REPUGNANT
In the fleeting light of the sunset, Orane watches the figure of a man before her. He moves quickly, silently amongst the shadowy backdrop of the forest shrubs. When he reaches a large thicket of brush, he stops and crouches next to another man. Orane hunches over, slinking her way across the grass like a cat; coming up behind the pair, she takes a knee. The first man, her guide, looks at her over his shoulder. He holds a finger up to his lips. Without a sound he turns and points towards the clearing before them.
Standing alone in the clearing is a single stone tower; once it might have been white but now it is covered by the shadows of ivy. A jarring monument to the heavens, it reaches up high towards the sky. There are no doors to be seen, in fact there is but one window—at the top, near the roof, the bright yellow square of firelight glows against the invading darkness.
It is only a few moments before a small, hunched figure walks towards the base of the tower. Letting the hood of a cloak drift back, a pale, white face is revealed. The woman tilts her head up towards the tower's window, seemingly calling out to the heavens when her cruel, cold voice cuts the silence of the forest, "Repugnant, repugnant, let down thy golden hair!"
Orane's breathe catches in her throat. Despite the coolness of dusk she instantly feels the hot blood pulsing through her veins. She bites down hard, clenching the edges of her cloak to keep her body still, to prevent herself from running. With the conflicting fear and anger in her chest she is not sure if she would run towards the woman, or away.
In the frame of the window, the large shadow of a man appears. He loops a thick rope through a pulley, checking it twice before he retreats into the interior of the tower. Moments later, a soft metallic clinking sound accompanies the lowering of the rope. When it finally reaches the ground, the woman impatiently slips her foot into a loop, wrapping her arms around the rope. Slowly her figure ascends towards the sky, almost as if she is floating. Once she reaches the top she steps out onto a narrow wooden beam and disappears into the tower.
Orane peels her eyes off of the window, looking at the outline of her guide's face. Though he turns his head slightly towards her, his gaze remains on the glowing window. He barely speaks above a whisper, almost so softly that Orane cannot hear him, "Every seven days the woman appears just after the sun sets. She calls up to the tower, a man lowers the rope down then pulls her up. The amount of time she spends inside varies, but she always leaves while it is still night. Once she reaches the ground, the rope drops and she takes it with her."
The other man picks up the story, speaking just as quietly, "She takes the rope back to her house. I do not know what she does with the majority of it, but every week she braids a new piece into her hair. She leaves at dawn and does not return to her home until the next time that she gets a new rope. I think that it is the source of her power, but it must lose its potency after a week or she wouldn't risk being so exposed. Is she your witch, my lady?"
Orane's palms begin to sweat into the rough wool of her cloak. Her throat is dry, and though she desperately wants to cough to clear it, she refrains. Swallowing hard, she whispers, "Yes, I do believe she is." While the witch looks different, there is no doubt in Orane's mind. That voice—she will never forget it for the rest of her life. Half her years have been wasted searching for this witch, but soon she will get her vengeance. "Who is the man in the tower?"
Her guide shakes his head, "I do not know, my lady. He never leaves the tower—it appears that the rope is the only way in and out. He must weave a new one every week and the witch takes it with her. We've tried observing him from several different places, but since we must remain hidden we cannot get close enough to make out much detail. However, we do know the approximate height of the witch; when comparing her to the size of the window, then the man to the size of the window..."
The other man slowly shakes his head, "He must be a giant of a man. The best I have been able to distinguish is that he appears to be young and strong."
Orane nods slowly though it makes no difference as the men before her cannot see her agreement. Her eyes examine the tower, soaking in every detail that she can make out in the night. It seems like an odd structure to be in the middle of nowhere. As there once was a small village not that far from here, Orane wonders if perhaps this tower was at one point some sort of grain mill, but since the rest of the buildings and the people were wiped out almost ten years ago by a great flood, she has no way to confirm her suspicions. She was relieved at the time that her home, the town of Reddington, was far enough away from the great river that they were not affected, unlike their sister town of Waterford, which was completely annihilated.
She is snapped back into reality when the witch appears at the window sill. All three of them freeze, as she walks down the beam and slips her food into the loop.
"Lower me down," she says angrily. Just as before, the metallic clicking accompanies the dark figure being lowered down the length of the tower. When the witch reaches the bottom, she slips her foot from the rope and steps backward, her stance emanating the impatience with which she waits. A moment later, the rope appears to wiggle, having been let loose from its crank it drifts down from the window, coiling at the bottom of the tower before the witch's feet. She picks it up and without another word, she slings it over her shoulder and storms off into the night.
