Novel - There Will Be Blood

[Tyson]

Prologue: Bloodwitch

Daphid shivered, trying to shake off the cold hands of midnight to no avail, the chill had already gained a firm grasp on his body. His bones ached, his nose ran and each breath left his mouth in a puff of steam to rise heavenward. He shivered again and tightened his grip on the pitchfork. He wished it were a sword. A big sword. But if wishes were stitches he would sow himself a coat. A big coat. But he was a farmer, and farmers owned pitchforks not swords. So he clutched his pitiful weapon in a white knuckled grip and fumbled over a low stone wall that surrounded the old wooden shack.



He didn't claim to be brave, plowing fields didn't require him to be, but when your daughter is in peril a man has to act, regardless of the danger. It is his duty. Daphid swallowed his fear though he could still feel it twisting in his stomach.



The flickering glow of candlelight leaked from an open window and danced across the garden as he picked his path between half grown vegetables and odd looking flowers. He winced at each crunching step, praying to a thousand nameless gods that the bloodwitch was as deaf as she looked.



Crouching under the window, he was too scared to peer inside and discover what awaited him. Silently he cursed his friends who hid like cowards when he pleaded for help. Who could blame them, Narine was a monster, worse than a monster and his sweet little Salla, he didn't want to think of what had become of his little girl. Even halfwits knew the stories; a bloodwitch didn't steal children for tea and sweetcakes.



Slowly he rose high enough to sneak a look inside of the shack. Wax candles illuminated walls lined with dried flowers and rotting fruit. Dotted about the room stood glass jars filled with blood. Black blood. Sinful blood. An owl screeched somewhere in the depths of the forest causing him to retreat his head from the window. A bead of sweat ran down his face, a trickle of urine on the inside of his leg. His lungs screamed for air but he refused to breathe lest a gasp of breath give him away.



After a silent minute he chanced another look. The room remained unchanged, the only movement was the candlelight that danced amongst darkness. He scanned the shack again looking for the shriveled stature of the bloodwitch, instead his glance found the limp body of Salla lying on a wooden bench, her limbs bound with thick rope. If it were possible his heart would have beat faster. Her petite chest moved with signs of life, thank the gods.



Gripping his pitchfork in one hand he heaved himself through the low window and across a table, knocking more than a few glass jars in his clumsiness. He caught a jar of blood as it teetered on the edge of the table threatening to crash on the floor. The shack only consisted of one room and the bloodwitch was nowhere to be seen. Daphid rushed over to his daughter, dropping the fork in his haste to untie her feet. His fingertips brushed her pale skin as he worked to loosen the knot, he pulled back his hand in horror. Her sickness had worsened, her flesh as cold as snow. He rolled the sleeve on her blue gown to examine her arm. The bulging black veins in her chest had snaked their way almost to her fingertips.



"One more week and your sweet little strawberry will be ripe for juicing," cackled a sharp voice.



Daphid spun almost tripping on his pitchfork. The withered old bloodwitch entered through the front door, her arms full of dry firewood which she threw onto a table at the far end of the shack. She brushed off her pale black veined hands and turned to give Daphid a wide gummy smile.



All his fear clawed its way back up his throat with a taste of bile. "Wh...why" he stuttered.



"Why take the child?" the old woman giggled. "The sky is a city, the stars are gods and power is bought with blood."



She lifted the hem of her patched dress and pottered over to a grey cauldron that hung above the embers of a dying fire.



"Not my Salla, not my little girl," he cried. Futilely he still tugged at the rope that bound his daughter to the bench. A knife. Should have brought a knife, he thought, cursing his own stupidity. "Me. Take me instead, I beg you, let her go."



Narine gave him another wide smile, the candlelight revealed a few decayed teeth at the back of her mouth. "Farmer blood,” she scoffed “Your blood is useless to me, powerless."



