II-14: A Witch's Ire
Greg held the bloodstained straw doll loosely in his hands, his nose wrinkling. Every time his fingers brushed against the twisted fibers, they seemed to catch and drag across his skin like tiny hooks trying to dig in. The thing just... reeked of something wrong, like someone had dunked it in a vat of pure, concentrated, evil and left it to marinate. Every time he had to hold it to refresh the trail, and follow this winding fucking path, he was all too aware of how his skin crawled like ants were marching up and down his arms.
He knew it wasn't really the doll's fault - it was just straw and cloth and string tied together to look like a person - but still...
"Gahhh..." He grimaced, tossing it back into his bag like it might suddenly come alive and try to bite his face off.
The leather bag thumped against his hip as he adjusted the strap, the weight of his other supplies shifting inside. The doll was his only real lead on whatever trail he was following, and that was way more unsettling than he wanted to think about right now. At least bandits make sense. This is just... wrong.
Speaking of unsettling…
The events of two nights ago kept playing through his mind on repeat, like some messed up highlight reel. Half of it came in flashes, bits and pieces that didn't quite connect, while the other half felt burned into his brain forever, clear as HD. The bandits at Hollow Hill had scattered like roaches when the lights came on, bolting for the trees as he took down their horses and men like some twisted medieval remake of the Matrix. Minus the gun-fu.
The ones left lying on the ground had been barely breathing, and none of them were exactly in any shape to chat. Hard to talk when you're trying not to bleed out.
The villagers had looked at Greg like he was freaking Superman when they all came flooding out of their homes, cheering his name—which, okay, he totally was—something that made the village chief's face twist up like he'd bitten into a lemon. They had even seemed ready to throw another party like back in Northbank, which... yeah, no.
Greg wasn't really in the mood for another round of "drink until you make big mistakes."
That's when the idea had hit him to question one of the few conscious bandits.
Well, "conscious" was pushing it.
Conscious-ish.
More like "one of the few not actively dying."
Meaning exactly one guy who could actually form words without just gurgling blood.
Greg had been curious about some stuff that didn't add up.
Like, horses weren't exactly cheap around here—more like super expensive, and that was without even talking about stuff like armor and weapons, too. From what Ser Arryk had drilled into his head, a good horse could cost almost one gold dragon, and that was more money than most smallfolk here would see after working for like three years straight. The memory of the old knight's gravelly voice explaining the currency system still stuck with him, probably because it was so ridiculous. Halfpennies, groats, stars, moon, blah, blah.
He shook his head, still annoyed by all of it.
Sure, I don't know jack about horses beyond four legs good, three legs bad, Greg admitted to himself, fidgeting with the strap of his bag as twigs crunched under his boots. The forest around him was quiet except for the occasional bird call and rustle of leaves. But six horses? Plus armor and weapons like crossbows? That was serious cash.
The crossbows alone probably cost more than most villagers made in a year at least.
No way these guys were that good at budgeting. Bandits weren't exactly the type to use spreadsheets, and they could only steal so much before most of it went to keeping their stuff working. The horses needed feed and seed, the weapons needed maintenance, and armor wasn't exactly something you could pick up at Walmart.
The whole thing made him wonder, "Who's supplying you?"
The bandit had just groaned at first, barely making actual words through blood-stained teeth, and Greg had been about to give up on getting answers when the village chief—whose name Greg still hadn't bothered learning because seriously, what a jerk—started yelling at him to get out of the village, his face red in the torchlight.
Greg remembered staring at the guy like he'd grown a second head, the flickering shadows from the torches making everything look even more dramatic. Like, what? I literally just saved your whole village, dude. The villagers seemed to agree, judging by their faces, but Greg wasn't about to get into another fight with some weird chief who probably had control issues or something.
He'd only made it a few feet away, boots squelching in the mud, when that same bandit had wheezed out something that made Greg freeze. A whispered, raspy "...Bolton. Lord Bolton," barely audible over the crackling torches and murmuring villagers.
Nobody else caught it—thank you, weird new super-senses—but Greg had heard it clear as day.
At first, his brain hadn't really processed it, too busy with other stuff that first night.
But since yesterday, when it came back to him after a night of sleeping under Sanctuary? Those words just wouldn't leave him alone, stuck in his head like that one really annoying song you can't stop humming.
