shout and pulled you inside. "Yes, of course, please, come in!" she said as you stumbled through the threshold. Inside was a very crowded arrangement of furniture which reminded you a bit of your own home. There was a quiet gasp in the corner of the room, and that's when your eyes met those of a child's- Malasya stared at you silently from her seat, a terrified look on her face and a tiny bowl of soup in her lap. "That's my daughter, Rosa," Savona explained. "I'm sorry ahead of time if she asks you any strange questions."
You sat yourself on Savona's bed, the only place in the room where you could sit, really, and had a similar conversation to the one you had just had at the inn, while Savona gathered a few ingredients and began mashing it with a mortar and pestle. Rosa stared at you silently the entire time, eating her soup until the bowl was empty, and then continued to spoon the residue from the sides of the wooden bowl up to her mouth avoid having any reason to move or speak to you.
"Rosa, honey," Savona said, "you're awfully quiet right now. Is something wrong?"
She shook her head nervously.
[Choose a conversation:]1. Test Savona to see if she's aware of her daughter's witchcraft.2. Ask Savona about her missing husband.3. Ask about the men at the inn, and why Erwin seems to dislike you.