Thought I might as well get the second chapter up since the first was so short, what do you guys think? Worth pursuing?

"And where might you be heading off to so early in the morn?" Hazel, elder witch of the clan asked, as Moira tiptoed down the stairs. "Escaping your mother again?"

"You'll do best to keep your mouth shut Hazel," Moira snapped back in a scolding tone, reaching for her scarf, for the morning still held a chill about it. "You know how my mother despises messengers, especially when they send messages of me. Remember poor Kale?"

Kale had been one of the owls the clan had trained to deliver messages; one unfortunate day, one of the witches had followed Moira to the Kingdom, when she'd been no more than a lass, sent word to Efah, Moira's mother, that Moira had been seen celebrating the young princesses birthday at the festival.

Furious with her daughter, Efah set about cooking in a rage and that night they had Kale soup. Moira remembered she had cried for days after, for that owl had been her favourite and had always affectionately nipped at her clothing when she'd returned home.

"I have no intention of telling your mother dear child," Hazel stated, beginning to rock gently in her chair. "For I am an old woman and I do not need these troubling matters, effecting my health."

Moira snorted as she left the house, trying not to roll her eyes as well. Hazel, despite being the oldest witch, would probably outlive them all.

Turning to look at the house, she sighed. It had been a beautiful little cottage once, with a babbling brook that had run along the side, running up to the old barn that had once housed what Moira believed had been horses, sheep's, cows and an abundance of other farmyard animals. She imagined that the weeds that stuck outside the edges of the house had once been colourful wildflowers that glistened with dew in the morning sunlight.

Now it was a rundown house, where the barn was used to create potions and the babbling brook stood still. No animals ventured near the house and it was a sad fate for a place that Moira imagined had once been filled with beauty.

Moira let slip a small smile; home was not the place she spent her time. Often pretending to go pick herbs, she would sneak off to the secret lake that she had spent many of her days relaxing in the calm company of nature.

Surrounded by rocks, it could only be entered through a secret entrance Moira had grown over with poison ivy, to ward off any curious wanderers.

Running through the forest, as freely as a deer, Moira was thankful for one thing that came with being an outcast. She had no need to worry about the proper attire for a young lady; instead she wore pants like a man, and a white shirt that was torn from catching on branches.

The further she ran, the more the forest began to bloom into life. Swamp gave way to crystal clear rivers. White ashen tree's became large pines, bursting with green life. And the grey floor became a carpet of flowers that felt soft against her bare feet.

If Moira could be born again, she'd wish to be born to a good witch, one who held nature in her palms with loving care. A dark witch had no use of nature unless it had pointy teeth or sharp thorns that might blind the enemy, which was everyone who wasn't a dark witch or wizard.

Sadly, just as much as Princess Rosalind was beloved by all, Moira was equally hated by the kingdom. They'd even gone as far as telling ridiculous prophecies that Moira would try to overthrow the kingdom, only to be slain by Rosalind and the kingdom would once again know peace.

Slain, what a silly word to use. Unlike her great-grandmother, quite a few generations removed, the power of taking a dragons shape was lost to them and the witch blood was thinning slowly. They were not a powerful race anymore; Moira only had the power she had because of her rich blood from two magical bloodlines.

Slowing as she approached the bridge, Moira hid under it. Though it'd been widely spread that Prince Derek would take a different route, Moira was certain they would come this way. Why would they make such a thing publicly known, unless it was a folly to try to keep people like her from discovering his real route.

From his kingdom, the prince could only take a few routes and Moira decided that the royals were smart enough to know that the closer they were to the enemy, the less they might be suspected.

She imagined right about now, a huge carriage with two dozen guards were crossing the bridge which had been publicly announced to the world. While her mother had no interest in the Prince, Moira was extremely focused on making Moira suffer in any way she could.

Prince Derek and Princess Rosalind had been rumoured to be engaged and that had been enough motivation for Moira to take interest in him. Rosalind, with her perfect dimples and bright blue eyes charmed anyone with her smile. Moira wondered what kind of look the princess would wear when she heard the news of her fiancé being kidnapped by a witch.

Moira had considered killing him, that's what her mother would have wanted from her. To let royalty live was not something their kind was prone to. In fact, her mother had killed the queen, when she'd sent a plague among the kingdom. The king had sent soldiers into the forest, but they'd never found Moira's clan.

An eye for an eye, Moira's mother had said. A husband for a wife. Revenge, as cold as the blood that ran through their bloodline. Now Moira was expected to carry the flame that those before her had.

The sound of an approaching carriage made Moira smirk as she peeked over the stone. She knew immediately it had the prince inside. For one thing, there were too many men outside of the carriage instead of inside. They also hid their swords terribly, which held the emblem of the kingdom of Emeera.

"Time for a little spell casting," Moira muttered under her breath. She began a small, simple chant, known to any dark witch. It was the first spell any cast that held a real skill and challenge to a witch child.

Swampland, marshes, weeds and burrows,

Deadly nightshade and weasel hollows,

Change these people of which I see,

Into something grotesque to thee.

She watched the men outside the carriages bend over in sudden pain. The horses whinnied, as the coachmen pulled tightly on its reins as he held his stomach in the unimaginable discomfort he felt.

Moira had experienced the effect of such a spell once herself as well, and knew that their stomachs bubbled and their skin felt tight on their bones. She watched them turn green and slowly shrink until their bodies morphed into small frogs, leaving their clothes empty on the ground.

While the spell could be a permanent one, Moira preferred to leave them only temporarily as frogs. By nightfall, they would have regained the shapes of men and gone running to the king about the powerful witch that had cursed them. At least Moira hoped they'd call her powerful; their was nothing quite so rude as being called, 'an ugly, wart covered witch,' which she was not. If the wart at the side of her nose did not hold all her power, she would have been inclined to cut if off a long time ago.

Stepping onto the bridge, Moira smiled, waiting for the prince to emerge from the coach. She had the perfect spell waiting for him and she was eager to try it on what she imagined would be an indignantly rude and pompous ass.

However, that was not what she was met with.