The Boltons weren't just some random noble family. From what that knight told him, they were basically the second most powerful house in the North after the Starks.
If the Starks are like the President, Greg thought, scratching his chin as he walked through the forest, then the Boltons are like the Vice President or something.
So that led to the big question. "Why are bandits working for the Boltons?" he asked the empty air, still puzzling over it two days later, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet forest. The bandit could have been lying, but...
Why make up something that crazy? Like, who'd believe that anyway?
True or not, it was weird for a bandit to say something like that. These guys weren't exactly the type to get their paychecks through direct deposit. They were more the "stab first, ask questions never" type.
So if they had good weapons, supplies, and were dropping Bolton's name like that... something seriously stank about the whole thing. Like week-old gym socks levels of stink.
"So many questions..." Greg muttered, his voice trailing off as he watched Ash mess around with some leaves. The bear cub had spotted a tiny lizard sunning itself on a rock and was totally fixated on it, ears perked forward and tiny claws flexing in the dirt. Ash dropped into a crouch, mouth wide open, letting out this long, rumbling growl like if he just kept going, something awesome would happen.
"Ash, stop trying to kill that lizard," Greg sighed, rolling his eyes.
The bear cub made this loud groaning sound and hung his head like a little kid caught doing something wrong, then padded back over to Greg with his tail down, dead leaves crunching under his paws.
Speaking of questions...
Apparently, his bear could breathe fire now.
Just... because.
He wasn't exactly sure how, other than one of his weird power-ups affecting the little guy. Like everything else around here, the rules seem to change whenever they feel like it.
Granted, the bear cub only seemed able to do it at the oddest of times, but… he could.
Which was weird.
A sputtering plume of fire as long as half of his own Igni sign at least, but not quite hot enough to start a small fire just from a second of contact.
The first time it happened, Greg had stared with his mouth hanging open, entirely befuddled until the villagers of Hollow Hill rushed out to distract him. The flames had been bright red with hints of orange at the edges, which probably meant something scientific that he didn't really care about right now.
More than that, Ash seemed to have gotten a little bit smarter as the bear cub seemed more responsive to commands. Not like full-on talking bear smart—which would be so fucking cool, though—but definitely smarter than your average bear cub.
On top of that, his eye color seemed to have changed overnight going from a dark brown to a bright red, which was also really fucking weird, but then again, he wasn't judging.
No, that would make him a hypocrite. After all the weird stuff that's happened to me lately...
Greg pushed his way through the last tangle of branches, thorns catching on his cloak as he shoved forward. He stepped out into a patch of sunlight so bright he blinked, rubbing his eyes and squinting against the sudden glare. The air was sharper here, fresher, like somebody had cranked up the AC in the forest, and as his vision adjusted, he saw it: a thick, clear stream cutting through the landscape, winding lazily across rocks and grass like a snake made of silver glass.
The whole place smelled alive.
Not like Hollow Hill with its blood and smoke, but earthy, vibrant. The air was thick with the smell of wet grass and wildflowers, so different from the stench of burning wood and copper-tang of blood he'd left behind.
A breath of relief. Finally, somewhere that doesn't smell like death.
Then he saw it—a long, rough-hewn wooden fence, stretching off as far as he could see in both directions, strong and tall, nearly seven feet high. The logs were thick, stripped of bark and weathered gray, jammed together tight enough that Greg could barely see through the gaps. At one far end, a watchtower loomed, simple but sturdy, its frame of weathered wood leaning slightly like it had stood there for years and years, keeping an eye on all who wandered near.
Beyond the fence, a cluster of houses, modest but well-kept, with gray-brown walls and thatch roofs golden under the sunlight. There were rows of fields spreading out in different colors—some lush green, others duller, even a few patches in dusty browns, evidence of the season's last harvest. A large tree stood in the center, its branches stretching wide, almost like it guarded the place, leaves rustling in the light breeze.
A large tree stood in the center, its branches stretching wide, almost like it guarded the place.
The sounds of bleating goats and the low mooing of cattle drifted on the breeze, mixing with the chirping of birds overhead. Chickens clucked nearby, somewhere beyond the tree, and Greg could just make out the sound of voices in the village, the low murmur of people going about their day.
"Farming village…" He grinned, a wide, bright smile breaking across his face as his stomach growled at the thought of actual food. "That means fresh supplies!"