She tossed a handful of ugly vegetables into the cauldron and snapped her fingers, the embers hissed and glowed then burst into a reinvigorated furnace that engulfed the iron cauldron.



“Too much, too much damnation you,” she barked at the raging fire that had already begun to claw at the wooden timbre of the shack. She batted at the flames that threatened to swallow her, though they danced away before they could so much as singe the old woman. “Stop, away with you.”



Daphid watching in astonishment as the flames receded back to embers at the bloodwitch’s chastisement.



“I will not suffer it, not in my house. That was your last chance, any further foolery and you will be gone, you hear me, gone,” Narine mumbled to herself. “If you want something done properly, do it yourself.”



She stooped to try and blow life back into the dying embers of the fire. “On my hands and knees like a peasant,” she moaned after four unsuccessful breaths.



Daphid wanted nothing more than to creep away from the mad old woman whilst her back was to him. He could leave the horrid shack and the gnarled trees of Everwood behind and escape back to his village. There was nothing more he could do for Salla, deep down he knew it, he knew from the first moment her chest turned purple then black from the bad heart the gods had cursed her with. But he could not face his wife again knowing he had abandoned their daughter.



“May the gods watch over you Harle,” he whispered.



Lifting the pitchfork from the ground took every drop of willpower in his body. Narine still stooped under her cauldron muttering to the embers that slowly faded away. He would never have a better chance of killing the bloodwitch, one strong thrust and the fork would impale the bloodwitch’s pale body.



He moved fast, faster than he had ever moved before and charged at the old witch. She looked so small and frail. Black veins bulged from her arms, neck and even her face. Fine white hair grew from her scalp in clumps. He felt a fool ever being scared of this little old woman.



Narine’s head snapped around at his footfalls and she dug her long nails into the ground. Dahpid tripped and hit the ground hard, his mouth filled with blood from where he had bit his own tongue.



“Fool,” she snarled, slowly picking herself up from the floor. “You should have left whilst I gave you the chance.”



Daphid spat blood into the dirt and looked in horror at what had tripped him. An arm protruded from the ground formed from soil and roots of long dead trees, a worm wriggled near its elbow and more than a few beetles scuttled away as it fought to keep a tight grip on Daphids ankle.



He yelped and with his free leg kicked at the arm. The roots broke apart though the shape of a hand till clung to his ankle. Another arm burst from the ground to his left spraying soil across the shack, he kicked out again but two more arms rose to restrain his legs. Soil filled the air as more and more arms erupted from the ground around him, pulling at his clothes. He reached behind and felt around for the pitchfork. Grasping the wooden handle he swung the fork around his body wildly, stabbing and beating the root limbs back into dirt.



He rose still fighting more arms that tried to pull him back to the ground but he was a farmer, if there was one thing Daphid was good at it was breaking soil. He destroyed the patch of dirt around him regardless if it was an arm or not, he plunged his fork into the ground and ripped the dirt up. The once compact earth inside Narine’s shack had now been transformed into a mess of soft soil and broken roots, the last few arms broke apart easily and crumbled to add to the pile of dirt at the farmers feet.



“Just kill him, before the oaf breaks any of our jars,” hissed Narine, though Daphid couldn’t see who she was talking to.



No new arms had sprouted from the ground so he set his sights back on the bloodwitch and stepped forward. The explosion of light made him retrace his steps as the fire once again burst back into life engulfing the cauldron and the little bloodwitch who stood beside it. He shaded his eyes with his arms and backed away from the heat of the flames. Long tendrils of fire snaked along the ground towards him, he fumbled backwards wide eyed and his back bumped against the shelves that lined the far wall of the shack, trapping him.



Using the pitchfork he tossed dirt at the approaching fire though it did little to hinder their approach or quench their ferocity, he threw the fork at them in frustration and fear. The shelves were full of worn books, dead flowers and things that no farmer would recognize but he sifted through the shelves looking for something, anything.



