Prelude: The Grey Witch
The children of Brecon called her the Grey Witch. It was said that she could kill with a thought, and that anyone venturing near her lonely abode in the hills would be cast down into the fiery pits of hell itself. Visitors to the town were warned by men and children alike to stay out of the vicinity of her cottage. Stories were told in smoke-filled taverns about how the hag could make herself appear to be a beautiful young maiden with silver hair, and that any hapless onlooker witnessing this illusion would be enthralled instantly, and forced to do the witch's bidding. Other stories were exchanged by the women of the town. In hushed voices they would chatter over their sewing about the witch's ability to lure husbands from their wives and children from their beds, all to their doom in her large, cast-iron pot. Cloudy days were known amongst the townsfolk as 'Witching Days', because it was then that her power was strongest.
~~~
On one such cloudy day, the Grey Witch was kneeling in her garden, pruning back a particularly aggressive rose bush with her favorite ivory-handled clippers. She enjoyed the cloudy days because the sun did not beat down so strong, and she could work for long hours without breaking a sweat. Clouds also meant that rain was on the way, and her roses needed plenty of rain to grow. Even this late in the season, after the flowers have long since dropped, they would still be thirsty. She cooed to the plant in front of her, assuring it that it would not go long without nourishment. Aside from a large black cat that had taken up residence under her porch, the plants were her only companions, and she conversed with them regularly.
Rising to her feet, she gathered up the clippings and turned to walk them to the back of the house, where she kept her compost. As she turned, the path leading up to her home caught her eye. The clouds had parted enough to let a single ray of sunlight dance across the valley below, and it had reflected off of polished metal. There, on the path to her house, to the most feared place in Brecon, stood a horse and rider. The person was most certainly not from town, nobody there would be foolhardy enough to come to her home. The bright gleam of metal only served to reinforce her assumption; the townsfolk were not the type to keep their tools in that sort of pristine condition. Her expression darkened as she tightened her grip on her clippers. The person, whoever he was, had better have a good reason to disturb her solitude, or he would pay dearly; he would pay with blood. As the clouds closed again, the rider continued his long trek along the path. It would still be some time before he reached his destination.
The grey witch forced herself to calm her anger. She hadn't expected to react that violently to a visitor, but then, it had been some time since she had seen anyone even this close to her home. She absently pulled her long, silver hair back as she walked to the compost heap. Her baggy work clothes were a mess, and she had the notion to change into something more presentable, but she couldn't really remember if she had clothes that were presentable. Of course there probably wasn't enough time anyway, and why should she change? She was the Grey Witch, the Hag of Brecon. If she looked homely in these clothes, then she was only playing the part well. She opened the door to her cottage and was greeted with a loud, angry hiss. How could she have let herself be caught off guard? Tensing, she brandished her clippers to defend herself. The black cat darted quickly past her legs, it's cackles raised in alarm. She sighed and shook her head, she must be getting old, she couldn't remember having let the cat in the house. She couldn't quite understand why it had reacted that way though. She looked at her reflection in the murky washbasin. Her hair could use a trim, but she didn't think she looked that terrifying. As she washed her hands in the basin, she watched through a window as the rider approached, but he was still too far away to make out clearly.
The water in the basin had turned an interesting shade of red by the time she realized she was in pain. She yanked her hands out of the water and examined them closely. There was a long gash across the back of her left hand, which she quickly bandaged with a spare cloth. Reaching into the basin again with her right hand, she carefully felt around until she could grasp the hilt of the tool that had caused the wound and pull it from the water. She stared at it for a while before realizing what it was. It was her old adventuring dagger, still sharp because she had not used it for quite some time. She had stored it in a box along with...
She slowly backed away from the basin. How could the dagger have gotten here? That box was locked away. It couldn't have gotten out. She turned and ran for her bedroom, for the bed under which she had hidden all of her memories. The door to her room slammed against the wall as she burst in, but before she could make it to the bed her foot collided with something solid and she fell to the floor. Sitting up, her back to the door, she slowly reached behind her to touch the oblong box that had tripped her; that she knew was there, lying in the middle of the floor where it shouldn't be. As her fingers felt the wood, the box began to vibrate. It was impossible, she knew that it was over, it had to be over. Her life was so peaceful now, so quiet, but that tranquility was rapidly slipping through her fingers. She didn't want to look at what was lurking in that box, but a force of will that was not her own compelled her to. As she turned her head to look at it, the box lid sprang open with unholy force. She covered her face as she cried out in anguish. There, strapped into the box that had contained it for six long years, was her sword, Valentine.
Memories that had been carefully locked away rushed back into her mind unabated as Isabella Valentine sat weeping on the floor of her cottage. Her tears fell freely on the sword, and it writhed within it's leather containing straps, reacting to its creator's presence. The links of it's multi-segmented blade ground together in a vain effort to free itself. She didn't move for some time until the wind bore the soft sound of a horse's whinny to her ears. Drying tears of regret for the past and of fear for the future, she grasped the hilt of her sword and pulled it free from its restraints. It burst into a whirling vortex of metal and lightning and twirled around her as she rose, exulting in its newfound freedom. She closed her eyes. The raging torrents of emotion that had been flooding through her mind calmed, and she became one with her sword once more. When she willed it, the errant segments of the blade returned to the hilt and latched together with a soft click. Her eyes opened.
Perhaps she would change into something more presentable after all.
~~~
Disclaimer: Apparently I do not own SCII or any of its characters.
