Fiction: A Lady's Prerogative Book II: Wounded Aerth - Part IX by Brian Joseph Johns
Corgan And The Colony
Corgan had stepped off the boat in 1642. It was a tremendous Galleon, The Siren's Lure, hauling a load of supplies for the colony. It had been accompanied by several other craft in those tumultuous times for his Majesty's navy required protection from other such fleets looking to exploit the newly found lands as much so as from the unmarked Privateers and Pirates looking to make way with her cargo. At that point the harbour, which was set inward of the continent ocean shores along a great river, was barely large enough for a Galleon, let alone a Frigate or Sloop.
The air still held the chill of a spring that did not want to let go, despite the warm summer sun. Corgan strode down the gang plank and out into the harbour, which was bustling with activity. a large rucksack slung over his shoulder. He stood, trying to find a place in which he was not in the way, having little fortune in that effort. Upon backing away from the path of an oncoming horse drawn wheeled cart, he bumped into a tall man. They simultaneously turned, ready to apologize.
"Begging your pardon, there's much ado and from which to stay away..." Corgan kept a firm smile.
"Not at all. I just arrived myself. You have a familiar look about you. May I ask for your name?" the tall man, clothed in a red uniform asked Corgan.
"I'm Corgan Kemmett, at your service seeing as you appear a gentleman," Corgan replied.
"Master Kemmett? I do believe this to be a sign of fate for I was asked to meet you here. I'm Eres McAlistair, King's Third Cavalry," the tall man bowed.
"Well met. I suppose you know more about what we're to do next than do I?" Corgan asked.
"A little perhaps, but not much more at that. What I do know is that you'll be working directly with the Magistrate overtly, and for the people of West View covertly," Eres answered Corgan briefly.
"As in I'll be living under an assumed identity?" Corgan confirmed.
"No, not at all, unless of course you choose to. You'll be the official recorder of the history of West View and perhaps as time goes on, the colony itself," Eres responded.
"Offical recorder? Then why the secrecy? Unless the term covert has gained a new meaning here on these shores?" Corgan asked.
"You see, those in House Of Lords who arranged for this colony had seen everything coming. They see this as a chance to do better for and by the people. That was the precise reason that you were brought here," Eres explained.
"How can a scribe and recorder of events make things better? I'll just be scribing their words. What will be recorded is exactly what they want recorded. How is that making better this new world?" asked Corgan.
"I would have asked the same thing had I a propensity for the quill as much so the saddle. You'll be recording a history, though it will be the real, true history. Not one edited and doctored by your employers or your peers.
In fact, we are under strict orders to preserve and protect anything you write, and if anyone alters it in any way, they are to be charged under the law where they will answer to the House Of Lords and given the current state thereof, the Orange too," Eres contined.
"I still fail to see the merit in such a thing," Corgan pushed Eres for the details.
"If the truth were to be buttered, in the case that it was too plain or distasteful, how would those at the reigns of power and those representing the people be able to see the trail ahead of them in order to steer? Such a fallacy, the editing of a true record in order to paint those of such a history in a flattering way? If you can't see the challenges on the trail ahead, how are you supposed to ride through them? Your horse will throw you from its back, much like the people would cast off their leaders and representatives. Someone else would get back on the same horse and further down the same trail find themselves cast to the mud in a similar manner. If your eyes are telling you only the things that they want to see, rather than what is really there, you and your horse may fall. Consider yourself to be a new set of eyes for the House Of Lords and for the people. You are to see and record things as they are. Not as others would have you conveniently so do in order to cast them in a better light. In that way, the record will be accurate, and those who keep abreast of your record will be better able to set the course ahead," Eres summarized.
"What would stop me from abusing that power for my own interest? I mean if I chose to use that power to record the truth in a way that I thought might change things, then I'd have the reigns of power, wouldn't I?" Corgan asked.
"Now you're learning the kind of pressures that befall a ruler of the people. You could so use that power as you describe, for your own personal gain. For other purposes. Do know it that if you ever did so and were caught in such an act, you'd be tried for treason. I'm certain that I don't have to remind you the penalty for such an act?" Eres' face became stern.
"I see. What of the people then who would pressure me to write as they wanted? Perhaps they'd attempt to steer me much like a rider might steer a horse?" asked Corgan.
"You'd better stern yourself up to that too, for even a ruler, even a King or Queen is subjected to those pressures every single day of every single hour and in means that are far beyond your imagining. Those who would do such a thing are likely to be found out themselves sooner or later. Keep in mind that it only serves to sully and soil those whom they represent. Such efforts would prove to be their undoing and the undoing of those with whom they side, for who would have dealings with those who operate in such a manner? Beyong reason. Beyond trust," asked Eres metaphorically speaking.
"A man is a man and a horse is a horse. Are you saying that you'd speak up for your horse when it doesn't like your direction?" Corgan asked him similarly with metaphor.
"You mistake us as being separate, whereas a Cavalier and their horse are truly as one. A Cavalier without a horse is only half a Cavalier. If others tried to steer my steed in the absence of my direction or against its own desires, you can be certain that I'd have none of it. One who chooses a soldier, especially a Cavalier as their enemy is a fool. Our very lives are defined by our willingness to fight in protection of ideals we've sworn to protect," Eres stood firm.
"Then what am I, a man or a horse?" Corgan asked Eres.
"You're neither. You're a scribe. So be a scribe and record the truth. Not man's truth. Not the Church's truth. The real truth as in the heartbeat of this colony. It's mind and very soul. Record what happens and how people feel as a result. Record where the people turn a blind eye to the rule of law and where the law turns a blind eye to the people. Where Lord and Beggar jeopardize or do just, let it be written. You are the eyes and ears of us all. So let us see, and most certainly let us see ourselves, even that which we want stricken from our senses. That which we want more of all to fill them where it is truth," Eres asserted to Corgan.
"Then it will be done," Corgan responded curtly.
"Now, we'll get your belongings sorted out and take you to your new home here in West View. You'll be given a horse for which to care and that will be your means to and from the heart of the colony and the West View strip. You'll need such a beast for you are to meet the acting Magistrate on tomorrow's midday sun. There you'll meet your peers as all of us are employed by the Throne and the House Of Lords to ensure that this colony strives for its best," Eres assured Corgan.
"Let us as you say, have at it, then," Corgan asserted.
"There will be plenty of time for that and you may even join me for a tankard of the King's finest ale should you do well in your post here in the colony," Eres remarked as he beckoned a nearby Yeoman.
"You there, Yeoman. Find another like yourself, of similar size and strength and return to me here with a horse drawn cart. Make it quick," Eres ordered the Yeoman, who set about realizing his orders.
Within the half hour they began loading the cart with Corgan's possessions and before long they were loaded and ready to make way.
"Yeoman Bent here will take you to your new home and help you to unload the cart. You may ride with him in which case you'll need to tow your horse behind the cart, or you may ride there on horseback. The choice is yours. I will advise you that it is nay a long ride, so it might do you good to become familiar with your horse. Here's your key. Don't lose it, and I shall see you again in passing," Eres sent Corgan on his way.
Corgan heeded Eres advice, instead choosing to ride the distance to his home. On the half-hour journey , they passed the main street of West View and its dense strip of businesses and offices. Most of the civilian buildings were built of log and wood, while many of the infrastructure buildings were composed of stone and mortar. Corgan marvelled for a moment at their construction and when he realized that he was lagging behind, he coaxed his horse Melvin into a trot and then a gallop.
His home was a tiny single floor abode, built like a box with a sheltered tie and trough for his horse. Inside of his home was just as simple, a large main room which served as living space, office and kitchen while his sleeping quarters were atop a loft within the interior. He was delighted to see a bathing tub, though for his business he'd have to use the water closet outside of his home.
The Yeoman helped him to unload his belongings and before long the cart was empty. The Yeoman then hopped on the cart and bid Corgan a farewell.
That evening, Corgan sat at his desk and whet the ink stone, readying it for his quill. By candlelight he began to write in his journal.
He began with his story of the stern Captain of the Siren's Lure. A short man with a penetrating voice which would make itself known upon the absence or error of the crew. They'd initially gotten off on the wrong foot over a misunderstanding about Corgan's sleeping arrangements. When Corgan voiced his disapproval of being forced to sleep in one of the storage compartments rather than a room as he'd been promised, Captain Jamestone stood him down.
"You think that on my ship, you have any sway because you know a Lord or two? When you walked up that ramp onto this ship, their power ended and mine began. You can consider this fine galleon, the King's own property to be a continent unto its own, and I its ruler. Do you understand?" the Captain barked at Corgan.
"The issue is not with your leadership here. That is very obviously beyond questioning. What is at issue is that my sleeping arrangements were altered beyond what I'd signed on for this journey. You'd break a Lord's deal you would?" Corgan reasoned.
"And you'd question a Captain's decision?" the Captain retorted.
"If in question it were the honour of a Lord or Lady, then yes," Corgan responded.
"How dare you! On my own bridge! You filthy scallywag!" the Captain stepped in towards Corgan imposing himself upon the taller man's space.
There was a moment of tension and silence which was broken by the Captain's growing laughter.
"I had you going there, did I not. Seems that you are made of some mettle, though a bit longer and I could have broken you. My gift. I can read a man like an Admiral can read a map. Captain Jamestone at your service," the Captain broke his ruse, still smiling.
"Corgan Kemmett at yours," Corgan held his wood, the corner of his mouth slowly rising unsurely.
"Well met, Master Kemmett. Seaman Stonks, clear Master Kemmett's room of my personal cargo, but leave him one bottle of that Sherry. He's not a man of the sea. He'll need it to sleep tonight. I think we can all be sure of that, can't we?" Captain Jamestone asked his crew, who broke out in laughter at Corgan's expense.
