Chapter Text
The den was dark, dank, deserted, and dense with death.
A piece of skin fell from the ceiling. She flicked it off her arm. Hungering growls and the chaotic shuffling of limbs followed her footsteps. The zombies’ advance was clumsy, but deliberate. She stopped her march, and so did they.
Before her was a wreckage. Stray planks and rope pieces were scattered about, damp and falling apart from prolonged exposure to the rise and fall of the tides. It was the remnants of a rowboat, operated with haste and inexperience, hence the crash.
Lying on the side of that boat was a corpse, bloated, decayed.
She extended her arms. One of the zombies stumbled forward, and placed into her hand a glowing lantern. It emitted a dim, pulsing green light. It wasn't bright, but warm, which she brought towards the corpse. It was that of a girl, sixteen in age and low in class, almost finished rotting. Her hair once brown, her skin once fair, but then were almost one with the earth.
Setting down the lantern, she waved the zombies away. Her arms outstretched and fingers apart, she began to chant. The words clung together like pellets in the air, floating within the droplets falling from the cavern ceiling. Her arms twirled in a circular motion, while her fingers drew words of forbidden magic. A red ring formed beneath the corpse, creating a chasm separating the earth itself. Waves of insipid red energy seeped forth from the cracks and loomed over the deceased, before slowly enveloping the bones and picked flesh. With a squeeze of her hand, the lantern erupted into rays of green mist, fusing with the crimson of the earth.
Presently, the corpse began to reverse its rot. Holes in the skin were filled; broken limbs were mended; torn hair were reconnected, until the girl's body was indistinguishable from when she was still alive: starving and destitute.
She moved to place a hand on the girl’s chest. The words began to spin, kicking off pebbles and dirt around them. Her fingers sent a pulse down the girl’s core. The body convulsed for a few seconds, before settling. As the waves dispersed, she was there to catch as it fell.
The girl’s eyes slowly opened. Little by little, they took in the situation at hand, as best they could. After a moment to grasp reality, the girl coiled in fear.
“Stop,” she commanded.
The girl looked up to see a woman of dark hair, slim contour, and eyes glowing bright without any pupils. The black, eccentric robe she was wearing only added to the intimidation factor.
“I’m sorry,” the girl barely managed. “Please don’t hurt me.”
She shook her head. Such a pitiful creature, she thought. Rummaging through her pockets, she produced half a loaf of bread and handed it to the girl.
The girl received, incredulous, but didn’t let astonishment getting in the way of survival instincts. She watched the girl bite down on it with the ferocity of a starving animal. There wasn’t much, so the meal didn’t last, yet the girl looked up at her with watering eyes.
“Thank you.”
She pitied.
“What is the last thing you remember?”
The girl reminisced. There was water, lots of it. She remembered being swept away by the unnatural tides of Wraeclast, arms clutching desperately to the Allflame, as if it could’ve saved her. She remembered the pursuit of serpentine monsters of mud, and seeking refuge in this cave. She remembered being wounded, and bleeding out. She shuddered.
“I was dying,” the girl finally replied.
“You died,” said the woman. “I revived you.”
The girl wasn’t sure how to respond. It was unlikely, but it was also the only explanation she’s been given. This was when the girl noticed the runic circle and cracked earth beneath, thus had no choice but to believe it.
“Thank you,” she repeated.
“What is your name?”
The girl pondered.
“Evelyn.” A sheepish reply.
“Well, Evelyn, you’re with me from now on.”
The girl nodded.
“What's your name?” she asked.
The woman seemed taken aback by this question. It was not one she received often. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone bothered, not since the burning of her sisters on the pyre years ago.
“I am called the Witch,” she answered.
Evelyn scratched her head.
“But what do I call you?”
“You shall call me Mistress.”
The Witch wasn’t expecting a declination, and was satisfied when none came. She motioned the girl to stand beside. Evelyn was hesitant after noticing the army of undead in the way. The Witch dismissed them with a flicker of her hand, letting Evelyn squeeze herself into the new clearing.
She thrusted her arm forward, and drew a long oval rune. Metallic tentacles erected from the ground, tips converged at a high point, whence a blinding purple rift tore into existence. The Witch stepped through wordlessly. Evelyn was dubious, but the ushering of growling zombies at her back was the push she required.
As her feet stood firm on the other side of the portal, she found herself on a crumbling fortified watch tower. Ragged tapestry made up the majority of what was a sorry excuse for a ceiling. The rain was heavy, grinding away at the wall brick by brick. Groups of refugees huddled around bonfires, poorly protected by old blankets tied together, nervously looking up at every drop of the torrent threatening their only source of light and warmth.
“What do we have here?”