Blood. Three jars full of it sat on the highest shelf, though Daphid was tall enough to reach a jar standing on his toes. He turned back to the approaching tendrils ready to empty the black liquid onto the flames.



“No, wait” screamed Narine, he could vaguely make out her outline amongst the flames. “Wait.”



Daphid and the fire hesitated.



“Put the blood down and you can leave,” called the bloodwitch from the other side of the shack.



“And my girl?”



“Is worth five jars. The girl stays,” she snapped. “Just leave and be grateful for that.”



He could go. He had already travelled deep into the Everwood and fought the bloodwitch herself, what more could anyone ask of him. Farmers were not made for fighting.



“That’s it, just put it on the table there and you are free to leave.” The fire calmed a little and the tendrils of flame pulled back away from him. “Your daughter has already gone. There is nothing you can do to save her, there is no way back. I would know.”



She was right, he knew. If Narine didn’t take her, his little Salla would become a bloodwitch herself or the hunters would come for her. Defeated, he placed the jar of blood on a table to his right.



“I’ll go.” A tear ran down his left cheek as he looked at Salla lying limp and pale. The last time he will look upon his daughters face.



“Good, sensible,” said Narine. The fire had now retreated back to a steady flame underneath the cauldron and he could see the bloodwitch once again, unharmed from the flames that had swallowed her.



Daphid carefully made his way to the door, torn between keeping a watchful eye on the bloodwitch and stealing glances at his daughter. He pushed the crooked door open and hesitated.



“I won’t give you this chance again farmer,” warned the bloodwitch.



He wiped away a tear from his cheek and a coating of sweat from his forehead, and then took off into the shadowy depths of the Everwood.



#



Narine watched the farmer run into the night and turned back to her pot of stew, the water bubbled and spat, the vegetables were charred from the fires over eagerness to consume the peasant.



“You wrecked my supper,” said Narine.



The fire cackled back. Had flames always cackled like that? She couldn’t remember. Three hundred and thirty six years can make memories cloudy. She plucked a large spoon that hung on the wall beside the cauldron and stirred the burnt stew a little before tasting. Narine had always been awful at cooking, but this was worse than awful, she spat the stew into the fire. It hissed in annoyance.



“Shut up. It would’ve been fine if you hadn’t melted everything.”



Cackling.



Sighing, she walked away from her stew not hungry anymore and sat next to the farmer’s daughter, Salla he had called her. It was the only chair in her house, why would there be any more? No one would visit a bloodwitch, she rolled Salla’s sleeve back down her arm, not willingly at least.



A gust of wind blew through the open door and tore around the cabin. It pulled her fine white hair about and whipped her face, though she didn’t feel the chill, a bloodwitch was always cold. The fire roared louder in anger and snapped at the invisible intruder. Narine sat back in the chair, suddenly tired. The wind blew an empty jar on a table behind her and she heard the scrape of glass on wooden as it tumbled off the edge. She closed her eyes and the darkness took her.



“Narine,” whispered a voice. “You are growing weak.”



“Watch your tongue,” she snapped back. “You almost burned my house down. I won’t suffer your temperament any longer.”



The voice cackled. “You shouldn’t have let him go you know.”



“He earned it. It takes a brave man to come looking for me. Besides, they may call me a monster but they will never call me a liar. I keep my word, I said he could go so I will let him go.”



“He was a fool. He tried to throw a pitchfork at me,” the voice cackled again.



“I have already taken his daughter; you would have me take his life as well?”



“Yes.”



Narine responded with silence. In the darkness a light formed in front of her, it grew and shifted until it resolved itself into an outline of a man with a long beard that blew about his face. His features were obscured by the brightness of the light but he when he talked the voice was the same whispering cackle as before.



“He has found your abode Narine, he can find it again. He will come back,” the figure whispered, “with Hunters.”



She knew it to be true. What had she been thinking, letting him run back to the village. Maybe she was growing weaker.



“Do you want to die?” he asked.