"Well?! What are ye lot laughin at? Me height? You heard me! I said make Master Kemmett's room ready and I don't recall giving you permission to laugh at his expense!" Captain Jamestone caught his crew off guard.
"Right away, Captain," Seaman Stonks made his way below deck to carry out the Captain's orders.
"We'll be sailing 'cross the North Atlantic, so keep yourself well clothed and warm. If you do, then perhaps we'll have the only voyage that didn't require us to amputate the limb of some wreckless passenger on account of the biting cold. That and their not heeding my advice," the Captain advised Corgan.
"I'll take that as an order," Corgan replied.
"Please do. I'd hate to deliver a scribe without their quill hand. We're leaving the channel and in the next hour* we'll hit the open sea. You may find these waters calm but wait until we reach the ocean. Then we'll see whether you've got sea legs or not. Now if you'll leave me, I've some matters to attend to in preparation. I bid you good day," Captain Jamestone left Corgan and began barking orders to his crew.
As it turned out, Corgan would later find that Captain Jamestone had served in the Royal Navy for his whole life. He'd worked as crew on numerous ships and had seen no less than fourteen battles at sea, two as a Captain of his own Frigate. Thanks to an injury, the Captain had been grounded for several years until Jamestone himself quipped to an Admiral that diplomacy should be carried out by sailors, and that the Captains would best be suited to forge a new peace.
Jamestone's suggestion found roots and before long, he himself was part of an diplomatic delegation to Spain, where they'd meet with Spanish, French and Dutch Captains. Together they negotiated and forged a peace treaty after three days of negotiation.
Jamestone had been gifted a crate of the finest Spanish Sherry, a crate of the finest French Bordeaux, and a crate of the finest Dutch perfumes and scents. The Captain had kept the liquor for his own supply and as an occasional reward for exceptional merit amongst his crew.
The perfumes he gifted to a home for wayward women. Many of them widows and those discarded of their marriage vows, whom society held to be bound to eternal punishment by way of religious law and social etiquette. One of the social injustices the Captain abhorred and likely one of the many such that drove him to a life at sea in the first place.
The voyage had been as the Captain had warned. Despite their late spring departure, the air was cold enough to freeze a man's limbs solid should he be foolish enough to remain motionless for long. Corgan instead kept to his quarters, perusing old logs and manifests he'd acquired from the colony administrator and as such he was gaining a bit of understanding with regard to the colony's business and politics.
The colony leadership was based upon Governance by representation, where a Mayor was elected by the people to represent the interests of the colony, who in turn would answer to the Crown, in exchange for their support and military protection from other threats.
The Crown would also provide the means to keep the law, by way of the Magistrate who appointed a Constabulary. The Magistrate would also act as both a Commander of the Constabulary and as a representative of the Crown for the elected body. A funnel point for the administrators and the House Of Lords. At this point, the Mayor of West View was in charge of West View itself, and the borough of Sharlesbury. The township of Alivale was large enough to have its own Mayor, who in turn dealt with the Magistrate in terms of matters relating to the Crown and its support.
The Parliamentarians were present amongst the population and in number, though at this early point in the colony's development the two had not yet become polarized against one another. They depended upon each other and as a result, cooperated rather than waste valuable time and energy fighting one another. Most of them were too tired from the bitter feuds and fighting they'd escaped to continue the same thing on the shores of their new home. It was as if there were an unspoken peace treaty in effect. As a result, the two sides had put their differences aside and instead chose to work together.
This fact was reflected in the logs and manifests which Corgan reviewed. There were few if any legal disputes, the majority of which being land claims between close neighbours. Most of them were solved with a decision by the colony administration and at least one instance by a legal investigation. Throughout the colony there seemed to be very little crime, and most of the Constabulary's efforts were devoted to cleaning up after a busy night at the tavern. Hence, the Constabulary had remained small as a result, employing few acting Officers.
As the Siren's Lure made its way on the final leg of its voyage on the morning of the last day of the fifth week, the mouth of the great river came into view. Corgan had been up on deck as the air had been much warmer and closer to the spring temperatures to which they were accustomed. The waves ocean waves crashed onto the surrounding shores, while the river mouth was lined with stone beaches and further onto land, a wall of trees. He could see pine, poplar, birch, spruce and even oak amongst their numbers with the aid of a spying glass. It was a land unscathed by the hands of man, and as much had been cared for by indigenous tribes who lived in harmony with the nature around them rather than exploit it.
Hours would pass before they'd made their way inland up the river and finally to the harbour, where the Siren's Lure and the accompanying Merchant fleet would make landfall and where Corgan's quill would cease for the night. He was suddenly drawn back into his log cabin home. The candle he'd lit an hour ago had burned nearly to its base. He extinguished it and made his way to bed.
The next day he arose early and prepared himself for the short journey into West View and after cleaning and clothing himself, he was on Melvin's back as they strode forward down the trail to town. The Magistrate's Office had been inside of one of the few stone buildings of the colony. The building that housed the Royal Colonial Administrators and the Constabulary Law Offices where all except for one, Evan Edwards, the only Constable, conducted the bureaucratic part of their jobs.
Corgan's meeting with the Magistrate was short and to the point. After all, the Magistrate was a busy man, overseeing many aspects of the colony's supplies. Their vital lifeline back to Europe and their only means of survival in the event of a drought or season of failed crops. As the population of the colony grew with ever more arrivals, so did his responsibilities. However, the scribe was mandated by several members of the House Of Lords and even the Parliamentarians had signed off on it, making it an important step towards progress and truce between the factions involved. Hence, even before Corgan had set foot in his office, the Magistrate had given the matter much attention.
During the meeting, they discussed Corgan's role in the colony and how he'd become familiar with almost all aspects of its functioning. He'd operate as a scribe for the three main guilds operating within the colony. The first being the Farm And Estate Guild, a group whose members were mostly farmers and land developers of the colony. The second were the Smith And Craft Artisan's Guild, whose members were the skilled labour necessary for many aspects of the functioning of the colony, such as tool making, smithing and so on. The third was the Merchant's Guild, whose membership was made up of the business owners within the colony. Those involved with trade and service.
Corgan would also be required to attend at least three meetings per month at the Town Hall where he'd see how everything came together. There, he would act at a similar capacity, as a scribe, recording the details pertinent to the meetings and the sentiment of the people towards the colony and its administration. With a clear understanding of his role, the Magistrate bid Corgan farewell and before the day's end he was off to attend to the first of his duties: a meeting at the Town Hall.
Corgan settled into his new life comfortably, becoming a silent yet comforting presence to many of the colonists. For a decade he worked his duties, providing his written records of all activities as mandated. The colony continued to grow as more and more settlers arrived, all the while the peace had been kept. It wasn't until nearly eleven years, in that Corgan ran into the first signs of an eminent danger. One that would determine his own fate within the colony.
Emerging Colonial Menace
It was late spring and Corgan had attended a meeting of the Farmer's Guild, where he sat at the back of the room silently as the attendees voiced their weekly concerns.
This particular year, three of the farmers had been having considerable trouble getting their crops to grow, while one of their neighbours had been having a record year. Varner Milaise and his wife Tamara , had already delivered an abundance of early crops to the colony administration, while their longer term crops, those that required the entire season were well on their way to an equally staggering yield.
His three closest neighbours, Bartholomew, William and Pratkin, had not been able to get the soil healthy enough to grow anything that season. It was as if the soil were dead, absent of any spark that might ignite the seeds to their life and growth. Upon seeing their neighbour's record setting year, they'd naturally become suspicious of his good fortune and had chosen this night to voice it.
"It seems a bit off that I can't get my crops to take hold of the land and that yours are growing beyond their wilds," Bartholomew implied Varner as the source of some kind of menace.
"Mine alike. Seems that our misfortune has become your benefit," William accused Varner.
"Nonsense. Listen to ye! Ye are not applying yerselves to your land. Any good farmer knows that you can't expect a harvest if yer not working the land for an hour before the sun breaks the horizon. None of ye have been puttin' that kind of effort in t'all," Varner spoke somewhat superstitiously.
"Yer listening to Tamara's gossip 'bout us are ye? Seems she's been spyin' on our matters has she?" Pratkins accused Varner.
"Ye keep my wife out of this, Pratkin. Nay. I have eyes of mine own and I have seen what you call a hard day's labour. Yer heart is not in workin' the land like mine or my wife's. Yer blaming yer own poor effort and lack thereof 'pon the only neighbour who is reaping what they sew. Do I have to keep an eye 'pon my crops that you may take my work from me when my eyes are absent?" Varner accused Pratkin.
"Seems odd that yer fortune is timed with the lack of ours is what he's sayin'," Bartholomew defended Pratkin.
"It is of no coincidence that his abundance is much greater than yours, for he's taken your abundance. All works of the devil that involve gain, require someone else to lose. It appears that you are the source of that gain," a stranger spoke from his place on the bench at the meeting.
"Aye. This man's words are true. All gain must come from somewhere. Varner's takin' it from us somehow!" William shot back at Varner.
"Listen to yerselves! This is madness! Yer land isn't givin' because ye aren't workin' it right. There's no other devil except in your idle hands," Varner defended himself.
"See how he blames all of you for your own misfortune, when it is clear there are other more malevolent forces at play here," the stranger continued his oration.
"'Tis true it is. Inside he's laughing a good scoff at us, while he looks all goody to the colony offices and the Crown at our expense," Pratkin came back from his silence.
"Can I not make you see reason? Ye need to change yer attitude and yer work ethic rather than to make up yer shortcomings by taking them from me," Varner defended himself once again.
"How can they be taking what is rightfully there's in the first place? You took it from them, or rather, your wife did, through the work of the craft of wytchery," the stranger kept his place on the bench.
