The village of Ghent was small, but its residents more than made up for that with their cheeriness and bustling about, making it seem as though one were not in a tiny settlement somewhere in Allir Reach, but instead closer to one of the larger cities. The scents of bread and meat mingled with the aroma of flowers, barely masking the pungence of animals and manure. People chattered, chickens clucked, hammers banged on anvils and wagon wheels rattled. Indeed, the village of Ghent was a lively place, and welcoming of everyone.
Well, almost everyone.
They didn't like outsiders much. If they were human, maybe. Relatives of someone from Ghent, then sure. Otherwise? You'd get a stink eye if you were lucky. The cold shoulder, perhaps. Denial of service, even. Food withheld, bed withheld, help withheld until you were forced out.
Unless you were Esten, that is.
She'd arrived here, twenty four years ago to be exact, and immediately established some ground rules. The witch would stay in her woods, coming into town only for supplies. The townspeople would only go to her cottage if they were in need of her services - and only if they could pay for it. Otherwise, she stayed out of their hair, and they stayed out of hers. It was a nice arrangement, really. Especially since everyone had, at one point, needed something from her. Not that anybody would admit it.
Not that she cared.
And only one person had broken the rules. One foolish young man, who had apparently thought challenging her was the way to earn the heart of a particular maiden. The next morning, his bed was empty save for a rooster who'd made itself at home. When questioned by the young man's father, Esten said nothing more except that she'd offered a choice, and he made one.
Truth is, the woman had broken into his room with the rooster she'd stolen from a farm, woke the man up and told him he could either skip town or turn into her feathered friend. He suddenly decided it was important to discover the world beyond Ghent and wouldn't you know it, there was a traveller heading north tonight in just under an hour.
Of course, the other villagers didn't need to know that.
Today, almost exactly twenty years after that fateful night, Esten strolled into town. Walking closely besides her was the mule she always borrowed from John Smithson, the blacksmith. Every week when she came into town she'd borrow it, and return the animal the next day. In exchange, the witch would use her magic to repair and strengthen his tools. It was a nice trade, and in her mind a balanced one. Even if she had to pick up the mule at dawn, before anyone else was awake. The witch softly clucked her tongue at the thought. These people were so caught up with their appearances, it was ridiculous.
But, oh well. It meant more gossip for her, and she didn't altogether mind anyway.
Today, the witch was dressed all black. Black boots, black trousers (skirts were easier to get caught on things out in the forest), black blouse, and of course a black cloak, lined with opalescent black feathers swaying with every step. Her long silvery hair was intricately braided on the top of her head, with the strands on her sides covering her ears. Esten's hair always covered her ears.
Faustus, meanwhile, was perched atop her staff, his head bobbing with her stride. The villagers were always complaining about his smell but honestly, she didn't think it was that bad. Sure, during the summer months the bird was a little ripe but, honestly? You got used to it.
The witch stopped in front of the baker's shop, her nose sniffing as much of the delectable scent as she could, ignoring the others who scurried away. “Your loaves smell lovely as always, Helmut.” The baker shot her a quick smile.
“What can I say, Lady Witch, I've got a magic touch when it comes to baking.” Eaten couldn't help but smirk at their little inside joke. At first, Helmut Kerrickson had been as standoffish and wary as all the others, his head filled with the (kinda true) stories about her. But when his wife fell ill, gravely ill, Esten was the only one able to bring her back from the brink of death. It was simple, really, at least in her mind. Just a mixture here and a few sigils there, and boom the woman was like her old self.
To repay her, Helmut had offered three fresh loaves per week for a year -- and a sort of respect that nobody else in the village could give her. They certainly weren't friends, she and the baker family, but the Kerricksons could sleep soundly at night knowing they'd be the least likely to fall victim to anything of hers.
“Indeed you do, baker. Where are the little ones today?”
“Hiding somewhere, likely. They kept playing in the flour, making a mess so I sent them out to help their mother. Don't know if they've made it that far, though.”
Vigil
Well, almost everyone.
They didn't like outsiders much. If they were human, maybe. Relatives of someone from Ghent, then sure. Otherwise? You'd get a stink eye if you were lucky. The cold shoulder, perhaps. Denial of service, even. Food withheld, bed withheld, help withheld until you were forced out.
Unless you were Esten, that is.
She'd arrived here, twenty four years ago to be exact, and immediately established some ground rules. The witch would stay in her woods, coming into town only for supplies. The townspeople would only go to her cottage if they were in need of her services - and only if they could pay for it. Otherwise, she stayed out of their hair, and they stayed out of hers. It was a nice arrangement, really. Especially since everyone had, at one point, needed something from her. Not that anybody would admit it.
Not that she cared.
And only one person had broken the rules. One foolish young man, who had apparently thought challenging her was the way to earn the heart of a particular maiden. The next morning, his bed was empty save for a rooster who'd made itself at home. When questioned by the young man's father, Esten said nothing more except that she'd offered a choice, and he made one.
Truth is, the woman had broken into his room with the rooster she'd stolen from a farm, woke the man up and told him he could either skip town or turn into her feathered friend. He suddenly decided it was important to discover the world beyond Ghent and wouldn't you know it, there was a traveller heading north tonight in just under an hour.
Of course, the other villagers didn't need to know that.
Today, almost exactly twenty years after that fateful night, Esten strolled into town. Walking closely besides her was the mule she always borrowed from John Smithson, the blacksmith. Every week when she came into town she'd borrow it, and return the animal the next day. In exchange, the witch would use her magic to repair and strengthen his tools. It was a nice trade, and in her mind a balanced one. Even if she had to pick up the mule at dawn, before anyone else was awake. The witch softly clucked her tongue at the thought. These people were so caught up with their appearances, it was ridiculous.
But, oh well. It meant more gossip for her, and she didn't altogether mind anyway.
Today, the witch was dressed all black. Black boots, black trousers (skirts were easier to get caught on things out in the forest), black blouse, and of course a black cloak, lined with opalescent black feathers swaying with every step. Her long silvery hair was intricately braided on the top of her head, with the strands on her sides covering her ears. Esten's hair always covered her ears.
Faustus, meanwhile, was perched atop her staff, his head bobbing with her stride. The villagers were always complaining about his smell but honestly, she didn't think it was that bad. Sure, during the summer months the bird was a little ripe but, honestly? You got used to it.
The witch stopped in front of the baker's shop, her nose sniffing as much of the delectable scent as she could, ignoring the others who scurried away. “Your loaves smell lovely as always, Helmut.” The baker shot her a quick smile.
“What can I say, Lady Witch, I've got a magic touch when it comes to baking.” Eaten couldn't help but smirk at their little inside joke. At first, Helmut Kerrickson had been as standoffish and wary as all the others, his head filled with the (kinda true) stories about her. But when his wife fell ill, gravely ill, Esten was the only one able to bring her back from the brink of death. It was simple, really, at least in her mind. Just a mixture here and a few sigils there, and boom the woman was like her old self.
To repay her, Helmut had offered three fresh loaves per week for a year -- and a sort of respect that nobody else in the village could give her. They certainly weren't friends, she and the baker family, but the Kerricksons could sleep soundly at night knowing they'd be the least likely to fall victim to anything of hers.
“Indeed you do, baker. Where are the little ones today?”
“Hiding somewhere, likely. They kept playing in the flour, making a mess so I sent them out to help their mother. Don't know if they've made it that far, though.”
Vigil