At the window above, the man leans against the window sill, gazing out into the darkness for a moment before sitting down and looking up at the stars. By his relaxed shadow, he appears to be at ease now that he is alone again. Little does he know that there are seven sets of eyes watching his every move. At this distance, Orane cannot distinguish hardly anything about him, but when she examines how much of the empty window he fills up, in comparison to the witch, he truly must be a massive creature. For someone so large to be afraid of a tiny woman, truly shows the wickedness of the witch that she hunts.
She watches him for the better part of an hour as he stares up into the heavens. Orane wonders what he is thinking, what horrible things he has done to become the accomplice of a witch. Finally, when the man retreats back into the tower and the lights inside slowly dim, Orane and the two men melt into the darkness, sliding along the shadows until they are a safe distance away where her horse patiently waits for her return.
"Five days," Orane says to the two men.
Her guide nods, looking at the other man. Both of them seem unnerved by her comment, though neither questions her, "Yes, my lady. In five days."
Five Days Later
As the late afternoon sun drops below the tree tops, a chill creeps through the forest on the back of the rolling fog. Orane's horse carefully picks his way through the untraveled ground, taking care to transport his rider safely to her destination. Though she has been on many missions before, this one is different as it is the one she has been waiting for, for almost twelve years. A decade of searching, training, scouring the countryside, will finally come to an end as she will be able to finally avenge her parents' death. Though the details are still a little unclear, she tells herself that she is prepared to face whatever she finds in that tower.
It was just after her twelfth birthday that her parents died. Though she spends every waking moment thinking about and searching for the witch, she has tried desperately to forget that night. Her father had just returned from a trip to the kingdom of Northhill. He didn't quite seem the same man that had left; though he smiled and happily greeted his daughter, his eyes seemed sad and dull. It was later that night that Orane had a bad dream. She had gone to her parents' room, seeking comfort, but when she opened the door, she discovered instead something far worse than any nightmare. Her father was on top of her mother, his hands wrapped tightly around her throat. Orane can remember that her mother's eyes were almost bulging out of her head, her own hand stretched out to her daughter, desperate for help. The witch was standing above both of them, a strange smile on her face. Just as mother's arm began to fall, the witched leaned down to her, kissing her on the lips, stealing her last breath before her body finally lied back, lifeless.
Before Orane could even open her mouth to scream, her father picked up a knife and plunged it through his own heart. As he toppled to the ground, the witch leaned down to him in the same manner, stealing his last breath. From his neck she removed a braided, golden rope. The witch was older then, with bright white hair and a well worn face, but her voice was as clear as day when she looked up and saw Orane standing there in horror. All the witch could do was smile and laugh her evil, wicked laugh. Then, as if her age wasn't an issue, the witch leaped from the window and vanished into the night.
Orane never understood why she was allowed to live; perhaps it was the witch's way of making her suffer even more in a life without her parents. But ever since that night, Orane has vowed that she will avenge them and she has never stopped searching.
She dismounts her horse, leaving it in the clearing next to the other one that belongs to her guide. It is a small group that she employs, six men in total. They are an outcast group of ruffians—two former farmers turned militia, a tracker, a criminal, a General and a sketchy priest who dabbles in the dark arts. Alone, one of them would terrify the best soldier—together they are enough to make up a frightening group of bandits yet each of them is devoutly loyal to Orane. Not only would all of them be willing to sacrifice their life to save her, but over the years she has come to feel the same way. Sworn to secrecy, they have been with her for the past ten years, searching just as fervently for the witch that killed her parents, the King and Queen of Reddington.
Orane lingers briefly in the shadows, trying to compose herself, steel her nerves despite the racing heart in her chest. Though a tiny part of her tells her to stop, to turn and run away as fast as she can, Orane takes a step forward, followed by another, towards the tower. With her black cloak on and hood fully drawn up she feels secure within the folds of fabric. Her eyes scan the darkness, searching for her men as each step takes her closer to the tower, closer to her revenge. In the shadows she detects the smallest amount of movement from one of them, allowing her to locate his proximity.
She comes to a halt less than ten feet away from the base of the dark tower. Taking in a slow, deep breath, Orane tilts her head up towards the glowing window. Sternly, she calls out with cruelty that is unfamiliar to her voice, "Repugnant, repugnant, let down thy golden hair."
The shadow of the man appears in the window. Though she cannot distinguish his features, his large body appears hesitant and reluctant. He calls down softly, "You are early, mistress, I wasn't expecting you until the day after tomorrow. The rope will be short," he says nervously.