“No,” she replied. Life was the only thing she had left.



“Then you know what must be done,” he whispered, she could almost hear the victorious smile on his lips.



“I gave him my word.”



“You said he could go, and he has gone. You didn’t specify the distance.”



Narine struggled to suppress a giggle. She had always liked Belimar, regardless of his cruel ways, he always made people warm to him.



“How long have I known you Narine?” he asked gently. “Two, three hundred years? I am only trying to keep you alive, I’ve become quite fond of you as it happens.”



“You need my blood, nothing else,” she snorted. “Don’t pretend there’s any other reason you keep me alive.”



Belimar chuckled.



“Your right of course, the farmer will bring back Hunters eventually. I’ll send Sucell.”



“Sucell?” Belimar shook his head. “He is more interested in tending his trees than killing this farmer. You saw yourself. Give me blood and the farmer will be dead before the first moon sets.”



“Go then,” Narine reluctantly answered. The outline of the man disappeared as the light faded. “And try not to burn the forest down.”



She opened her eyes as the empty jar smashed on the floor. The fire burnt brighter and higher, once again consuming the pot of stew. A figure detached itself from the flames, a tall man with a long beard. His whole body was formed of fire, it twisted and flickered and burnt the ground as he walked across the cabin and out of the door.



“Belimar,” she called after the flame man. “Don’t let him suffer, do it quickly”



He looked back at Narine cackling and shook his head. His body twisted, the flames roared and the figure no longer resembled a man, but a lean wolf with a long shaggy coat. The cackle sounded more like a snarl as he bounded off in to the shadowy depths of the Everwood.

Edited April 11, 2015 by Tyson

[ollie99 she/her]

Wow. This is a great story thus far. I was worried it would be another typical witch story, but that is not the case at all. I really like the way you introduced the magical elements and the intrigue. Already we get great insight into the characters and a sense of the world they live in. Nice job!

[Tyson]

Thread necromancing

 

Cleaning out my desktop and come across an unfinished chapter 1 which I wrote for this over a year ago. Other projects and ideas, namely the current novel that i'm writing, has taken priority so i'll probably never get round to finishing this novel.

 

Some i'm offering it to any writers who are struggling for inspiration. I have notes (somewhere on my pc), names (a list of characters also hidden in the depths of my pc), a world map (i've found this one lol) and general assistance to give to anyone who wants something to write. I know in my early days I struggled to think of something decent to write and wished someone would just give me an idea.

 

I don't require anything in return. I just like to encourage people to write, so you can change or do anything you like to this story.

[Tyson]

So here's the unfinished chapter 1 if anyones interested.

 

Chapter 1: Bloodstains



Smirk wiped his bloodied sword against the boy’s cloak, leaving a black stain on green wool. A stark reminder of what the boy was. He looked around the town square as folk started to creep from their homes. Maybe he should give a speech, tell them they are safe and bask in the glory. But that wasn’t Smirk’s style. He was a killer, a cold as stone killer, glory didn’t mean anything to him. Instead he rubbed a spatter of blood from his mask and stood to sheathe his weapon.



He should have been ashamed of himself when he looked back down at his victim, the boy was barely fifteen and small for his age at that. The fight had been short lived, he had lopped off an arm somewhere at the edge of the small town and followed the trail of blood to the town square where the boy had tried to make a stand underneath the dule tree. Fool, look where that had gotten him. Lying in the dirt with black blood oozing from his neck.



The boy looked at him with innocent blue eyes and tried to speak. Blood bubbled from his neck faster.



“I’m sorry,” Smirk told him truly. “I had no choice, you are too dangerous.”



The dying boy shook his head slowly.



“You would have been,” replied Smirk. He did feel pity for the lad. He had been running for almost a moon and Smirk wasn’t the only one who hunted him. He looked about the square as it began to fill, folks curiosity prevailing over fear.