Ash looked up at him with wide eyes, his head tilted like a confused puppy, as if he could sense the sudden excitement in Greg's voice. The bear cub's red eyes seemed to glow slightly in the shadow of Greg's cloak.
"Come on, Ash." Greg scooped up the bear cub, chuckling as Ash nuzzled into his arm with a happy little grunt, and in one quick leap, he cleared the fence, landing with a light crunch on the other side. Bits of dried grass crunched under his boots as he dusted himself off, looking around with a mix of curiosity and hunger.
The village was quiet, peaceful, just a few folks moving around between the buildings. He started down a narrow path between rows of low, worn-out cottages, noting the moss clinging to the stone walls, the chipped paint on doors, the patches in the thatch where someone had fixed a leak. It wasn't fancy, but it was… lived in. The kind of place where people actually made their homes, not just existed.
This place felt real, happy almost in a way that Hollow Hill had not. No tension in the air, no feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
As he made his way further, he saw a figure up ahead, hunched over something on the ground, a thin figure of a man in plain brown tunic and trousers, the fabric rough and worn at the knees like he spent a lot of time kneeling in the dirt. Greg slowed his pace, noticing the man had his head in his hands, fingers pressing into his temples, his back trembling like he was trying to hold himself together. Greg craned his neck to get a better look at whatever the guy was kneeling over, and there it was—a calf, collapsed on its side, its ribs rising and falling in shallow, weak breaths. The animal's coat was dull, lacking the shine of health Greg had seen on other cattle.
Oh shit. Greg's chest tightened, a mix of pity and instinct to help creeping up before he could stop it. He took a step closer, eyes fixed on the calf's frail form, bits of straw and dirt clinging to its coat, and the man lifted his head, his face etched with lines of exhaustion and worry.
Greg frowned, watching the man kneeling by the calf, his head bowed like he was at a funeral. He cleared his throat and stepped closer. "Hey, uh… you good?" he asked, his tone as casual as he could manage.
The man blinked and snapped his head to the side, a bit startled, his eyes red-rimmed with worry as he glanced up at Greg. "Good? Lad, I'm watchin' one o' me last calves waste away in front o' me eyes. Good's a long ways off, I'd say."
Greg paused, looking down at the calf, then back to the man on his knees, trying to put the pieces together. "Sick, huh?"
He looked back down at the calf, and bent down beside him, stroking its neck absentmindedly, feeling the coarse hair beneath his fingertips and the weak pulse underneath. The animal's skin felt too hot, like it was burning up from the inside, reminding Greg of the time he'd had the flu last winter. Back when getting sick was just... normal sick.
A thick, musty smell hung around the calf, mixing with the earthy scent of the nearby fields. The man ran a calloused hand over his face, shaking his head, the motion making the wrinkles around his eyes deepen like cracks in old wood. "They're just… dyin', lad. One after another, without no sign nor cause I can find. And this one… well, this is me last good calf. Can't afford to lose another." His voice cracked at the end, raw with worry.
Greg pursed his lips, glancing at the frail creature breathing shallowly in the dirt. Flies buzzed around its nose and eyes, the kind that always showed up when something was dying. The smell of sickness hung in the air, that weird mix of fever-sweat and something else that made his nose wrinkle. Just like the hospital that time Mom broke her arm. "So, what, they just get sick all at once?"
The farmer let out a weary sigh, shoulders slumping like somebody had cut his puppet strings. His clothes, patched and worn, hung loose on his thin frame, the rough fabric stained with mud and who knew what else. Guy probably hasn't been eating much, Greg thought, noticing the sharp angles of the man's face and the way his hands shook slightly.
"Not all at once, no," the old man finally said. "One at a time, last few moons, ye see, like they was bein' plucked off by death itself, that's how. Woods witch can only help so many at once. Fella down the way lost his whole herd last week, an' I'm next, I reckon. If I can't sell me livestock, there'll be nothin' left for the family come winter." He paused, eyes dull as he looked Greg over, taking in the fine clothes partially hidden under the dark cloak, his gaze lingering on the embroidered edges that peeked through.
Greg sighed, shaking his head. Here we go again. Another problem that needs fixing. Why do I always find these things? "Yeah, not even gonna bother asking…" The words slipped out before he could stop them, carried on a breath of frustration.