"My wife? A wytch? Rubbish 'pon the lot of ye! She's no such thing and the only magic in her she puts into those fields every day as do I. It's called effort!" Varner stood his ground protecting his wife.
"Seems we hit a note, did we? So you admit that she does use the craft of magic upon the fields. Much like the devil does and all magic requires a source of power. What they gained in their crops you lost in yours because they took it from you by way of wytch craft," the stranger stood from the bench and began to chant.
"Devil's hand! Devil's hand!" he began.
"Its true. He took the growing power of our land. Stole it from us! I always suspected ye and Tamara were up to no good," Pratkin's face soured and his brown furled.
"They're too good for us common folk. Us hard workin farmers to be showin' their faces for a visit. Always stickin' to themselves and stayin' alone. Must be doing something with all that time together?" William accused Varner once again.
"It is a common trait of those that practice wytch craft to be solitary people. They seldom mingle with others as it is part of their covenant with the devil to be as such. How can their efforts match and exceed the efforts of three farmers and their wives? Only with the assistance of the devil!" the stranger maintained his onslaught.
"We don't keep to ourselves because we practice wytch craft. We don't visit with others because Bartholomew had eyes for my wife, and even in my absence, he attempted to fondle her in a way that is unbecoming a married man. A man I might add that was married in a Church! Watch yer tongue before you start throwing accusations around about the devil and wytch craft," Varner recalled a moment from their past.
It was the harvest festival of five years before. Bartholomew had gotten into the whiskey that the Crown had gifted the colony. He'd become less restrained at that point and his hidden desires and ambitions emerged in the form of action. He'd managed to corner Tamara away from the gathering and made advances at her, even groping her several times before she was able to free herself from his grip.
She told Varner about it, who immediately confronted Bartholomew, who in turn denied everything. Varner advised Bartholomew to stay away from his wife, and from that point Varner and Tamara seldom attended any gatherings attended by Bartholomew or his wife.
"Wytches often use reflections of the past and ills done onto them as the motivation for their use of the devil's tools. Your friend here is nothing more than the devil's own hand as is his wife. Follow me, Exeter of the Strangers Of Lorr and I will give unto you what has been taken from you. I will give you what has been lost, and most of all, I will give you the colony!" the stranger began chanting again and the farmers joined him.
devil's hand, devil's hand, the wytch's work destroys the land
Devil's Hand, Devil's Hand, The Wytch's Work Destroys The Land!
DEVIL'S HAND, DEVIL'S HAND, THE WYTCH'S WORK DESTROYS THE LAND!
"Listen to yourselves! Ye've lost yer minds! Yer pursuing madness, ye are!" Varner backed away from them as more farmers in attendance of the meeting joined the cacophony.
"There is only one way to stop a wytch and save their souls. Their bodies are now the property of the devil and demon-kind. They must be held responsible for their efforts and they will in due time," the stranger urged the growing crowd and their fervor.
Varner immediately gathered his belongings and fled the building.
The crowd meanwhile followed out the door and onto the main street of West View, continuing their chant:
DEVIL'S HAND, DEVIL'S HAND, THE WYTCH'S WORK DESTROYS THE LAND!
DEVIL'S HAND, DEVIL'S HAND, THE WYTCH'S WORK DESTROYS THE LAND!
DEVIL'S HAND, DEVIL'S HAND, THE WYTCH'S WORK DESTROYS THE LAND!
Corgan remained silent and hidden as they left, finishing the remainder of his record of the events that night. As soon as the way was clear and he was certain that none had seen him, he found his way out to his horse and rode swiftly to his home.
The very next morning, he quickly cleaned himself and made way for town and the Magistrate's Office.
The Magistrate was startled by Corgan's sudden arrival and promptly made time for him.
"What can I do ye for, Master Kemmett?" the Magistrate greeted Corgan.
"We have a situation. Last night at the Farming Guild meeting there was an incident. Its all here on the record," Corgan handed the stack of parchment to the Magistrate.
"Is it serious?" the Magistrate asked, more pulling for Corgan's own opinion on the matter.
"It would seem that this could be a potential danger to the colony. I thought that your evaluation of this was implied by my mandate," Corgan admitted.
The Magistrate reached over and pulled a rope, yanking it several times. In reply a bell sounded that could heard throughout the West View strip.
A moment later, a Yeoman arrived.
"I need you to gather Constable Evan Edwards immediately. Tell him that his presence in my Office isn't optional but required as soon as possible," the Magistrate ordered the Yeoman.
"Right away, Magistrate," the Yeoman was off as he was dismissed.
The Magistrate then turned his attention to the scribe's records of the last evening's events.
"Begging your pardon, but the issue at question isn't until much later in evening. Towards the last six scraps of parchment as they're ordered.
The Magistrate fanned through the pages one by one until he'd reached the last six pages and then began read.
"Oh dear," he remarked aloud as he arrived upon Exeter's pronouncement.
"I see. This is a potentially serious matter. You did right by bringing this to my attention. We'll discuss this further when Constable Edwards arrives," the Magistrate assured Corgan.
"Everything else has been very peaceful and productive so far. Occasional bickering between some citizens on matters of politics that wouldn't be otherwise uncommon, but certainly nothing else at this level," Corgan advised the Magistrate as Constable Edwards knocked at the Office.
"Enter," the Magistrate responded.
"I came as soon as I could. What seems to be the urgency?" the Constable remained standing.
"Please do take a seat. We have a matter to discuss brought to our attention by Master Scribe Kemmett. You do remember him don't you?" asked the Magistrate.
"Yes, I do. We met years ago, I believe when we gave you your duties here?" the Constable recalled.
"Good to see you again Constable," Corgan responded.
"Likewise. Now how can I be of service, Magistrate?" Evan took a seat across from the Magistrate.
"I need you to read this record of last night's meeting of the Farm And Estate Guild. It was recorded here by our scribe. Start from the last six pages of the record and you'll quickly get to the details..." the Magistrate handed Evan the stack of parchment and Evan began reading.
"This Exeter man, have you ever seen him at any previous meetings of the guild?" Evan immediately asked upon having read the account.
"Twice, before at the two previous meetings, though he kept his silence at that time," Corgan advised Evan.
"Probably evaluating the group? Looking for an opening upon which to exploit them?" the Magistrate suggested.
"Precisely what I'd have assumed. We're used to this sort of thing any time the Royals and the Parliamentarians have forged a truce. There's usually one or more outside parties that attempt to reignite the fighting," Evan agreed.
"Have you seen this Exeter person at any of the other guild meetings?" the Magistrate asked Corgan.
"No. I'm certain I'd remember if I did. Neither was he at any of the Town Hall meetings," Corgan told them.
"Probably trying to remain unseen by the myself, Evan and the administrators," the Magistrate observed.
"I'd say he started with the farmers intentionally. They're a superstitious lot and generally lacking a higher education that might help them to see through such a plot. That doesn't mean they're not astute, because I can tell you myself that Varner is literate and well read. One of the few farmers than can read," Evan noted aloud.
"...making him different from the others and possibly a point of distrust and contention upon which Exeter was drawing to divide them?" the Magistrate added.
"Absolutely. There's no indication of Exeter siding with either the Royals or the Parliamentarians here. Was he wearing any sort of jewelry or religious markings of any kind. Puritan maybe?" Evan asked Corgan.
"No. He appeared the part of a farmer very much, but it was obvious that he's never worked a hard day's labour in his life," Corgan recalled.
"So far we have evidence that he may be rousing trouble in the colony, though no crime has been committed. We have enough to keep a close eye upon him and his activities," the Magistrate asked of Evan.
"That's going to be difficult as I'm currently lacking manpower. Eres has been recalled and the Cavaliers I was promised have not arrived yet. I have two other men, mere conscripts that aren't familiar nor comfortable with their work for the Constabulary. I'm going to need more resources if this proves to be a problem," Evan advised the Magistrate.
"Corgan, this puts us in an awkward position. We're going to have to ask you to work twice as hard keeping overwatch for us. If you observe any activities that you think may be contributing to the efforts of this Exeter person, I need you to report them to me immediately. Have you any training with a saber?" asked the Magistrate.
"No, Magistrate. I did a little training with a staff as a youth, but never with steel, shield or armour," Corgan answered.
"We'd draw attention to him if he started wearing a blade. Its far safer for him if we keep him unarmed," Evan advised.
"Agreed. Master Kemmett, we need you to be discrete and to be our eyes and ears in this situation. Report anything suspicious immediately. That will be all. Evan, could you stay behind? I've some other matters that need your addressing?" the Magistrate dismissed Corgan, who stood and bid the men farewell.
The Devil In The Details
A week beyond Exeter's emergence from his silence within the colony, the dead body of Pratkin Oliver was found just beyond the Milaise property fence. There were no marks on his body and no apparent cause of death. He'd simply expired, and so close to the Milaise farm. Conveniently so, just after having insulted Tamara through her husband Varner at a guild meeting.
The body was discovered by William Teldin, one of the same farmers who'd lodged complaints against Varner that night. He'd actually been asked by Pratkin to meet him at that spot, for Pratkin had a plan of how they were going to seek revenge against Varner for the sabotage of their crops.
Upon his discovering the body, William panicked and fled for his horse.
He didn't ride home as he should have, but instead to the old warehouse at the end of the main street in West View.
After the forty minute ride, he pounded on the door for entry. A moment later, the door was opened for him, though they'd been expecting him.
He explained that Pratkin was dead just off of the trail outside of Varner's property.
Exeter himself gathered a group of wytch hunters and together they ventured with William out into the dying light.
By the time they arrived at Pratkin's body, the sun had disappeared behind the horizon and darkness was quickly setting upon them.
Exeter convinced William to knock on Varner's front door and to lure him over to the location of Pratkin's body.