“You there,” he pointed at an old man dressed in red and green apothecary robes. "Do you have duskseed?"



"Me sir? Duskseed...no me lord sir." The apothecary replied nervously in a thick Edges accent. He twisted a long white moustache that fell beneath his chin. "I ‘ad some sir, las’ spring, but the seasons ‘aven’t been kind and..."



"What do you have," called Smirk impatiently. The bald old man must have been a poor apothecary to find himself in such a small town so far from a real city.



"I... me lord sir..." the apothecary struggled furrowing his brow and creating more wrinkles to obscure his eyes.



Smirk cut him off with a sigh. "For the lad, something to ease his passing."



"The...of course sir, I ‘ave...Poppyheart and...and River-root...and..."



"River-root will suffice."



"Yes me lord sir." The old apothecary scuttled off to fetch his medicines.



A pool of dark blood surrounded the boy as he futilely fought for breath. Smirk wished he could end the boys suffering, but a bloodwitch didn’t die easy, the corrupted blood let them cling to life longer than a normal man. Legend said Gelger the Grotesque had lived for a year as a disembodied head before the last of her blood was spilt, and the Phantom of Southmoor didn’t have a head at all. There was little he could do for the boy, but give him river-root to soothe the pain and wait until the last drop of vile blood seeped from his pale body.



“Hallow,” he called, the grullo stallion replied with a nicker from where he stood between two small buildings at the edge of the square. Smirk whistled again and his horse reluctantly cantered across the square. After seven years, he hadn't yet decided if the muscled horse was stubborn or lazy. He patted his head and as he searched the saddle bags for his tools. Rope, stake and mallet.



Smirk had set to tying the rope to the boys ankles when the apothecary scuttled back across the town square carrying a glass bottle of blue river-root mixture. The man’s robe flapped in the wind as he approached, green on his right side, red on his left. He hesitated at the boy, reluctant to step in the puddle of blood.



“Here,” said Smirk snatching the bottle from the old man, he crouched and lifted the boy’s head to let him drink the mixture. “Drink lad, it will help the pain.”



The boy didn't really drink the blue liquid but Smirk tipped the contents into his mouth regardless. He looked up but the apothecary had already slipped away, so he tossed the bottle into the dirt and finished the knot at the boys feet. He uncoiled the rope and found an arm length stick to tie to the other end.



Smirk had lost track of how many times he had repeated this cycle, every town had a dule tree at its centre, they were as old as the land itself and stood so tall they looked to be pillars supporting the heavens. The trees were symbols of justice and Smirk had hung scores of bloodwitches from age old trees.



He tossed the stick up and over the trees lowest branch thirty feet above his head, it came back down to the dirt with the rope still tied about it. Untying the knot proved more difficult with his gloved hands but he eventually pried the knot loose and retied it to Hallow's saddle and gave the stallion a slap on his hind. The horse glared at him before slowly walking back across the square, lifting the dying boy feet first into the air.



"That's it Hallow," Smirk called giving the rope a hard tug to signal his mount to halt. The horse happily obliged with a snort.



The boy dangled from the branch upside down, his head several feet from the ground. A criminal you hung by the neck, a bloodwitch by their feet. That was the first lesson a witch-hunter learned.



Smirk wrapped the rope around the stake and beat it into the ground to fix the boy in place, finishing with another knot. It was crude he admitted to himself but it would last.



He placed his tools back into his saddle bags and walked back over to the tree. The boy still watched him though he had given up fighting for breath and black blood dripped from the wound in his throat and fell to the earth. Cutting his head off would bleed the lad faster but Smirk couldn't stomach it, there's a fine line between being the slayer and becoming the monster. He left the boy to die and sat against the dule tree's enormous trunk to begin his vigil. He wouldn't leave until he watched the last drop of sinful blood soak into the dirt.