Evelyn turned to face the man approaching her. Despite the freezing cascade, he had on nothing but a brown tricorne and a pair of stained trousers cut up to his knees, right hand rubbing his protruding gut. He wore a devilish smile, gaze sizing her up.
“Excuse me,” Evelyn retreated.
“Who are you supposed to be?” A lecherous grin accompanied his pitched, raspy voice.
“She’s my slave.”
Bestel took a hesitant step back as the Witch moved in front of the girl. He fancied a jest, but those dead, pupiless eyes glancing down on his own didn’t indicate a high tolerance for humour. Clicking his tongue, he backed off.
“And here I thought there was a dim light for this old soul,” he said, staring at the hypothetical star.
The Witch didn’t pursue, instead motioned Evelyn to follow. By the far side of the camp, stood a man whose right eye was wrapped in a bandage. His body was of one who frequented combat, riddled with scars across bulging muscles. His left hand hovered about the proximity of the hilt of his greatsword, which, from its stunted edge and grainy blade, had seen its own share of battle.
“Another mouth to feed?” asked the man.
“Evelyn.” The Witch made an introductory motion towards the girl, then the man. “Tarkleigh.”
“Pleasure.” He extended a hand. Evelyn shook it without a reply. His grip was firm and rocky, hers soft and weak.
“Where is she from?” he asked.
“A ship.” A pause. “Fairgrave’s ship.”
“Fairgraves?” He was baffled. “Wasn’t he marooned months ago? Has she been there all along?”
“Yes.”
In this inopportune moment, Evelyn found her stomach growling, despite the earlier portion. She failed to hide her embarassment.
“Get her some bread,” demanded the Witch.
“We don’t have rations for her. There’s nothing left over. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” said Tarkleigh.
“Give her mine.”
He and the girl exchanged a glance. Shrugging, he produced some hardtack and a medium-sized loaf of musty bread, which Evelyn took. He pointed at a corner, where an old cracked vase sit, a stained dipper hanging from its edge.
“Fresh water’s in there. You can also just drink from the rain, if you prefer.”
“Thank you,” she said, eyes not leaving the food.
“You can just eat it.”
The Witch’s approval sent the girl into a modest frenzy, crushing even the hardtack with great speed, with bread soon to follow into the nethers.
“She looks like she hasn’t eaten in months,” Tarkleigh commented.
The Witch watched the girl intensely. It had been a long time since she had desired anything as much as that girl did food. It was a perplexing, yet oddly comforting, sight.
“What do you plan to do next?” asked Tarkleigh. “The longer we wait, the harder it will be to find Nessa again.”
“She’s your problem, not mine,” said the Witch.
“Be that as it may, she is important to us here at the Watch. If her warnings were sincere, the more we wait, the deeper her mind shall fall into the Brine King’s clutches.”
The Witch didn’t bother replying.
“You’d need to do better than that.”
“Please,” he pleaded. His voice earnest and more vulnerable than it ever had been.
Speaking those reassuring words were simple, yet the Witch has yet to. She didn’t believe finding Nessa would be a problem, but why should she invite on responsibilities?
Perhaps she empathised.
“I shall.”
“Appreciate it,” said Tarkleigh. His usual stern, scarred expression was stretched to the point of breaking. “We owe you.”
“I’ll get going in the morning. Take care of her while I’m gone.”
The Witch motioned a finger towards Evelyn, who at this point had finished her old, cold, and mouldy meal. The girl rubbed her arms, trying to keep warm to no avail. Her shivers were only intensifying. The Witch gently escorted Evelyn towards her place at camp, where she produced a blank, white, and clearly oversize tunic. It reached the girl's knees in length. Evelyn retreated her arms into the fabric as the cold subsided. Calm, she saw the Witch standing under the downpour, rain drops like arrowheads bouncing off that impossibly pale skin.
“Are you not cold as well?” she asked, “Mistress?”
The Witch shook her head. She rolled out the bedroll stashed nearby, and told the girl to lie down. Evelyn complied, huddled up in her inadequate attire.
“Sleep."
“What time is it?” the girl asked.
“Late.” The Witch paused to look at the stars, blurred behind the flurry of rain. “Too late.”
“Aren’t you sleeping too, mistress?”
“It doesn't help.”
These blunt answers hammered at the girl’s curiosity. Still, she obeyed. Curling up to her side, she tried to relax. It was difficult, given the rough terrain and skimpy clothes she was given. Her body quaked, and the urge to cry was rising.
Presently, she felt a soft, cold touch on her cheek. The Witch had sat down beside her, and extended a hand to caress the girl’s features. Their gazes collided. Those blank irises still piercing, but the eyebrows conveyed a softness that instilled reassurance. She stopped shaking. Under the drumming of the hail, Evelyn’s consciousness faded.