The children of Brecon called her the Grey Witch. It was said that she could kill with a thought, and that anyone venturing near her lonely abode in the hills would be cast down into the fiery pits of hell itself. Visitors to the town were warned by men and children alike to stay out of the vicinity of her cottage. Stories were told in smoke-filled taverns about how the hag could make herself appear to be a beautiful young maiden with silver hair, and that any hapless onlooker witnessing this illusion would be enthralled instantly, and forced to do the witch's bidding. Other stories were exchanged by the women of the town. In hushed voices they would chatter over their sewing about the witch's ability to lure husbands from their wives and children from their beds, all to their doom in her large, cast-iron pot. Cloudy days were known amongst the townsfolk as 'Witching Days', because it was then that her power was strongest.
~~~
On one such cloudy day, the Grey Witch was kneeling in her garden, pruning back a particularly aggressive rose bush with her favorite ivory-handled clippers. She enjoyed the cloudy days because the sun did not beat down so strong, and she could work for long hours without breaking a sweat. Clouds also meant that rain was on the way, and her roses needed plenty of rain to grow. Even this late in the season, after the flowers have long since dropped, they would still be thirsty. She cooed to the plant in front of her, assuring it that it would not go long without nourishment. Aside from a large black cat that had taken up residence under her porch, the plants were her only companions, and she conversed with them regularly.
Rising to her feet, she gathered up the clippings and turned to walk them to the back of the house, where she kept her compost. As she turned, the path leading up to her home caught her eye. The clouds had parted enough to let a single ray of sunlight dance across the valley below, and it had reflected off of polished metal. There, on the path to her house, to the most feared place in Brecon, stood a horse and rider. The person was most certainly not from town, nobody there would be foolhardy enough to come to her home. The bright gleam of metal only served to reinforce her assumption; the townsfolk were not the type to keep their tools in that sort of pristine condition. Her expression darkened as she tightened her grip on her clippers. The person, whoever he was, had better have a good reason to disturb her solitude, or he would pay dearly; he would pay with blood. As the clouds closed again, the rider continued his long trek along the path. It would still be some time before he reached his destination.
The grey witch forced herself to calm her anger. She hadn't expected to react that violently to a visitor, but then, it had been some time since she had seen anyone even this close to her home. She absently pulled her long, silver hair back as she walked to the compost heap. Her baggy work clothes were a mess, and she had the notion to change into something more presentable, but she couldn't really remember if she had clothes that were presentable. Of course there probably wasn't enough time anyway, and why should she change? She was the Grey Witch, the Hag of Brecon. If she looked homely in these clothes, then she was only playing the part well. She opened the door to her cottage and was greeted with a loud, angry hiss. How could she have let herself be caught off guard? Tensing, she brandished her clippers to defend herself. The black cat darted quickly past her legs, it's cackles raised in alarm. She sighed and shook her head, she must be getting old, she couldn't remember having let the cat in the house. She couldn't quite understand why it had reacted that way though. She looked at her reflection in the murky washbasin. Her hair could use a trim, but she didn't think she looked that terrifying. As she washed her hands in the basin, she watched through a window as the rider approached, but he was still too far away to make out clearly.
The water in the basin had turned an interesting shade of red by the time she realized she was in pain. She yanked her hands out of the water and examined them closely. There was a long gash across the back of her left hand, which she quickly bandaged with a spare cloth. Reaching into the basin again with her right hand, she carefully felt around until she could grasp the hilt of the tool that had caused the wound and pull it from the water. She stared at it for a while before realizing what it was. It was her old adventuring dagger, still sharp because she had not used it for quite some time. She had stored it in a box along with...
She slowly backed away from the basin. How could the dagger have gotten here? That box was locked away. It couldn't have gotten out. She turned and ran for her bedroom, for the bed under which she had hidden all of her memories. The door to her room slammed against the wall as she burst in, but before she could make it to the bed her foot collided with something solid and she fell to the floor. Sitting up, her back to the door, she slowly reached behind her to touch the oblong box that had tripped her; that she knew was there, lying in the middle of the floor where it shouldn't be. As her fingers felt the wood, the box began to vibrate. It was impossible, she knew that it was over, it had to be over. Her life was so peaceful now, so quiet, but that tranquility was rapidly slipping through her fingers. She didn't want to look at what was lurking in that box, but a force of will that was not her own compelled her to. As she turned her head to look at it, the box lid sprang open with unholy force. She covered her face as she cried out in anguish. There, strapped into the box that had contained it for six long years, was her sword, Valentine.
Memories that had been carefully locked away rushed back into her mind unabated as Isabella Valentine sat weeping on the floor of her cottage. Her tears fell freely on the sword, and it writhed within it's leather containing straps, reacting to its creator's presence. The links of it's multi-segmented blade ground together in a vain effort to free itself. She didn't move for some time until the wind bore the soft sound of a horse's whinny to her ears. Drying tears of regret for the past and of fear for the future, she grasped the hilt of her sword and pulled it free from its restraints. It burst into a whirling vortex of metal and lightning and twirled around her as she rose, exulting in its newfound freedom. She closed her eyes. The raging torrents of emotion that had been flooding through her mind calmed, and she became one with her sword once more. When she willed it, the errant segments of the blade returned to the hilt and latched together with a soft click. Her eyes opened.
Perhaps she would change into something more presentable after all.
~~~
Disclaimer: Apparently I do not own SCII or any of its characters.