Witch-hunters were extravagant and egocentric by rule. The personification of song and story, living their life to create a legend. Admiration or notoriety, it didn't matter which, two perspectives of the same notion. The key of creating a legend is showmanship. Who would remember Red Kelling if he had never painted his skin crimson. Who would sing of The Headsman if he didn't collect the skulls of his victims, like some sort of sick trophy.



Smirk was no exception, he fed his own legend with mystery. He embraced it and moulded his image around it until the mystery became his identity. No man can choose his name, it had ever been thus, from birth till death a name is something given not taken. It was the people who gave a hunter his name, the lords and the ladies, the peasants and the plebs. They had given him many names, Silent Sword, Whitefingers, No Face. His master had named him Sorrow akin to his disposition, until he carved a smile into an oaken mask, then his master named him Smirk. The peasants seemed to have taken to that name so he had hid behind the smiling mask ever since.



The townsfolk had mostly dispersed now, too busy to waste the daylight. A group of children patted Hallow across the square though their parents soon ushered them away.



Smirk dug in the pockets of his thick brown cloak and pulled out a small leather bound book. He flicked through the pages until he reached the most recent entry wrote in a simple hand.



Tracked the lad to Rosewood Inn, a league north of Pilbury on the river road. He is making for the Everwood hoping I will abandon the chase. It’s been thirty nights and the sickness has now spread, although he doesn’t understand his power yet. The inn keep said he talked and ate little. He still travels alongside a maiden with red hair. I’m not the first to come asking after the lad. A group of sellswords reached the inn the morning before I arrived. Since when did mercenaries hunt bloodwitches? I’m close now, half a day behind. I will catch the lad before sunset.



He hadn't been wrong. The sun was slowly sinking into the western horizon, the first stars would soon wake in the night sky. Smirk closed the book, too weary to find ink and quill and finish the entry.



A noise behind caused him to turn. A large dog padded around the tree, black and brown with wrinkles of skin obscuring its eyes. It sniffed the air and looked at Smirk wagging a long tail.



"Coward," said Smirk.



The dog tilted his head to the side innocently.



"A bloodhound scared of blood," he chuckled and shook his head. "The irony. Come here Vlad"



Sniffing the air again, the bloodhound padded closer and licked his masters gloved fingers. Smirk ruffled the dogs long ears much to Vlad's pleasure. His horse, hound and hand and half were the only things Smirk truly loved, his constant companions. Vlad put his nose to the ground and nervously sniffed at the puddle of black blood below the hanging boy before retreating behind Smirk with a whine.



Both hound and hunter sat in silence and watched the boy rotate as the rope slowly twisted in the wind, blood still steadily pulsing from his throat. His eyes were shut but Smirk knew all three moons would rise before the bloodwitch was truly dead. He drew his hand and half from its scabbard and lay it across his lap, it wasn’t beautiful like in the stories nor did it shine like a kinght’s longsword, if anything it was slightly drab, but the sword held a menacing presence like a battle hardened soldier. It had seen battle and tasted blood, it hungered for more.



Smirk rested his head back against the bark of the dule tree and shut his eyes. He would leave this vigil to his companions, a lazy horse, a frightened hound and a sword hungry for blood.

Edited April 11, 2015 by Tyson

[Tyson]

Part 2 - second characters POV

 

 

#

Peeking through the holes of a wooden stable, Meredy watched the masked man sleep. Above and to his right Kallem dangled upside down, his pale face and hay brown hair now black from the blood pouring from his throat. Bloody idiot. She had told him to hide with her in the village stable but he had convinced himself he could kill the masked man. Shaking her head she turned away and moved across the stable on silent feet. One horse and two mules where already stabled inside chewing lazily on straw. Meredy ignored them and crept into an unused stall to collect her possessions, a worn leather satchel full to the brim of items a twelve year old girl might think useful. Atop the satchel sat Good-Knight her ragdoll, it stared at her with black button eyes.