The farmer lifted his head, confusion flickering across his weathered face like a candle flame. Dirt was smudged across his forehead where he'd wiped it with grimy hands. "What'd ye say, lad?"
"Nothing. Just… hang on." Greg clapped his hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet air, and, just for a moment, let his mind slip to memories of another life, of Greta Veder, the version of him that chose the path of a battle nun. The knowledge flowed through him like water finding its path downhill, familiar yet strange, like remembering someone else's memories.
He took a breath, reaching out over the calf with one hand, his voice steady and clear in the still afternoon air. The words came naturally now, after days of practice. "Oh sacred light, dispel the pain, in blessed calm, our strength regain. Divine radiance, soothe our woes, As healing warmth within us grows. Ministrations."
A faint golden light pulsed from his hand, soft and warm like sunlight through honey, pooling around his fingers and soaking into the calf's trembling body. The quiet hum of his words seemed to still the air, making everything else fall away as he focused on the healing. Even the birds seemed to quiet down, like they knew something important was happening. The light flickered and danced, casting strange shadows on the ground.
The calf's shuddering eased under the glow, its labored breaths evening out as strength seeped back into its limbs. The sickly heat faded from its skin, replaced by healthy warmth, like a fever breaking. Its coat began to shine, the dull, matted fur smoothing out under the healing light. Slowly, it lifted its head, eyes clearing from that sickly glaze like clouds parting after rain, and then, as if nothing had happened, it pushed itself up, weak but standing. Its legs wobbled a bit, like a newborn trying to find its feet, hooves scrabbling slightly in the dirt.
It let out a soft, grateful moo, nudging into Greg's palm with its wet nose. Greg laughed, a big smile tugging at his face as he scratched behind its ear. The calf's coat already looked better, losing that dull, sick look, the shine coming back like someone had polished it. "There we go, bud."
The farmer's jaw had dropped, his gaze shifting from Greg's hand to his face, then to the weirwood necklace resting on Greg's neck. The red leaves carved into the white wood seemed to glow in the afternoon light. "M-m-m…" The color drained from his face as he took a stumbling step back, boots scuffing in the dirt as his eyes went wide and his already trembling hands started shaking harder. "M'lord, sent by the old gods, ye must be!"
Greg made a little noise as he nearly choked on his own spit, his eyes going wide. Oh hell no, not this again. Why does everyone jump straight to 'gods' around here?
"No. No, no, no, I'm not. Please, don't say that. To anyone. Ever." He emphasized, voice almost cracking into a squeak at the end, his Maine accent getting thicker with stress.
The farmer rubbed a rough hand over his head, looking abashed but hopeful, like a kid who'd just found out Santa was real. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air. "M-mikken, m'lord," he introduced himself with a bow, his hand pressed to his chest as if that alone could convey his gratitude. The motion was awkward, like he'd never had to bow before and was making it up as he went, nearly losing his balance in the process.
Greg sighed, closing his eyes. "There's the 'm'lord' again," he muttered to himself, feeling a headache coming on. Every single time. He opened his eyes, fixing Mikken with a look, but the man's hopeful expression softened him a little. Like kicking a puppy. A really dirty, medieval puppy. "Look, just… call me Greg, all right?"
Mikken blinked in confusion, mouth opening and closing like he'd been asked to call a stag a sparrow. His whole face scrunched up like the idea physically hurt him, weathered skin creasing into deep lines. A few chickens scratched in the dirt nearby, clucking softly. "Aye, aye… M'l… Greg."
"And no 'sent by the gods' talk, either," Greg added, raising an eyebrow. "I'm not here on behalf of anyone, got it?" Last thing I need is more religious stuff. Bad enough with the whole m'lord thing.
The man nodded, though Greg could tell he wasn't quite listening, too caught up in his own thoughts. His eyes kept darting to Greg's hands like he expected them to start glowing again. "But—yer power… yer prayer… m'lo– er, Greg," he corrected hastily, stumbling over the common name like it was foreign, like trying to speak around marbles. "Ye must do the same for me other livestock! They're all I 'ave."
Greg let out a long sigh, scratching the back of his head as he glanced over at Ash, who was watching with bemusement, the bear cub's red eyes glowing slightly in the shadows. A cool breeze rustled through the grass, carrying the smell of hay and manure. Guess I'm doin' more healin' today, he thought, rolling his eyes. That's what I get for stoppin'. Always gotta be the hero, huh?