He did as requested and Varner bit, having no idea of Pratkin's earlier expiration.
He followed William to the location of their friend's body and as Varner approached, the wytch hunters emerged from the darkness and grabbed him.
"Now you will pay for Pratikin's death, murderer. And don't worry, your wife will soon follow," Exeter addressed Varned as another man held his hand over Varner's mouth.
Varner struggled as the knife slowly entered his back. He tried to scream but failed to find the strength to break their hold of him.
Slowly his life drained from him as his struggles became less and less vigorous. At that final moment he gasped one last breath and ceased both to breath and move.
They then took his body and that of Pratkins and dragged them through the forest to a remote location.
"You understand why we must do this, don't you William?" asked Exeter.
"Yes, Exeter. I do. Because they be wytches. They are no longer themselves but husks, possessed by demons and even the devil itself... The only salvation of their souls is trial by fire...?" William began weeping.
"Then do the lord's work and burn the wytches," Exeter commanded William.
The other men painted them with a thick and sticky tar like goo. William's whimpering grew louder as he accepted the torch.
"Now let them burn!" Exeter commanded.
"I can't..." William whimpered.
"Do it! For Pratkin! Free Varner's soul!" Exeter demanded.
As he released the torch upon the bodies of his deceased neighbours, he also released the last bit of his humanity.
As the torch found the tar, they burst into flame, William's tears ceasing with the stench of their burning hair.
"On this day William, you are a formally a Hunter Of The Wytchkind and friend to the Strangers Of Lorr," Exeter pronounced.
The flamable black goo melted and emulsified their burning flesh. The bodies burned until there was little left of them. Little evidence that they were once people, let alone alive.
"We will leave this place and return to this point in the forest no more. For no reason at all. Never speak of it and never think of it. They are gone, their souls redeemed in the blaze. We must survive to continue this effort and to free everyone from their scourge. Go from this place!" Exeter commanded them and they did so.
William returned home to his wife, Edith and said nothing of what had transpired.
Pratkin's wife Anna was a mess by the next morning. She'd gathered her horse and rode into town, running into the Constabulary and demanding a search for her husband. She was shocked to see that Tamara Milaise was also present and filing a similar report. She looked over to Anna, shocked to see her at this early hour.
"It seems that wickedness befalls the wicked as much so the innocent..." Tamara fought another onslaught of tears.
"Yer one to speak of wickedness, lurin' Bartholomew to sin by your bosom," Anna shot back.
"t'were his hands that did violate me. My lures are for my Varner alone. Would you have all other men's eyes sewn shut? Their ears too?" Tamara confronted Anna.
"T'is nought their eyes and ears that sin. T'is their mind and their thoughts that sin of us," Anna responded.
"Then how can you claim to love any man, when you don't love their mind as much as their heart and flesh? You'd have them absent of any thought? You'd have them only think thoughts of which you approve? Bartholomew's sins were not his thoughts of me, rather taking action on their behalf," Tamara defended herself.
"You know well of the wiles of women and wine... When they mix, how they weave a man's mind to sin," Anna confronted Tamara on the grounds of ideological rhetoric.
"Is that is how you lured Pratkin to become yours? Did you nought see and love a man for what were already his. His boldness. His mind. His heart and being. You needed to use deceit and trickery to lure him to you? Then you fail to understand the true nature of love and devotion. Accuse me never more of any wickeness Anna. It would seem that you've much for which to repent," Tamara turned her back to Anna and her attention to Evan, who'd held his tongue.
"Missus Oliver, I will be with you momentarily. Please do not address Tamara Milaise for she is under a great deal of stress. I'm hoping that is nought the case with yourself. So please hold your boldness for another occasion," Evan addressed Anna.
The two women ignored each other from that point on, never understanding that if they'd shared information between one another that they may have survived their ordeal. As it were, they were already marked by the Strangers and soon enough they'd be driven mad. Not long after that, the population of the township, including those who'd known them personally and even befriended them would distance themselves from the two women.
For Tamara, it began very subtly at first. Whenever she was in town to pickup supplies or to hire farm hands to help her with the remainder of the season, they'd mumble quietly to her in passing.
Some would say: die wytch.
Others would say: we're watching you.
Each of her tormentors in passing would add to her grief and as it accumulated, it bore great weight upon her. Eventually until she'd explode in an outburst of emotion and subsequent oration.
"I am not a wytch! I won't die for you! Never!" she'd respond nearly screaming and to the point of tears.
Those who'd not taken part in her maddening would look upon her in sympathy and dismay, unable to comprehend what she was experiencing. They immediately assumed it was related to the case of her missing husband, Varner. Even when she tried to explain to them that they were out to get her, they failed to empathize with her truthful experiences and instead discarded her as insane. Lost to the devil. Possessed by a demon. Gone from the path of the lord. No matter her pleas for help, they had a religious and often dogmatic principle that explained her dwindling sanity away. The very same dogma upon which Exeter often preyed to lure recruits into the Hunters Of Wytchkind.
Before long, Tamara understood what it was to truly be alone and in her loneliest of moments, she'd often find herself in solitary conversation. When one was rejected by everyone else, there was nowhere to turn but inward.
For Anna, it had transpired in a very similar manner. Though she'd taken a much different approach. She'd hired three labourers, each of whom stayed with her for the duration of the growing season before the harvest. With their paid help, she'd managed to get the land turning a potential profit once again. As her fortunes changed and her heart forgot Pratkin, she started eye her labour instead, in the hopes that she might find a suitor to replace him.
Two of the labourers, Ascarmet and Dwynal both had eyes for her, and on numerous occasions she'd observed their attention. Their eyes fondling her breasts, following her hidden curves from afar. Though she didn't let on, she found herself excited by their attention. She took upon herself to court each of them independently. Based upon her evaluation of their work and prowess as a lovers, she'd choose one to be her suitor.
Over the course of the early summer months, she courted them both secretly. On one night, she'd sleep in Ascarmet's quarters and then on another night, with Dwynal. The third labourer, Manifrey had kept his distance from the situation, all the while paying a watch to it. He'd been contracted by Exeter to keep an eye on her.
Upon Exeter having found out about Anna's affair with two of her three hired labour, he was prompted to take action upon the opportunity. After all, this was a women who like Tamara, posed a threat to the Stranger's plans. They cared not for religious dogma for they had their own ideology and it was for Lorr and the Weave alone. To Exeter, religion and dogma were tools through which to play them against one another. A weakness through which to pit brother against brother and sister against sister. Lover against lover.
Exeter ordered Manifrey to exploit the situation as he saw fit so as to ensure the demise of Anna. Exeter encouraged that Manifrey be creative in this endeavor for it would secure his place amongst their order.
Manifrey did as Exeter had asked and when Anna had chosen a suitor in Dwynal, Manifrey invited Ascarmet for a look-see. Manifrey led Ascarmet to the barn, where they snuck in to find Anna and Dwynal in the midst of love making.
Manifrey had planned most of this, even ensuring that sharpened tools were nearby. Upon seeing the sight of his lover with his best friend, Ascarmet grabbed the pitch fork leaning against the barn wall. He then charged at the lovers and drove it into Ascarmet's back, withdrawing it and plunging it once more.
Ascarmet continued this, targeting both Anna and Dwynal until his neither of them moved and his rage was done.
Ascarmet turned to Manifrey, only to see him wielding an arquebus. A rare hand cannon that Manifrey had stashed in the barn the previous night.
"I apologize my friend, but you've fallen to the wayside. To the ways of the Wytchkind. You are after all to be my first kill. It is through your sacrifice that I will become the true Wytch Hunter that I deserve to be. Farewell Ascarmet..." Manifrey closed in to ensure that the cannon did not miss its mark as he pulled the trigger.
There was a thunderclap and an eruption of fire and smoke as Ascarmet's face erupted in a spray of blood. He fell limp the motionless bodies of Anna and Dwynal.
He then left the scene exactly as it occurred and reported the tragedy to the Constabulary. The entire story he gave them was truth up until the point he'd presented the arquebus. In his version, Ascarmet had lunged at Manifrey with the pitch fork, leaving him no choice but to use Pratkin's own arquebus to defend himself.
His account was taken as truth and as the last hand that had worked the land and the only remaining labourer of their farm, he inherited it. Exeter from that point had assisted him by providing him with a wife of the Strangers' approval. Together, Manifrey and his new wife assisted the Strangers Of Lorr and the Hunters Of Wytchkind to achieve their goals in the colony.
Weeks had passed since Corgan's meeting with the Magistrate and the Constable, while during that time Exeter had made himself little known. He'd not attended any of the guild meetings beyond that point and he'd not been seen on the streets of West View until recently.
It was a rainy and dreary day, and Corgan was drenched from his ride from home. He'd ridden into town to have his horse cared for at the smithy when he spotted Exeter.
He was with a crowd of men, some of them the same farmers from the night he'd first spoken and others that Corgan did not recognize. They were on their way into the large colonial warehouse, a building that had initially been built to store the building supplies shipped over from Europe. During the early construction of the colony, the building materials were stored and the workers were housed. Since that time the colony had only used it once or twice, to store any surplus of produce.
Exeter had produced a key and opened the warehouse, entering in freely with the group. Corgan observed this safely from a distance and once they were out of sight, he immediately walked over to the Magistrate's Office and reported what he'd seen.
"That's the old colonial warehouse. It was recently purchased by a wealthy land owner back in Europe, though that says nothing of why Exeter is using the building. He may be in their employ and they have no idea of his ill intent. Further, they could be Exeter's benefactors, funding his efforts. Given the state of politics these days, the colony could have any of a number of enemies operating against it. Thank you for keeping me informed. I've other matters which to attend," the Magistrate dismissed Corgan, who promptly left.
