Evric Thorne had journeyed all day, the straps of his pack cutting into his broad, lean shoulders. His tousled dark hair was slick with sweat, dripping down the brow of his handsome face to rest on his sharp, square jaw.
The sun was almost setting. It swept the shadows of the trees along the forest floor like spears. His own shadow, tall and muscular - froze suddenly as he realised his destination was just up ahead. His pace quickened as he strode forward triumphantly, the leather of his boots crunching slightly as twigs snapped underfoot.
Evric reached the threshold of a large clearing. The long, lush grass swayed in the breeze, glittering with the golden rays of sunlight. His eyes swept the clearing before spying something odd. A distant corner of the clearing looked cloudy, hazy. He stared at the haze for a moment thoughtfully and concentrated. It appeared as the haze melted away - a small cottage on the far side, with a lush garden and wooden fence.
A concealment spell. Basic, but powerful. Be brave, Witch-Slayer,
he warned himself, his hand absent-mindedly gripping at the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword.
Remember your training.
Technically, he was not a Witch-Slayer yet - but Evric would never let his inexperience get in the way of his own success. He pushed the thought from his mind, and mentally ran through the list of details he had been reciting to himself as he had trekked for hours through the forest.
The witch's cottage lies in the north of the forest. None of the great Warriors and Witch-Slayers who have ever set out to find it have ever found it - some have never even returned - but her cottage is in there somewhere. She is hideous, malevolent, and cruel. She will try to ensnare your mind and deceive you, but it is always a trick. Mirella the Malevolent will kill you soon as look at you. Be sure to stab her in the heart, Slayer. It's the only way you'll make it out alive.
The Oakgrove innkeeper's tale had sounded... rehearsed, larger than life, but his eyes had been earnest and sincere.
Evric knelt at the edge of the clearing and began the rituals and preparations that he had been taught. Unrolling a small kit from his pack, he chalked his hands with a protection spell and oiled his sword in the blessed Witch-Slaying solution he had prepared earlier.
The prayer surfaced to his lips, bubbling up from long-practised study sessions at the academy.
"Gods, bless the steel of this blade with your strength. Grant me the same strength to survive the fury of the coming tempest. Make me your weapon of choice against the Hexen-Blood. Make me your right hand."
Evric felt a well of holy strength within him. Or, at least, he was pretty sure that this was what holy strength felt like. He hoped.
"Gods, let me prevail," he muttered to himself.
Rising back to his feet, he straightened up the sheath on his belt and strode as confidently as he could into the clearing.
No magical traps,
he thought.
That's good.
The clearing felt as though it took a lifetime to cross. His heart began to pound in his chest, his throat growing dry as he marched. As he pressed further and further on, the cottage loomed bigger with every step.
His heart skipped a beat as he saw that a young woman was watering plants in the front garden of the cottage. The steel of his blade hissed softly as he drew it from its sheath, glinting in the setting sun. Crouching low, he crept forward, slinking through the long grass.
Evric's stomach turned as he grew closer and got a better look. The woman was... young, and devastatingly beautiful. Her hair was long and wavy, a dark brown that glowed bronze in the sun. She finished watering a half-barrel of herbs, taking a moment to close her eyes and smell their aroma. She knelt barefoot in the dirt as she hummed to herself amongst a patch of sunflowers that were buzzing with bees. His eyes were drawn from her flowing hair to the subtle curves of her body, hinted beneath the dress she wore.
Evric's jaw clenched as a flicker of anger rose in his chest.
The evil witch has taken a slave.
His knuckles tightened on his sword.
She has put her to work in the garden.
Evric considered the situation carefully in his mind, weighing up what course of action to take. Finally, he came to a decision.
"Pssst," he hissed at her.
The girl flinched, looking around for the source of the noise. She caught his gaze and stood up to face him slowly.
Her eyes were a gorgeous brown, flecks of gold making them burn like fire. They were framed by streaks of deep purple dyed into her brown hair. Her lips had a fullness to them, and her cute button nose was pierced with a small stud of silver. A smile flickered across her face as she dusted her palms off on her thighs.
"Psst! You there! Girl!" he said, a little more urgently this time. Her smile faded a little, and she looked back at the cottage.
"Are you speaking to me?" she asked him.
Even her voice was attractive, he thought. Easy and tomboyish, but feminine too - like a catchy tune played in a cosy tavern.
"Who else, girl? There isn't much time, you really must pay attention to me."
Evric did his best to sound urgent but calm, emulating Master Fandell - one of his instructors from The Order of the Sun. Despite his best efforts to do so however, she almost seemed to laugh as he spoke, covering a grin with her hand.
"Oh, I see. Are you lost, Woodsman? Or did you just come to stare?"
She tossed her hair, smiling innocently at him. Something uncomfortable in him stirred and a wave of heat flushed his face.
"Er... No. Not staring, um, I'm not sure... where you got that from. Anyway, sorry, it's just - I'm here to rescue you."
She giggled.
"From this conversation?"
Feeling very stupid and unsure of what to say, he lifted his sword plainly into her view - hoping it would impress the seriousness of what was happening.
"Listen, girl. You need to pay attention. You're in serious, serious danger. Where is the Witch?"
Evric moved closer, resting his sword against one shoulder as he reached the fence of the cottage. He expected - or even hoped - that she would show even a flicker of fear at the sight of his weapon; however, she simply rolled her eyes.
"Wow," she drawled. "Serious, serious danger. That sounds... serious.
And
dangerous. As for the witch, she's probably just a little exhausted and in need of some tea and dinner."
She walked backward towards the cottage, her eyes on his sword as his own eyes widened in realisation.
"
Witch,
" he cried in horror. He assumed his stance as he'd been trained, taking up a guard position with his sword trained toward her.
"Mirella the Malevolent, Hexen-blood of The Forest, I demand that you be held to justice--"
"Mirella the Malevolent?" she chortled. "Whoa, that's so lame. The villagers a hundred years ago came up with nicknames that were like, way cooler than that. That's very average. Also," her eyes flicked down to his weapon.
"That sword isn't very big," she said meaningfully.
"It's--you--" he spluttered. Never in all his days at the academy did they prepare him for this.
Mirella arched an eyebrow, tilting her hips in a way that made him feel even more powerless.
"This sword was issued to me by the Holy Order of The Sun - and it's
normal size
, Witch!" he roared.
With one slick motion, he swiped his sword across the ignition plate set into his belt. The blessed oil on his blade ignited. He smirked confidently as the familiar roar of the flaming blade popped and crackled as he twirled it in the air.
"With steel, with the fire of the sun!" he shouted, feeling more powerful than ever.
"For the glory of the Order and the Gods--"