"Fine," he said, giving Mikken a serious look. "But no talking about it. No 'old gods' business. Just tell people your livestock got… better. Got it?" His voice went flat at the end, trying to sound more stern than his fifteen years usually allowed.
Mikken nodded, though his mind was clearly elsewhere, too busy with thoughts of his rescued livestock to care much for Greg's conditions. His eyes had that far-away look of someone already thinking of something else. Greg didn't have the heart to press further.
An hour later, in the marketplace, Greg scanned the stalls with Ash perched on his shoulder, the bear cub's nose twitching at all the new smells. The market buzzed with activity, voices haggling over prices mixing with the clatter of wooden carts and the bleating of goats from somewhere nearby. It wasn't anything fancy, just a few wooden stalls lined up along the main dirt road, their canvas tops flapping in the cool breeze, but the food looked fresh enough. Dried herbs hung in bunches from the stall roofs, swaying gently, filling the air with a mix of smells that Greg couldn't name but reminded him vaguely of his mom's spice cabinet.
He went from vendor to vendor, gathering up what he needed: a bundle of carrots here, their tops still covered in dirt, a few onions there, firm and brown-skinned, a handful of potatoes that reminded him of the ones his mom used to buy. Each vendor eyed Ash with a mix of fear and curiosity, some pulling their goods back slightly when the bear cub leaned in too close. He had a hunk of small game meat, too, stowed in his pack, wrapped in cloth to keep the flies off. The wrap job wasn't great - medieval food safety standards - but it would do.
At least they've got actual vegetables here, Greg thought, shifting his weight as he counted out copper pennies, remembering some of the villages he'd passed through that barely had anything growing except sadness and poverty. He knew he had some cooking tools in his backpack—thank you, whatever weird power gave me camping gear—and he figured he might as well get used to using them while he's in the forest to avoid stopping into villages just because he wants a hot meal. Gonna make me a good stew, he thought, feeling a grin spread across his face as he imagined the smell of it cooking over a campfire.
"Good stew. Gooooood steeee~ew," he hummed the nonsensical song quietly to himself, drawing curious glances from a few passersby, though he barely noticed even as he sang. The smell of fresh bread from a nearby stall made his stomach growl, mixing with the earthy scent of root vegetables and the sharp tang of pickled something-or-other that he couldn't name but definitely wouldn't try.
He was halfway through a mental list of herbs he might need—rosemary? Is that even a thing here? What even grows in fantasy Scotland?—when he heard it—a voice saying, "There he is," somewhere off to the side, cutting through the general market chatter like a knife through butter.
He glanced up, eyes widening as he saw Mikken heading his way, flanked by a handful of other farmers, all looking just as worn as Mikken had when he first approached Greg. Their clothes were patched and dirty, faces lined with worry, shoulders hunched under invisible weights. Ash let out a low whine, sensing Greg's sudden tension. They were trudging toward him with pleading eyes, hope and desperation hanging thick in the air like fog on a cold morning.
Greg groaned under his breath, barely resisting the urge to facepalm. "Mikken," he muttered, "you promised." Should've known better than to trust medieval Twitter. News travels faster here than dial-up internet.
The farmers pressed in, forming a half-circle around him, their voices a messy tangle of pleas, all jostling over each other to be heard. The smell of sweat and hay and animals clung to them, making Greg's nose wrinkle. A woman nearby pulled her children away, shooting nervous glances at the growing crowd. "Please, lad, ye got ta help me cow," one man was saying, desperation written across his weathered face, his hands twisting the edge of his tunic until Greg thought it might tear.
"Me flock's gone sickly," another voice chimed in, an older woman clutching a shawl around her hunched shoulders, her fingers working the worn fabric like worry beads. Her eyes were red and puffy, like she'd been crying.
"The ewes keep droppin', just like that!" Yet another leaned forward, face pale as milk, words barely more than a gasp. His eyes were red-rimmed like he hadn't slept in days, dark circles underneath making him look half-dead himself.
"Me fields, boy, me whole crop's witherin' like they's been cursed." This from a tall man with shoulders like barn doors, his voice cracking with fear despite his size. His hands, huge and calloused, trembled as he reached toward Greg.