When Corgan exited the building, he bumped into a large burly man who nearly bowled him over onto the mud and gravel.
"Ye might be considerin' yer allegiances filth. The next time we catch ye going in might be the last time ," the man threatened Corgan.
Corgan picked himself up and backed away from the man, who turned and strode towards the warehouse at the end of the street.
Corgan, still shaking, watched as the man disappeared into the building. When the coast was clear, Corgan ran for one of the merchant's stores and went in through the door.
"Can I be ye of service?" asked the merchant.
"I need a blade! Small. Concealable. Sharp. Quality workmanship," Corgan requested, wet and shivering.
"A blade? I have many. Why don't ye take something with a bit more heft if yer lookin' fer yer defense. Lookin' to fell a giant are ye?" the man asked with a subtle smile on his face.
"I just need a small blade. Not to kill. Just to slow," Corgan didn't react.
"They might be watchin' ye know! He might be watchin'. The taller one from whom yer running. Best to heed his advice, don't ye think?" the merchant smiled devilishly.
Corgan realized that he'd played right into their hands.
"Its alright, I don't need the blade. A good day to you," Corgan spoke, backing towards the door and leaving.
He ran to the smithy and was glad to see that the smith was finishing up with his horse's shoes.
"Yer horse will have a bit of pep in its step," the smith joked.
"What do you mean by that?" asked Corgan suddenly feeling paranoid.
"No hidden meaning for ye. Just doing my best for yer horse," the smith smiled.
"Good. Nobody came here asking any questions about me did they?" asked Corgan.
"No. Ye don't look that interesting to me, though. Get my point?" asked the smith.
"I'll take that as a compliment. The less interesting the better," Corgan replied as the smith finished up.
"That's the spirit," the smith held out his hand in wait for the payment.
Corgan deposited the coins in his hand, mounted his horse and left town at a full gallop.
He made a note to himself that he'd pay the Magistrate and Evan another visit in the morning to inform them of the latest ploy.
Unfortunately for Corgan, the morning never arrived.
As he galloped along the trail, nearing the halfway mark on his journey home, he was struck in the back by an arrow. The force winded him, throwing him forward onto Melvin's neck. Corgan's balance no longer maintainable he fell in out front of his own horse, his shoulder trampled under the freshly shoed foot of the horse.
Corgan lay on his back, covered in mud. He gasped for air through his own mouth and through the gaping hole in his back as the arrow had punctured his left lung.
"So you conspire with the wytches do you? You flee like a wytch. Now on the dirt you're gasping for air like a wytch. Fret not, for we'll get the wytch demon from you and return your true soul," the rider dismounted his horse.
He then grabbed Corgan by his arm and dragged him to a nearby dead tree. He leaned Corgan against the tree, tying him there carefully.
"I think that you know what comes next, don't you, wytch worshipper?" the man asked Corgan.
Corgan tried to speak but only gurgles and blood came out.
"Don't worry, all blood speaks the same language. The language of death," the man assured Corgan as his he struggled to live.
The man then coated him in a thick goey paste, much like tar.
"This will ensure that you catch in the midst of this rain. Fairwell wytch worshipper. Yer colony will fall," the rider began striking his flint block with a blade.
The first few sparks didn't ignite, instead sparking slightly then fluttering out.
With a precise strike of the blade, a large ember flew from the flint and landed on the black goo, igniting it and setting Corgan ablaze. The scribe struggled to scream but only bile and blood emerged from his burning mouth.
Later that same night in the township of Sharlesbury, in a similar patch of woods, Tamara Milaise would meet her end by way of the blade of the Hunters Of Wytchkind. Father Elias Wilsen in his attempts to save her, would become the icon of the wytch hunt. Endorsed by Church and God alike as Father Wilsen began his journey into a living hell.
The Strangers Of Lorr were secretive no more and their power and influence consumed the colony.
When Corgan had failed to show up to the Town Hall meeting, the Magistrate became worried. He suppressed any indication thereof during his role at the meeting, but inside he intuitively knew something was gravely wrong.
In the hours that followed the meeting, he and Evan went over all of the evidence and every scenario possible that might help them to understand Corgan's fate.
They'd been well aware of Exeter's operation in the old warehouse at the end of the West View strip, but had yet to uncover what occurred within. When near the dawn of the next day, they'd come up with no plausible solutions, they abandoned their impromptu meeting to rest and recover.
In the following week, Exeter himself and a large group of his supporters showed up at the next Town Hall meeting. There, they announced the growing menace that had infected the colony. The menace of the Wytchkind. Exeter preyed upon their fears and doubts, playing everyone in the Town Hall against one another to achieve his goals, which were without compromise. They were to enact an official branch of the colony that gave legal legitimacy to the Hunters Of Wytchkind.
From that point, bounties could be issued directly by Exeter against citizens of the coloney. Exeter's proposal received unanimous support from those present, most of which were his own people and supporters.
The Magistrate and Constable Edwards suddenly realized that the power had shifted immensely and that the nature of their investigation had changed considerably.
The Magistrate immediately set about requesting the presence of a supporting Cavalier regiment from the House Of Lords, which was populated both by the Royals and the Parliamentarians. He advised them in his letter that the colony was in grave danger of being lost to an internal threat.
The support for the Magistrate's request much like Exeter's was unanimous, and within months they'd have a full regiment of Cavaliers to support them. Until that time, it was all in the hands of one Cavalier and Constable alone. Evan Edwards.
Evan immediately elevated the status of the legal investigation of the Stangers Of Lorr to top priority. In turn, he also made any matters relating to the case of the utmost secrecy, even developing a method of communication he'd use between himself and the Magistrate in order to ensure that their knowledge of the investigation was not compromised.
A year and many bounty related deaths later, Evan would accompany a small band of wytch hunters to the shores of a pebble strewn riverbed where he'd encounter his first real wytch. That first meeting with Shaela Sheowellyn would change the nature of this investigation forever.
The Lady And The Magistrate
Shaela tapped the door again as she wasn't sure if he'd heard her or not. When she heard the giant bolt on the other side of the door she stepped back in presentation of herself.
"Good evening Lady Sheowellyn. I do so hope that I spoke your name correctly? It is a pleasure to have your company tonight, though I must confess that it is customary for a man to meet a lady with carriage in draw. Especially one such as yourself. Forgive me if I'm embarrassed." the Magistrate addressed his date for the night.
"And you my good sir look dashing and handsome. There are no apologies necessary as you'll find that I am a lady that's full of many surprises. I quite like being on top." she said hoping that she didn't sound too overt or sexual though fearing that she did.
He closed the big door and locked it with a skeleton key as they proceeded out the door together.
"We have many things to discuss and I've picked the perfect venue for us." he said to her opening the door to the carriage and helping her in.
A moment later and they were on their way.
"You're going to put me to test are you?" the Magistrate asked her.
"I must beg your forgiveness. It is not a test. It is merely to drop you and your tremendous pomp a notch. You've got enemies you know?" she answered him.
"I? Really? Let it be known that there are those who disagree, opinion, attitude, good looks and all. Are you sure we're not in the midst of a Magistrate hunt more so than that of Wytch kind?" the Magistrate said to her coyly, though deep within his eyes she could see the slightest hint of pain.
At that moment she knew she was dealing with a man who'd known great tragedy and yet held it within.
"Perchance you may mean the Mayor? He's overruled me every single time. They're definitely trying to remove me to make the process easier. I know it. You'd discredit me for as such?" he said astutely but seemingly unfazed.
"I didn't say that. You really have suffered some, haven't you? Then why don't you just go along with it?" Shaela asked him strategically.
"What they are doing is wrong. It's a travesty to everything for which I stand and everything for which I took up this office. It is clear what is going on but I'd rather not talk about that here. I'd much rather enjoy my time with you. Such peace is a golden treasure and rarely 'pon mine. I don't get much time for such and many of the folk who've prospered by the hunt have sought to make my life as miserable as they can. So I enjoy life when I can." the Magistrate answered her.
"I gathered as much. So are you going to tell me where we are bound?" she asked him keeping her smile.
"I do not know, but I will know upon whence we arrive." the Magistrate answered.
"What may I ask, is life and love about where you hail from?" the Magistrate asked her.
"Well that is a difficult question," Shaela answered him honestly.
"I beg to differ. I'd be willing to wager that the answer is the difficulty more so than the question." the Magistrate offered.
"I will give you that. Let me see. The coaches are much faster and run with fewer horses. There are also more of them. Not horses I mean but rather, carriages. Everyone uses them. There are many more people led by the reigns of hustle and bustle. There are almost too many demands in the course of a day and less time with which to achieve them. There, variety is something for everyone who seeks it," she replied deep in thought about her real home.
"The real question is was there something there for you?" the Magistrate asked her.
"Yes. There is much that I miss but I do so much like the peace here. Now that you've taken the steps to rid the countryside of the Wytch kind." Shaela lied.
"You're a practiced artist, painting pretension in ways that masquerade itself as truth," he responded catching her in her fib.
"Not quite like my friend I beg to differ. She gives a whole new meaning to art and illusion," Shaela replied remembering Mila wondering where she was and what she was doing.
"But none the less creatively so I would say." the Magistrate smiled.
"Yes. We are very crafty. Very." Shaela returned a smile, keeping her own little secret.
The coach arrived at its destination and the Magistrate stepped out first and helped Shaela out safely.
The two walked in arm to the boarding point of a ferry that the Magistrate had chartered just for the night.
The boat was a small sloop that would make short trips up the river and out to the sea board for trading and supplies. In off season the Captain would rent it out for luxury travel and the occasional short cruise. They walked the length of the boarding ramp and were greeted by the Captain.
"Milady." he said lowering his head customarily lifting his hat for her.