“Come on he’s sleeping, we have to go,” she whispered to the ragdoll. Shouldering the satchel and clutching Good-Knight to her chest she moved out of the small stable, hay muffling her footsteps. A piebald mare nickered a farewell as she ducked under the gate and out onto the street.



The first moon was already aloft two hand spans on the eastern horizon though the sun hadn’t yet completely set. It cast long twilight shadows across the streets, the longest being that of the monstrous dule tree at the centre of the town, its black shadow stretched across the buildings, farmland and into the distance as far as Meredy’s eyes could see.



She ran across the street her red curls bouncing around her head and a patched grey cloak flapping in her wake. The hand full of town folk still lingering outside their homes paid her little heed as she made her way eastward towards the rising moons. She shot glances over her shoulder to be sure the masked man was not awake, though the only movement was two farmers returning from a hard day labour.



The shadow of the dule tree loomed over Meredy even when she left the town and entered the country beyond, the first buds of spring vegetables sprouting in the fields. The second sister had now risen in the east following the first moons trail, the third would not be far behind.



It felt strange travelling alone once again, she had just began to enjoy Kallem’s company. He was loud, full of laughter and confidence, maybe too much confidence in the end. Their paths had crossed by a chance, both hiding from hunters in the cellar of a brewery near Westedge almost three weeks ago, they had been travelling together ever since. Now he was gone, she only had Good-Knight to talk to, and the ragdoll hadn’t been very talkative of late.



A murder of crows circled overhead, chattering and cursing at each other as they descended into an oak tree to roost. They watched her with cold black eyes and spat taunts down as she passed underneath. Meredy hugged Good-Knight tighter and ignored them.



The further she walked, the less cultivated the land became. Fields now grew wilder and trees more abundant. She continued walking, going nowhere in particular, just away. Away from death. The last moon had risen before she eventually stopped.



Meredy sat down on the soft grass at the side of the road, giving her legs a chance to rest. She had lost track how long she had been walking but a thousand stars now dotted the dark heavens, and the three moons of the Morrigu were all visible. She looked back the way she had walked, squinting she could barely make out the outline of the dule tree where the masked man slept. Four miles maybe?



Still not far enough, the hunters grey stallion could make up the distance in no time, and the soldiers who had hunted her for so long could still be out there right now. She forced herself to stand, although her body moaned for sleep, and unstopped the cow hide flask to take a drink of water. It was almost empty; she would have to find more water in the morning.



“We need to get off the road Meredy,” said a young boy’s voice.



She smiled and raised Good-Knight to her eye level, the ragdoll stared back at her with lifeless eyes. But Meredy knew he was different, the doll was alive, even if no one else believed her.



“Oh, so now you want to talk to me,” Meredy said with a pout.



“Meredy, we don’t have time for this, just get off the road.”



“Why?”



“They’re coming.” Good-Knight titled his head to the side and stared over Meredy’s shoulder, back down the road.



Meredy didn’t need to be told a third time, she scrambled of the road and crawled beneath a thicket of hawthorn , its low growing branches provided enough cover to be unseen from the road. She waited in silence, watching the thrice moonlit road. Good-Knight wriggled from her grasp and climbed onto her shoulders for a better view.



After what seemed like an eternity lying on the floor in silence, she heard them, the steady thumping of horse hoofs and the gruff laughter of armed men. A group of seven men on horseback trotted by, they wore mismatched armor; leather, iron and chain-mail pieces worn in odd combinations. A man at the head of the group scanned the trees with piercing blue eyes; his nose was broken in several places. Meredy held her breath as his gaze passed over her in the shadows of the hawthorn.



“Oh and the two brothers, the two brothers, the two blood brothers became one,” sang a fat fellow in the middle of the group, he waved a flask of ale above his head; it splashed his comrades to either side.



“Gods give me mercy,” shouted the first mercenary with a broken nose. “Shut ya’ fat food hole Peet, or I’m gonna shut it for ya’.”