Greg shifted on his feet, trying to follow each request, the volume rising as more joined in, each one louder than the last. They clutched at him, calloused hands extended, voices strained, their panic palpable. Some were pulling at his cloak now, trying to get his attention. The crowd around them had started to take notice, more eyes turning their way, whispers spreading like ripples in a pond. Great, just great. Exactly what I didn't want. Way to keep a low profile, Greg.
All right, all right, he thought, eyes darting between faces creased with worry. Ash growled softly on his shoulder, picking up on the tension. "Okay, okay, one at a time—"
But the chorus of voices stilled, the babble quieting abruptly like a fire doused in water. Even the normal market sounds seemed to die away, leaving an unnatural silence broken only by the distant crow of a rooster and the whisper of wind through canvas awnings. He blinked, frowning as he glanced around, noticing how every one of them had gone silent, their eyes fixed on something over his shoulder. Not just the farmers, but everyone on the street - vendors, customers, children, all frozen like someone had hit pause on the world.
He caught Mikken's low whisper, barely more than a breath, "The woods witch." The words carried a weight that made the hair on the back of Greg's neck stand up.
Greg's brow furrowed. "Woods witch?" he muttered, turning around. Because of course there's a witch. Why wouldn't there be a witch?
Walking down the main road, he spotted the witch, her steps unhurried yet steady, each stride like she had all the time in the world. The packed dirt didn't even seem to make a sound under her feet as she walked closer. The old woman wasn't hunched or frail—not exactly—but something about her frame held an age to it, like she had roots as deep as the oldest trees in the forest. Her clothes were cloaks of once-vibrant green and brown, now faded to shadows of their former colors, layered in a way that blended with the earthy landscape. They rustled with each step, like leaves in the wind, making Greg think of those nature documentaries his mom used to watch.
Her hair, iron-gray and woven into a loose coil at the back of her head, framed a face lined with years but sharp with some strange, quiet intensity. Deep wrinkles mapped her skin like dry riverbeds, but her eyes—holy crap, those eyes—they burned with an awareness that made Greg's skin crawl. Like looking into headlights.
Villagers along the road stepped back, nodding to her with a kind of respectful uncertainty, as if caught between reverence and wariness. A mother pulled her child closer, an old man paled, and even the dogs that had been fighting over scraps went quiet. The space around her seemed different somehow, like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
At her waist, small leather pouches and iron trinkets swung with each step, creating a gentle, metallic rattle that sent a chill through the air. The sound reminded Greg of wind chimes, if wind chimes were made to warn instead of welcome. Dried herbs and bones hung from her belt too, clicking together with each movement. Okay, definitely giving off some serious witch vibes here. Like Halloween met National Geographic.
When her gaze landed on Greg, it was like the forest itself had turned its attention to him, ancient and unyielding. Ash went completely still on his shoulder, not even seeming to breath as the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Ye," she spoke, her voice a harsh rasp that felt like it scraped across the silence, jagged and direct, pointing a finger at him like she was pointing out a trespasser. The single word carried more weight than it should have, like an accusation and a summons rolled into one. Her finger, crooked and knobbed like an old tree branch, didn't waver.
Greg stiffened, every nerve on edge as her eyes pinned him in place. He didn't miss the way her gaze swept over him, sharp and probing, like she was peeling back layers, looking for something hidden deep beneath his skin.
The old woman's eyes locked onto Greg with an intensity that made his skin crawl. Her face was all harsh angles in the weak sunlight, skin weathered and cracked like old leather, deep lines carved into her features by time and hardship. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the whisper of wind through bare branches and the nervous shuffling of the villagers. When she spoke, her voice came out like metal scraping stone, setting his teeth on edge.
"I see ye," she rasped, and Greg fought back a shiver. Her eyes were strange, glazed over but somehow laser-focused, like she was staring straight through him into something deeper, something hidden. Like she can see right into me. "Oh, I see ye clear as them dark clouds callin' a storm."
Her hand dropped with an unnatural slowness that made Greg's heart skip. The disgust in her face was raw and obvious, twisting her already harsh features into something that belonged in his nightmares. The afternoon light caught the deep hollows of her cheeks, casting shadows that seemed to writhe and shift. "Unnatural, ye are. Power bent an' wrong, brought here by who knows what dark will." Her voice shifted, taking on an edge that made the hair on his neck stand up. "Ye fink yer just a lad passin' through?"