"This is a beautiful ship Captain." Shaela said honestly.
"Thank you Milady. She has tended me well many a trip. Enjoy yours. I am at your service. Should you like anything for this trip up the river I have crew that will service your needs." the Captain pointed out the crew.
"Thank you Captain. We are ready to sail when you are." the Magistrate told him.
The Magistrate accompanied Shaela to the upper port deck which was set up with finely crafted wooden deck chairs and tables for the guests that he would haul weekly on a trip along the river for a taste of the coast. It was as if they sought to relive the memory of their migration once again but reflective of their success and style. The Captain of the sloop had with the right connections set up a successful business during the colony's struggle to survive. The Wytch hunt had hurt business as it had for many and the Captain of the vessel held no special love for those who conducted it. The one thing that the Captain held in common with the Magistrate and they'd formed a bond around it. That and their mutual and moderate enjoyment of liquor and wine.
Shaela enjoyed the view as the ship embarked on its four hour long voyage for their benefit and theirs alone. She'd never seen a wooden ship never mind one with a plated hull. The gentle motion of the boat stirred her stomach and for a moment she wondered if she might expunge her dinner of the prior night on the deck. She paused trying to catch herself as she began to feel dizzy. The Magistrate caught her and walked her over to the port rail.
For the Magistrate it was a similar feeling for since the hunt had started he'd become alienated from the very people he'd set out to protect from crime and corruption. He'd been isolated from them but he'd still managed to hang onto what his principles and stuck by them by hedge or high cliff, lest he learned differently or in a way that expanded his view. It was his responsibility to everyone to do so. Shaela was much the same and it was as if the two of them sitting at this table were sizing one another for their merit's measure.
"One of the first places I saw here was just over there. A scenic and wonderful night for sure." Shaela pointed to the stony shore where she'd encountered Evan and where the Shadow Cat had very nearly eaten her.
"Yes, this land holds many mysteries and wonders. But none such as you." the Magistrate offered her as the bottle of wine arrived.
Two wine crystal wine glasses were set upon the table for each of them and the ship crew mate poured a sampling of the wine for the Magistrate. He swirled it in the glass and took a whiff of its bouquet before tasting it thoroughly. When he was confident that it wasn't tainted (or poisoned) he nodded to the pourer who then filled Shaela's glass.
"May I see the bottle?" she asked the crew member.
He offered it to her and she spied the first ever wine that was crafted more than four hundred years before her birth. There was no label though it had been marked with a wax seal that was partly removed. She recognized some of the symbols upon it placing it in a region of Europe though it could have easily been from five different Lordships of that land at this time. Shaela had drank wine from every corner of the Aerth and every country that had made it but she'd never had wine from this time. She mouthed it first, swishing it gently in her mouth before swallowing. It was sweet and aromatic and much to her liking.
"Very nice. Thank you." Shaela gave her approval smiling to the crew member who glowed with the appreciation.
"It is as she said. Thank you for the service." the Magistrate offered though appearing impatient for his departure.
The crew member departed leaving the bottle on the table descending down into the bowels of the ship.
Shaela recognized this as the time in which she should come to her conclusions about the Magistrate and his motives. She'd need to use skills she'd nought used often.
"So why if not for other reasons did you approach me upon this the most opportune of moments upon my life to breach my defenses? Are you but a hollow horse perhaps with a hidden army to set upon me?" the Magistrate asked Shaela.
"No more than the fortress you'd set upon the hunters. Why did you not fall to their effort?" Shaela asked him sincerely.
"Perhaps I did not agree to it. Perhaps is too weak a word 'pon this the moment of my discovery by an angel forth sent by the heavens?" the Magistrate maneuvered.
"No angel am I. Lest you not be devil. Then and thereupon I am an equal though you were already in thy know." Shaela showed her propensity for playing with language.
"Whenst thou hast 'pon thy gaze the figure steeled fortune and lust into a twine that I cannot be freed from then hast thou snared my desires." the Magistrate offered her in return pouring his language on thick.
"Your propensity for hopeless banter rivals my own. Are we then nought upon truth or there nearer to the lure of the point between where none can be sure. Despite the twines of my gaze." Shaela responded to his language skills.
"I stand bested and behested afore I've ingested the night's meal which I suspect is much more than I've been led by thyne and despite thyne twine. Cherish you another glass of wine?" the Magistrate yielded to hers.
Shaela weighed the Magistrate carefully before answering.
"You speak well in tongues, duality nested within speak thyne forth fostered forested seeds nought sewn by many as ye are one upon the furls of this my'ear." Shaela answered ringing true upon his.
"Then real ye are or are ye?" the Magistrate responded.
"Spake as ye did that words nought known by few but us. Or is it phew as us?" Shaela posited.
"None fewer or phewer as may be contented to live by many and amongst peace of all as none." the Magistrate stretched his vocabulary one last time.
"You speak beautifully." Shaela answered feeling her life within her and her lust creeping forth from places she'd never given a man.
"No. It is the poetry of your being that shapes what I've to say. I am a mirror, please show no doubt. If you see joy, that is your coat. Wear it well," the Magistrate offered for her approval.
"Then trust I shall this coat for from the reign it keeps me. Speak. Please do. Mine ears are as yours." Shaela hoped he would finish this line of speech.
"I'm done. You speak the language of arts beautifully. I've never heard it like yours. As you've guessed it I am not of the hunt." the Magistrate turned his head down.
"I know. They that are, well, how can one say this? They're hunting you now. They sent me to remove you. To be rid of their problem." Shaela spoke though her eyes communicating her seriousness and concern.
"Then I guess you'd best remove me." the Magistrate raised his glass and they toasted.
"Remove you? Remove you," she leaned in closer to him.
"Yes. Remove me. Wytch," he demanded of her.
"Honestly, I've never thought so much about removing a man as have I you," Shaela leaned in close to him, almost unable to contain herself.
For the first time in her life she'd met a man who'd broken through her defenses and pretenses all the same. There was nothing phony about him. He was everything he appeared to be, yet so much more and much beyond.
She saw a man of virtue and honesty. A man who was true.
Upon recognizing this of him, she realized her own true lonliness. Her solace and solitude. Her only real friends, and yet here he was: the man of her dreams and desires.
The risk to Shaela was that in giving herself to one, that she'd be making herself vulnerable forever more. She'd no longer be the mysterious shadow woman, for such a man could never bare such secrets as her's.
Jasmer's Cloud
Jasmer floated on a cloud gently buffeting with the turbulence of the air. He'd felt sudden urgency. The panic that had found him thrown from his horse, Dusty.
"You aren't." a dry voice spoke from behind him.
"I beg your pardon?" Jasmer asked still wincing from the pain of turning his head.
"Dreaming. This is a nightmare Jasmer. Not a dream. A real living nightmare. The worst you're going to have. Maybe the last." the voice replied.
"Who are you? Where am I? Where's my horse?" Jasmer asked uneasily shifting in the chair attempting to buy himself enough reach with which to cast a spell.
"Who I am is not important. You're in the headquarters of the Culdar Rath in Alivale. Your horse is safe in the stables in town, possibly with a new owner." the voice responded to him pragmatically.
"Then I guess the question is why am I here?" Jasmer continued his quest for information.
"Indeed that is always the question is it not? Always befitting any situation whence you choose to ask it. You are here because you serve a purpose to us. We are not sure of that purpose and we need to find it in order to accomplish our goals here. When we do we will succeed in the time and place from whence you originated." the voice elicited confidence its owner taking a few steps toward him from behind.
"Why Alivale? Why not one of the other towns that have recently popped up in this pocket colony that you're trying to corrupt?" Jasmer asked him inquisitively this time keeping his head still to listen.
"Alivale as you know is Mila's home town in the future that you come from. What you don't know is that it is the headquarters for the Culdar Rath in this time, those that others call the Strangers. You may know us as the Strangers of Lorr. We are the ones who started the hunt in this time. We've started other great hunts as well throughout history all to assist the Culdar Rath and their goals. We intend to finish up in the next few weeks and by that time have full control of this colony. The first steps are under way to ensure that. You're already familiar with the invasion force outside of Haven I presume?" the voice asked him.
"Yes, and they are well prepared for you. You'd be a fool to attack them. Your men have only been taking down innocent people on the hunt that are ill equipped to deal with you. You won't have the same luxury with the Haven." Jasmer said defiantly.
"We won't need to. You see, by the time we break you, we'll have all that we need. That's when the whole colony will fall." the voice stepped back into the darkness.
"How do you know of our time?" Jasmer asked the voice keen on getting some more answers.
"I admire your tenacity and inquisitiveness. A sign of hope. Misplaced but admirable nonetheless. I am from your time. I left our future time a week before you were sent here with your friends, though I arrived here years before you did and have been here ever since." the voice staid it place.
Jasmer pondered this for a moment before speaking again.
"You said friends. Who else did you send?" he asked him attempting to wiggle his hand slightly to gain enough room to cast.
"Why all of them of course. At least the ones you're closest with and those whose activity seems to contribute to the functioning and the safety of the Sanctum of course. Mila and her all but useless fiance. Shaela. Sato. Nelony more recently. I think that's all of you. Oh, wait. And Yirfir, your fiance of course. How forgetful of me. She's worried sick about you right now. I wonder if she can sense your plight? Maybe I'll play upon that later as it might quicken the invasion of the Haven." the voice spoke confidently.
Jasmer tried to remain emotionless though he found himself starting to become impatient with the voice. He had to stay resolute to keep Yirfir's spirits high despite their distance. His thoughts were upon her safety.
"I've answered some of your questions now perhaps you'll humour me by answering some of mine. How many are the defense forces of the Haven and what is their tasking?" the voice asked him.