“Ah Garret, cheer up and have some ale.” Peet threw the flask at Garret and ale splashed against his chain-mail.



“You fat…” Garret raged pulling a large mace from his belt and spun his horse around to face the man. The other five mercenaries pulled their mounts aside, creating space for Garret and Peet, all too eager to watch a fight.



Peet drunkenly fumbled with the battle axe strapped across his back, his horse spun in circles not sure what its master wanted.



“Dammit,” he said in frustration, “I can’t reach my damnation axe. You’re lucky man Garret, a very lucky man.”



“I’m going to kill him,” muttered Garret, more to himself than anyone in particular.



“You’re not going to be killing anybody,” called a female voice.



The group of men turned in their saddles to look back up the road. Two more mercenaries rode either side of a small woman in a black cloak; a cowl cast shadows across her face. Meredy still lay prone in the dirt, too scared to move.



“Put your weapon away,” the short woman said.



He quickly obliged, though he threw dark glances at Peet. The fat mercenary gave the cloaked woman a brown bearded smile and stroked his gut.



“Next time, keep your temper in check Garret,” she told him, Peet nodded in agreement. “And you have first, second and third watch tonight Fat Peet. I will not suffer intoxication during a hunt.”



"Inoxibation? I'm not even drunk," slurred Peet. "All this hunting makes a man thirsty, that's all."



"Why did we bring him again?" asked a tall man who rode beside the hooded woman.



"His axe has seen more blood than Redpool."



The tall mercenary raised an eyebrow, "So he says."



"So he says," she agreed. She looked heavenward at the Morrigu, the moonlight illuminating her face for a brief moment. Meredy sucked in a breath. Small black veins bulged from the corner of each eye, or was it just the shadows?



"It's late. Klyne, find a place to make camp, we'll continue at first light."



The tall mercenary, Klyne, glanced at the moons and nodded, "There was a small pool not too far back. Garret, Yon, scout ahead and see if there is any where the girl might be sleeping tonight. The rest of us will head back and make camp."



Klyne and the hooded woman turned their horses and cantered away, the other mercenaries close on their heels, leaving behind broken nosed Garret and a bald brute that must be Yon.

 

Garret watched them leave and spat into the dirt. "It ain't natural what we're doing, bad luck working for a bloodwitch."
 

"I sold my sword to Klyne, not that monster," replied Yon.
 

"Aye, you keep telling yourself that."
 

The two men spurred their mounts onwards down the road. Meredy lay in silence underneath the hawthorn, listening to the sound of the horses fade away. Her mind swirled with questions. Who was that woman? What did she want with Meredy? Why did the mercenaries work for a bloodwitch? How had they found her trail again?

"It’s clear," announced Good-Knight from her shoulder.
 

"She was a bloodwitch," whispered Meredy. Her body felt cold though her brow was coated in a thin layer of sweat. She rose to her knees and brushed dirt and broken twigs off her cloak.
 

"I know." The ragdoll hopped off her shoulder, landing softly on wool feet. He stood two hands high, his entire body made from her father’s old brown tunic, cut, stuffed and stitched to create a head, torso and limbs. Loose strands of pale wool were stitched to the top of his head to look like blonde hair. The long red cape and tiny wooden sword were Meredy’s own design, crudely cut and out of proportion, but they did make him look more like a knight. When she looked into his black button eyes, she felt safer somehow.

[Lindel he/him]

I like it! Haven't had a chance to read all the way through, but the magic seems very intriguing. Actually kinda similar to a concept I had a while back, but never flushed out. I also like what I've seen of Smirk so far. 

 

I've been looking for a project, some kind of starting point, for a little while. Think I could take a look at your notes and see if it's something I'd be interested in adopting? 

[Tyson]

Yes thats fine. I've found scraps of information and ideas so far, but I know that I have a vague set of notes somewhere on my PC. I'll dig deeper tomorrow.

 

PM me an email to send them to or I can upload them here under spoiler tags.