The smile that crept across her face made Greg's stomach turn. Her eyes caught what little light there was, reflecting it back with an animal gleam that reminded him of a wolf he'd seen in the woods three nights ago. Behind him, he could hear the shuffle of feet as the villagers pressed closer, drawn by the tension crackling in the air. "No mere lad bears the mark of blighted magic, magic from beyond."
The crowd around them grew restless, muttering and whispering. The sound rippled through the gathering like waves on a pond, growing louder with each passing moment. This is bad. Greg watched as the farmers' faces changed, their trust in him cracking and splintering like ice in spring. He could feel his hands balling into fists, fingernails digging into his palms as frustration built in his chest. The metallic taste of fear coated his tongue. Stay calm, just stay calm— "Look, I'm just here to buy food. I didn't ask for any of this."
The witch caught his glance at the crowd, her mouth twisting into something cruel and knowing. "Oh, don't bother, boy." Her voice rose, carrying across the gathering with terrible certainty, each word falling like stones into still water. "Look at 'em, see it in their eyes. They know. Even if ye don't feel it, they can. The thousand eyes o' the old gods, they've shown it to me."
The air felt thick, heavy with tension and the metallic taste of coming rain. Cold sweat trickled down Greg's back as she continued, her words seeming to draw shadows closer around them all. The temperature seemed to drop with each syllable she spoke. "Air's colder, thicker since ye showed up. Things is... unsettled. Ye fink they don't notice them clouds gatherin' sooner each day, nights pullin' longer? Land itself's shrinkin' back from ye."
Greg tried to speak, but she silenced him with a sharp gesture that cut through the air like a knife. Her voice dropped lower, taking on a haunting quality that made his blood run cold. The faces around him weren't just wary anymore – they were scared, and that scared him more than anything the witch could say. He could see it in their eyes, the way they darted between him and the witch, the way hands tightened on tools that could become weapons.
"Do ye not feel it, me friends?" The witch's whisper somehow carried through the whole crowd, making the words sink into Greg's bones. Every eye was on him now, and he could feel the weight of their stares like physical things. This isn't happening. This can't be happening.
The wind picked up, carrying the smell of wet earth and something older, something that made his nose wrinkle and his stomach clench. Dead leaves skittered across the ground between them as the witch's tattered clothes rustled in the rising breeze. Her voice rose and fell like a tide, each word seemingly drawn from somewhere ancient and dark. "Them beasts howlin' in the dead o' night, no name to 'em, never been seen before, livestock droppin' like flies, an' the Red Messenger high in the skies. Ye fink this just 'appened by chance, do ye?"
She stepped forward, and Greg had to force himself not to retreat, his boots seeming to root themselves to the ground. Her arm swept across the crowd like a curse, fingers splayed as if casting something dark and terrible. "It ain't by chance! It's a sign—a dark power among us, a herald of fings endin'."
The crowd's reaction rippled outward like a stone dropped in still water. Gasps and whispers spread through the gathering, the sound of shuffling feet mixing with frightened murmurs. Greg watched as people started backing away from him, even Mikken, who'd been friendly just minutes before, who'd shared bread and salt with him literally an hour ago. Oh come, I ate with your fucking family, man. Frustration and hurt rose in his chest, bitter and sharp.
"This boy..." The witch's voice sliced through the noise like a blade, each word dripping with venom. Her eyes burned into him, making his skin prickle with unease. The shadows around her seemed to deepen, though the sun still hung high above. "Ain't no mere wanderer. He's a sign, a shadow of fings best left to the dark ages. The wild hunt stirs again in the forests of the North, hear me now! Devils and beasts will walk our earth once more, the kind we only dare speak of by firelight. The long night is wakin'." She spat the last words, letting them hang, heavy and final, in the thickening air.
Greg's chest tightened as the old lady continued to talk, frustration simmering in his veins as the cold wind cut through his cloak. His fingers twitched at his sides, but he forced himself to stay quiet. One wrong word and this gets real bad real fast.
The wise woman turned to face the crowd, her ragged dress dragging through the dirt. Her voice came out in a fierce, poison-laced whisper that somehow carried to every ear. "He works dark magic, an' dark magic feeds on blood. Who among us's vanished in the night since he set foot 'ere? Who among us 'as felt their 'ealth fade? T'ain't by chance, I swear to ye."
she looked back at him, her eyes gleaming with malice. "He takes from the land, from us, to fuel his black arts."