"Six hundred and fifty. One hundred light mounted cavalry. Two hundred arquebusiers. Another hundred and fifty mixed militia units. Two hundred First Nations warriors who've pledged allegiance to the Haven." Jasmer answered him after some pause.
"That sounds a little too optimistic for my liking. I say that they have a hundred units at most. Perhaps forty or fifty with arquebus or hand cannons. The rest infanteers and mounted infantry with minimal training. The First Nations people are of no consequence as we're ready to deal with them by trade negotiations and land acquisition agreements." the voice told him.
"You're wrong, but its the lives of your men at stake." Jasmer told him sternly.
"And your Yirfir." the voice came back.
Jasmer remained stationary.
"Who have been hunting our Wytch hunters? Some of the methods of death have been very unsettling and quite gruesome. That lead me to believe that you have a person of great power there. Have you met this person and is this person like us?" the voice asked Jasmer.
"What do you mean like us?" Jasmer asked the voice.
"You know. Crafty? Like us." the voice said impatiently.
"No, there is no such person there. It might have been a few of the scouts as they are very superstitious about killing the hunters correctly. You know. So they don't return from the grave." Jasmer told him.
"You mean to tell me that a group of people seeking refuge at the Haven from the hunters of the colony are superstitious? I'd have thought the opposite would be true. More people of the Haven are less likely to be susceptible to superstition. I think that you are hiding something." the voice stepped back.
The voice started mumbling quietly and Jasmer recognized it as the incantations for a spell though what its effects could be he had no idea.
The voice stopped and the air became quiet for a moment. A lucrid smell filled the air and Jasmer could feel something making its way up the base skin of his legs. He could not tell if it was one thing or many but its slow and methodical progress under his trousers continued upward. It passed the belt line, his legs remaining covered by it as the rest of it made its way up his chest. He looked at his arms to see a creeping clump of wet and mossy slime making its way along his arms, covering them both. His neck soon became covered with the moss which made its way up to his face stopping just short of his eyes.
"That's not so bad is it?" the voice asked him sounding a bit chide.
Jasmer dare not open his mouth for fear of the gooey fiber making its way to his innards.
"Let me speak for you. Krtharthkisk!" the voice commanded.
Almost immediately Jasmer felt the moss extend sinewy roots under his skin, the slime which had an acidic stinging sharpness to its odour drove spikes of pain through the entirety of his body, little of it uncovered by the moss.
"Ahhhhaarrurrrgh!" Jasmer screamed as fiber flew from the corners of his mouth.
"Felselfirthiss!" the voice spoke and at once the tendrils retracted from his skin and the acidic smell became soothing, like aloe, healing his wounds.
Jasmer sighed with relief from the easing pain breathing heavily as his body repaired itself with the help of the fiber like moss.
"You see how that works? For answers I like, you get the healing. For answers I don't, you get the harm." the voice explained the simple rules to this game.
"Great game. When is it your turn to be in the chair?" Jasmer said still gasping for air.
"Never unfortunately for you. But you could be out of the chair quickly if you answer correctly." the voice told him.
"I can handle this. Yirfir gets one of these at the spa every two weeks." Jasmer said trying to find levity in this situation to comfort him.
"I assure you, this is no spa. Krtharthkisk!" the voice spoke once again commanding the acidic moss to life.
Jasmer screamed struggling in the chair in attempt to break the bonds though unsuccessfully. He writhed in pain unable to get enough slack to cast a spell though he could hardly concentrate for one.
"Felselfirthiss!" the voice spoke once again sending the soothing and healing ooze back into action just before Jasmer fell unconscious from the pain.
"Now. Let's try that again from the start." and the voice began.
Haven (Can Wait)
Nelony woke up in the morning constrained and in a bed wrap, her arms sore as she rolled over. A soldier sat beside her wolfing down a piece of bread which he dipped into a bowl. He stared at her, voyeuristic in his brevity to do so only to become embarrassed when she caught him.
"Untie me so I can at least eat!" she scolded her admirer.
The man grunted barely audible his mouth full of food. They were in a make shift tent made from a collection of tanned animal skins though the weather had held out. She looked disgustingly at the tent around her before speaking again.
"I said untie me. I need to eat!" Nelony spoke more commanding this time.
"Let up a moment, ma'am." the soldier stood and stepped out into the morning sun looking for the commanding officer of the make believe army.
A moment later the commanding officer whom had seen her naked the prior night entered the tent to join her.
"A pleasure to see you on a morn as fine as this." he said to her as he untied her hands.
"You are welcome to eat, but you eat with the rest of us out here." the commander told her as he pointed to the fire pit in the center of the camp.
Nelony looked at him still disgusted with him and the animal skins that donned the tents and stomped her way over to the fire pit. One of the men there who appeared to be acting as a cook handed her a bowl of swath and a clump of bread for a utensil. Nelony sniffed it warily before sitting down on the other side of the pit from the commander.
Most of the other men had finished their meals and were cleaning up and preparing for the day ahead. Some cleaned their long barrelled arquebus' while others cleaned their uniforms and gear. Nelony looked around a bit sizing up their level of activity before grabbing a mouthful of swath dipped bread. It tasted bland and lumpy though she was too hungry to complain. In the last twenty four hours she'd undergone a tremendous transformation in both personality, character and power. Her body recharged her magical energy as she consumed the breakfast gloop forcing it down as she chewed it.
"Commander, we just spotted two scouts leaving the area surrounding the Haven headed south by south east." a man ran up to the Commander out of breath.
"Now where are they going. I don't suppose that you'd tell us ma'am?" the Commander asked Nelony under the impression that she was the Haven's leader.
Nelony sat still a moment making sure that she'd not regurgitate the slop before she spoke.
"They're just going to retrieve food from a local food storage and gathering ground we have there in that direction." Nelony bluffed remembering what Yirfir had told her.
"Why don't they store it at the Haven?" the Commander asked her.
"Because its emergency storage, Most of the food stored there is salted and spiced to preserve it. There's also some tools as well for dire circumstances such as these. They might be needed to shore up defenses against you buffoons. Though not likely." Nelony stuffed a clump of the gloop covered bread into her mouth to help the bluff.
She gagged a moment later making the Commander laugh.
"It takes some getting used to." he joked with her.
"Hmmmrph." she nodded forcing it down before gagging again.
They'd bought her bluff though she really had no idea where the scouts they inquired about might have gone. She was just trying her best to buy time for Yirfir and the residents of the Haven. When she'd recovered fully she might be able to help out in many more ways via the craft.
A small bird circled above her before flying down and onto the ground in front of her. It chirped and tweeted a bit dancing a few steps pecking at the bread crumb droppings as it did. It drew little attention from her captors but very effectively communicated to her.
"Yirfir is healthy and rested... She is currently watching over you while the Haven's Chief is tending to preparations... In case the bad men people hunters attack." the bird communicated to her grabbing bits of crumb between phrases.
"Now there's a nice little snack." one of the soldiers made a grab for the bird.
The bird deftly flew between his legs and off into the sky its little mission completed.
"You leave that bird alone!" Nelony scolded the soldier.
"How bout a taste of ye?" the soldier asked her, his breath making her sick once again.
"Ye'd better stay away from her! She's off limits to all of ye!" the Commander shouted to the men surrounding the fire pit trying to gain some confidence from her.
She immediately recognized the ploy. She was being played by them. Hot then cold, then hot, then cold. Being rocked back and forth to ultimately fall over and be broken by them. One of her first lessons back at the Sanctum taught by Yirfir was related to such methods of subjugation. Those who sought to pit the members of the Sanctum against one another often did so. A means to break even the sturdiest of them Yirfir had said and sometimes even gain limited control. The Norbids had used such techniques to break down their captives from the first Sanctum and to find its location before their attack that fated night. Jasmer had even been enticed to their side in the battle that had seen the Sanctum claimed by the The Power Lords. He'd left Yirfir for many years only to be reunited with her during the Norbid's attempt to kidnap her. When their enemies sought to do such a thing to their victims, they would isolate them and nobody would know the truth of what they did by such a means. It would be two different stories. One that was the truth of their activities against their victim and another they kept for the outside world. She valued that lesson and felt close to Yirfir now, being able to recognize it in a life and death circumstance. Nelony spied the Commander, glaring at him and looking right through him.
Everyone stopped and stared at the Commander like he'd taken their toy away. They all went back to the business of keeping the encampment functional.
"That doesn't make what you did yesterday alright! I was saving that for somebody and that somebody was not you!" Nelony told the Commander her temper flaring.
Despite the fact that no advances were made by him, she still felt violated by the fact that he took a special moment from her. Lost forever thereupon by taking her privacy while she was forced to change her clothes in front of him. She'd never have that first moment of undressing for the man of her dreams again. One of whose passion for life and virtue matched her own.
"I reckon then that I'll not be the last. Whether ye leave here alive or not." he said gloatingly.
"You bastard!" she yelled at him running towards him arms flinging.
"Look ma'am. You can take that as you will, but that's done and gone. You're a prisoner here and not a guest. Your time here will get worse unless you start giving us useful information. From there you had better start considering that you should join us, or end up at the bottom of a lake or some other summary execution for protectors of Wytch craft." the Commander's glare grew tense as he stared her down slowing her advance against him to a stop.
"Then tie me back up and leave me be until you have questions for me!" she glared back at him fearlessly.
For the time she would recharge and let herself heal after the traumatic events of the last few days. Days earlier she had been a device of the demise of humanity, feared by all of those in the know. The bringer of events that would close this chapter on humanity's mistreatment of the Aerth. Then when she'd been ready to receive the powers entrusted her, the Culdar Rath arrived to take it all from her for their own personal use and agenda. It was all part of a plan by those who'd sought to exploit that power.