She spun back to Greg, eyes gleaming with something that made his skin crawl. "He takes from the land, from us, to fuel his black arts."
"But 'e helped me, sister," he heard Mikken's wife call out from the crowd. "Fixed 'er arm right up, he did."
"Aye," another added, "an' Mikken's calf what was dyin'. Saved 'er good as new."
The wise woman's face twisted. "Fools, the lot of ye! Ye think them gifts come free?"
Mikken took a hesitant step forward, his weathered face creased with worry. "The wild hunt?" he whispered, voice shaking. "It's just tales, surely..."
"Just tales?" An old man near the back spat. "Me grandfar grandfar's said his grandfar saw 'em once, he did. Took half the village with 'em when they passed."
The woods witch shook her head, triumph flashing in her eyes. Her gnarled fingers clutched at her shawl as a grim certainty settled over her features. "This ain't mere tales. They rode through here once, in the Age of Heroes and they'll do so again if this lad stays. The dead rise to join 'em, demons howl in their wake, an' the endless cold rides beside 'em."
Greg shifted his weight, stomach turning as the morning chill seemed to deepen. Around him, villagers pressed closer, their eyes heavy with growing mistrust. This is getting worse by the second.
"Ye think he brings ye kindness?" she mocked, her lip curling up like a dog about to bite. "Aye, he heals, but at what cost? Power like that don't come from the old gods—it's a trick, a devil's gift. Don't ye see? His magic's a lure, bait to drag us to our own ruin." Her hand jabbed toward him again, finger stabbing the air with each word. "Every step he takes here drags ye closer to disaster. Yer a fool if ye think otherwise."
"I saw lights in the woods," a woman's voice trembled from somewhere in the crowd. "Dancing lights, like me mam used to warn about."
"Aye, an' the wolves," another added, "howlin' different than before. Sounds wrong, it does."
The murmurs grew louder, fear mixing with rising suspicion like thunder before a storm. Greg glanced around, his fists clenching tight enough to hurt. He'd fought bandits, survived the wilderness, faced down things that shouldn't exist, but this?
This was different.
A whole village of people like the last chief was…
Hard to stomach.
At least the guards and regular men back there had his back, willing to argue that guy down for him, here…
Mikken, still at the front, swallowed hard and cast a worried glance Greg's way but couldn't quite meet his eyes. The other farmers shifted nervously, their trust vanishing like morning mist. Those who hadn't come to him for help, who hadn't seen his magic work, looked ready to grab their pitchforks.
Here, even the people he helped didn't even have the guts to say anything.
"Look, I'm just here for..." Greg started, but his voice trailed off as the expressions around him shifted from worried to outright hostile. Great. Just great. Thanks, old lady. The morning light caught on tools that suddenly looked too much like weapons.
The wise woman's gaze bore into him, triumph written across her weathered face. "Leave, boy. Leave now, while ye still can. Or stay, and let the Old Gods take ye."
"We don't want no trouble here," someone called out. "Best ye go, lad."
"Aye," another agreed, "fore somethin' happens what can't be undone."
The murmur around him grew to a quiet chant, the villagers shifting back as if to make way for him. Greg glanced around, sighing as the familiar weight of Ash settled on his shoulder. "...Look, I promise I'm not unnatural."
At that moment, Greg felt his soul expand in a quick burst, his eyes unfocusing slightly. He blinked a second later and glanced down at the slight weight he felt around his neck, a bright blue scarf, finely embroidered and trimmed with white, hanging around his shoulders.
"...this?" He shrugged, trying to play it off. "It's a scarf, I mean... what's unnatural about tha-?"
On his shoulder, Ash took that exact moment to raise his head and burp, a small plume of flame leaving the excited bear's mouth.
The teenager let out a long, low sigh.
"...so, is the front gate that way, or...?"
10k Words - 100 GP
Roll: An Iconic Accessory [Final Fantasy III] {Making} (Free) -Every warrior of light has one. Whether it is a pendant, a silver belt buckle, a cross-shaped brooch, or three buckles worn across the chest. It is a simple piece of gear with no special effects that finds a way to integrate with any form or equipment you have. Think of it as a signature.
Grimoire Points: 350