She bore the weight of her own loss of innocence amongst those who had no value in it except to take advantage of it for their own benefit and gratification. They'd stolen more from her than one could comprehend while keeping their guile and malice hidden from everyone else. She was a toy to them and a convenience that had fallen into their laps sent directly from her own time by their "Gods", the twins. For now she'd bide her time. They had numbers and they'd effectively fooled many into buying into their hunt but they still lacked the one thing they needed most.
The Commander secured her bindings roughly and left her alone and in the make shift tent. The mocking laughter of the men outside drifted away from reality as she had a vision only to awaken a moment later startled.
"The Sanctum... It's under attack..." she mouthed as all hope disappeared beneath her closed eyes.
The Haven Trail
They had been on horseback for two hours before they had to stop to tend to Darben, his wounds causing him a great deal of pain. He had been riding on his horse since they had left Sharlesbury and kept his grief and pain to himself. Sato and Father Wilsen helped him down from his horse and laid him out on his back.
"I apologize for this but I cannot continue. You must leave me." Darben told the two men looking over his wound.
Melinda rushed over having retrieved her kit and the concoction she'd prepared for him back at her apothecary. Mila had careful gotten off the horse with Barris' assistance and was by his side.
"You speak nonsense Darben. I am not going to leave you any more than I'd leave any piece of myself." Melinda began applying the salve to his exposed wound.
She'd patched it with the leaves of a rare plant whose natural glue acted as a sealant for such wounds, though Darben's injury was beyond the help the plant could render. She retrieved the pain reduction remedy from her sash and held his head up to administer it.
"Drink this. It will help with the pain, then we shall see about the rest." Melinda took the wax seal from the vial and poured it down his throat.
"I hope that it works better than it tastes." he sputtered and coughed.
"We need to seal his wound and fast. The plant salve won't hold for long." Melinda told them seeking ideas.
"I can assist with his pain, but for his wound we need a solution." Sato offered.
Sato cupped his hands together rubbing them together before drawing in a deliberate volume of air. He then applied them to the air just above Darben's head. Darben simultaneously felt the effects of Melinda's remedy and Sato's energy and at once was relieved of his pain.
"That is much better." Darben exhaled, relieved.
"We still need to seal his wound." Melinda told them.
"Honey? What are you thinking?" Barris asked Mila who looked on with compassion.
"I could try something." Mila told them stepping up and kneeling before his body.
"Give her a little room please." Barris told them.
Mila began an incantation, weaving her hands etching the desired effect into the air above him. A glowing series of fibers appeared, growing in density as her fingers flowed through them together strands at a time. She then pushed the entirety of the weave downward upon his wound. It stuck to his skin cleaning it then fusing the wound together into a tattoo, the threads of a stitch clearly visible and rendered in great artistic detail.
"Shessspilth." Mila spoke aloud casting one final spell upon his wound.
The wound was now encompassed by a detailed tattoo bandage, cleaned and sealed by the same, a series of stitches keeping it together.
"That should do. I do hope that you don't mind the body art?" Mila asked Darben.
"I shall wear it with honour and never a bane to my sight shall it be. It is clear that the wytch hunt is a dire and evil threat to us all," Darben told her leaning up to take a look at the artwork that replaced his wound, admiring it.
"Good. That will be two hundred dollars. Will that be on your charge card or in coinage?" Barris spoke aloud only to be greeted by puzzlement and silence.
Barris relaxed a bit when others began to chuckle.
Sato offered his hand to Darben who accepted it. Sato hefted Darben to his feet watching carefully if he'd maintain his balance.
"It is a miracle and none too soon." Father Wilsen said in approval Kathryn by his side.
"I've never seen such a thing. You mean all this talk and heresy of the craft was true?" Kathryn asked Mila.
"There are many of us who seek to make the world a better place through balance and understanding favouring and objective sense of good. Why they sought to hunt us is the effort of those whose goals it is to seek another fate for the world. To keep the power of knowledge for their own benefit and rule. To keep the secrets of the nature of the weave their own," Mila explained to Kathryn as best she could.
"Why ever would anyone want to seek to suppress such a thing as what you just did if its as free as the nature around us?" Kathryn asked Mila still amazed.
"There are many who don't use their abilities for the betterment of the world. There are those of us who are on the other side and who help hunt their own brothers and sisters. They pit you against us. Us against each other. That is how it has always been." Mila summarized.
"It is one big dance with which we've been engaged for all of history. It is the struggle we all face. There are many things yet we do not know and even more beyond that in the realm of what we cannot comprehend." Sato explained to Kathryn.
"That, and of course they want everyone to sleep in sand paper and jalapeno pajamas every night," Barris offered for their amusement.
A smile crept onto the corner of Mila's mouth and that was enough to warm Barris despite the absence of laughter.
"This has been the same thing that has been explained in many texts, ancient and modern. It is good to pay attention to the wisdom one can find in parable and verse, yet not fall to zeal, pragma and dogma." Father Wilsen spoke looking to Barris in reminder of their heated discussion.
"Agreed Father Wilsen. But it is not for one to read blindly without the presence of their own faculties and mind to scrutinize what they consume as such. If you don't honestly consider and question what you do take in, then are you not setting yourself up to be misled?" Barris reposed defensively to Father Wilsen resuming their earlier discussion from the Church.
"If no one asked serious questions of the teachings of my Church then I would assume that nobody is listening. The question is the most important part of growth and learning. To accept without consideration is to not know and to not be interested. Words have no meaning when they are not considered. Considered not just with skepticism but honesty." Father Wilsen told Barris.
"One could say the same of any belief and of any learning. If you do not take the time to consider what you are learning then perhaps you aren't learning. Even our teachers stand on the forefront of what is known of a given subject. We might seek to learn and by considering what we learn from those who teach us, and by asking questions of them, we might arrive on the same shores quickly. Upon the shores of what is known about that subject. Though I suspect that wisdom is a very different thing." Mila interjected thoughtfully supporting both of their arguments.
"I agree. Teaching is not so much about telling your students what to know as it is about teaching how to learn. To learn when not in the presence of someone else who already knows. Independent learning is important as learning with others to refer to for possible answers." Kathryn answered.
"Yes, wisdom is what you understand after you have considered and seen the application of what you learn. Wisdom is knowing when not to say as much as it is knowing when to say." Father Wilsen replied to Mila.
"What about those who say what they think others' want them to say? Speaking only for the approval of others?" Melinda asked them while she examined Darben for any further ill effects or harm.
"I suspect that is rooted in a lack of confidence of one's self. The fear that one would lose the friendship of others if they said anything that contradicted what they thought their friends wanted to hear. Surely friends such as that are not worth the time." Barris added thoughtfully with a slight hint of defensiveness.
"It is not the fault of the friends, but the low esteem of one who speaks as such that is a shame and a loss. Many of the supposed Wytches and other victims of the hunt had been damaged by the same thing. Even the Widow Milaise before she died had her own loss of confidence and surety long before that fateful night. They had been abused by a number of hunters who did it secretly and discretely. The victims often exhibited this fear and lack of esteem. Broken. Speaking only what they thought the hunters wanted to hear for fear of isolation and further abuse. They never realized that the hunters were taking them for their most valued of possessions. Their identity. Their being. Their past and present." Father Wilsen spoke authoritatively on the subject.
Barris considered the Father's words for a moment nodding in understanding.
"He speaks truth. Even I had noticed this and had questioned the many times that I was called upon to round up a suspected Wytch. The hunters seem to have this effect upon their quarry. Many of the hunters walked away with the past of their own victims. Some victims buried with the vile deeds of the hunters whom had felled them. I had been ready to secretly free Father Wilsen if the arrest had gone as planned. That is why they contacted me. To act as one of their agents." Darben addressed them on the subject.
"Who contacted you?" Father Wilsen asked Darben.
"The Haven. The lady of the wilds and protector of the lost." Melinda informed them.
"So you were sought for your assistance by the ones at the place that we seek?" Father Wilsen asked.
"Indeed I was. And for the time I kept it secret. Now it may serve us well for we are all brothers and sisters as pariahs. Our bond is more than friendship for we will all receive the same treatment and be tried as Wytches and likely die with their sins to our name while they bare the triumphs of our lives." Darben told them.
"I remember feeling as such in childhood myself. Often ganged upon by many. Before long you lose yourself and start filtering everything you say. Making sure that it is what you want others to hear. That is why I left when I did. It is a scary thing." Barris spoke remembering the social scars of his youth.
"Honey. You learned to make peace with others using your wit and sense of humour. That's far more admirable and much sexier. Now I need you to heal me." Mila wrapped her arms around him holding him close.
Barris rubbed her back gently, enjoying their embrace as much as she did.
"Oh, I think those scars of youth are acting up again..." he said jokingly as she attempted to pull away.
She pecked his cheek with her lips and pinched his behind.
"It is true. And that is what we protect by taking these steps in seeking the Haven and what they stand for." Darben told them gesturing to Mila and Barris.
"Then perhaps I will be welcomed to a place where I can also be safely with my love for she already resides there." Melinda said speaking of Bethel, who had fled for the safety of the Haven months before.
Kathryn considered the sudden turn around in her understanding of the situation at hand. She'd considered Father Wilsen a wretch for so long she'd forgotten about their prior friendship and his virtuous honesty. She found it difficult to accept the fact that she had been fooled as had many by those that had started the hunt and now was the time to make amends as she was ready to forgive.
"We have many hours to go before we arrive. We should make haste then, now that I've been tended to by the best healers a man could hope for." Darben walked carefully to his horse feeling much better.
His wounds sealed and healing and his former pain a distant ebb, he jumped on the back of his horse. The others mounted theirs and they continued their journey in search of the Haven while word of their escape was passed amongst the Legal Officers of the colony and the Strangers of Lorr.
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