The Witch and the Madman

Orgoth kneels under the threshold into a bronze musk candlelight of the local inn. Filled with an assortment of farmers, merchants and vagabonds, the room was festive in nature in spite of all eyes finding to linger on Orgoth. He stood taller by any other man in the room easily by an arms reach, and bore a great beard that was graying from black, braided in trinkets wild and unkept, matching the upkeep of his fur hide over a weathered leather tunic. The only item on his person that showed any sense of caretake was his Greataxe that was tightly clenched in his right hand. To dissuade the inn he returned the metal to its sheath before furthering in, placing it to the horseshoe harness along the leather pauldron that hung down the back of his shoulder. The steel was a cold blue, engraved in runes and markings that only his own kin could read.

Most eyes returned to their business say for a few as Orgoth avoided them all and sat to one of the only remaining stools before the bar. He ordered his drink with a low muttered grunt, and as he waited his attention could not help but find itself loom around the inn, to every lively table whether they’d be singing a chant, confessing a love for another or sharing artisan discrepancies. He took it all in, but none moreso than the sight of a father sharing a pint with his youngest. The boys hands were barely large enough to fit around the mug let alone his mouth to a round of ale. Nonetheless the attempt brought smiles to all who witnessed, including Orgoth who clutch tightly onto his arrowhead necklace, a broach that would not normally fall worn by a man, but rather that of a noble lady, or a daughter. It was a gentle welcome of a moment, if only a brief moment before it was stolen as Orgoth's eyes and ears laid on the voices of four men to a table, and recognized immediately their banner of a spear broken against a shield as the mark of Sellswords, killers for hire. Plated in heavy armor, even the town fool would recognize they were currently employed.

“I’m telling you, the old merchant said he spotted her not 2 days ago in those woods, fitting the exact description as the last” exclaimed one baring fine red leather under plated armor.

“Where though?” another asked, his mighty glaive giving away his trade.

“The eastern track, by the abandoned silver mine. Said she was just standing over the ridge looking right back at him, her robes drowned in earth and mud and her skin as pale as any ghost. She did not make a sound nor attempt to esca-” the Sellsword catches eyes on Orgoth, of whom immediately breaks away in a futile attempt to show no interest. The inn keeper returned with his ale, and Orgoth fumbled to pull out a finely kept pouch under his garments to hand the keeper his earned silver. A second coin slips out from the top of the pouch and rolls along the inn floor before being swept up by the Sellsword walking over to Orgoth.

“Many blessings to you, friend” he says with a cheerful smile returning the coin, his companions also walking over and surrounding.

“And to you.. stranger” Orgoth carefully replies, taking back the coin. The finely kept velvet-lined pouch jingled of a dozen more coins as he returned it under his garments.

“So much silver, I take it it your choice of trade sees many spoils”

“.. It has certainly provided”

“What’s the trade?”

“.. Hunter..” Orgoth answered as the first word that came to mind.

“Hunter? Really? Many spoils indeed. Who do you hunt for, the King?” the Sellswords all laughed.

“.. Do you want something?” Orgoth asked bluntly.

“No friend. Just merely inquisitive to the nature of your visit to these parts, since your purse seems it unnecessary”

“.. I’m just passing through”

“Are you looking for employment? Cause it just so happens, we are a man short. And we can use someone of your experience to guide us up these hills”

“.. I have no experience in these woods”

“Really? So the mud trails on your furs is from sleeping on just the road then? Or the pedals of red orchids only native to these woods came from somewhere else?”

Orgoth turns his attention directly to the Sellsword, their intentions towards him clearly beginning to unfold.

“You see, we are something of hunters ourselves. And right now, we are hunting a madman living somewhere in these woods. A killer, who has abducted an amount worth more than that silver in your pocket. Except this time-” the Sellsword slams down the bounty poster in front of Orgoth showing the drawing of the lady.

“-he abducted the wrong person. Ordained by the King’s Priests themself; we have been charged with finding this madman by any means necessary and freeing the imprisoned.. Does that sound like something that suits your trade?”

Orgoth eyes the four Sellswords, as if waiting for the brawl to begin. But instead he finished his ale, placed the mug over the bounty and stood up from his chair, reminding everyone of his stature as the entire inn shrunk in comparison, including the four Sellswords who looked up to Orgoth as though he were in the clouds.

“.. Good luck on your hunt.. strangers” he answered before taking his leave. The Sellswords glared over Orgoth with suspicious eyes as he left the inn, without ever once looking back.

Hours later, Orgoth now climbed the woods as the sun was setting on the day, dragging a snared deer behind him. The woodland creature had no more strength left to struggle. Its hooves bound together, the animal’s shocked expression and rapid panting was all that was left to prove it still alive as the two came to a clearing, lead by a weak fire at the far end of a made camp. Sitting by the fire with her back to Orgoth was a young woman, the lady sketched on the bounty. The description from the elderly merchant did no just, for not only was she draped in worn muddied rags but also sleeved in dried blood. Her face was inked in glyph-like markings down her cheeks and neck, and her nails were long and unnatural as they appeared more like roots of a tree, twisted and unkempt. The same it was for her toes, dug into the soil like sand along a shoreline. As Orgoth dropped the deer before her and the weak flame, a chant could be heard muttered and hummed under her breath. Without even a seconds look at her he doubled back, moving to the farthest reach of the camp, farthest from her.

“This beast is merely decent. It will not be enough” she said as her fingers trickled along the deer’s hide like talons. Orgoth sat to an already set log, mirroring the lady’s prone with his back turned to her.

“.. I know..” he replied with a deep yet hollow sigh. He rest his axe down to his lap before taking out a wet stone from his person. And for the briefest of moments, Orgoth found a piece of silence before the lady’s hands found the Deer’s heartbeat, and without hesitance or warning struck it with a blunt stone knife, breaking the creatures ribcage in five separate locations. The Deer squeals and cries through the whole ordeal, it’s high pitched screeches echoing through the woods, and in spite of this, Orgoth remained still, listening to every shriek it cried. It was only until the final blow on the actual heart did the the Deer return silent, and only then when Orgoth began to file down the steel of his axe, for the lady’s muttering and humming grew in volume. Fresh blood now stained her sleeves and arms as the heart was removed and cast into the smoldering embers of the campfire. The fire grew in strength, as though kindle had been added, and as it grew so did the lady’s humming, and so did Orgoths filing, slow at first before faster and faster, doing everything he can to drown out the ladys song. But it was not because of the lady why Orgoth intended this, it was because eventually, others sung back…

A rainstorm had gathered later in the night. The lady returned to resting by the fire as Orgoth remained at the outskirts of the camp, shivering from the cold, his lips trembling and his fingers now a shade of blue. The fire was right there and he knew he was welcomed to it. But it was because of this very notion, and knowing too well how the fire remained lit even throughout a torrential downpour why he did not move from his post. He shook off the build of dew caught from his furs and remained firm with his Axe in hand to his lap. It was as if he was waiting for someone, or something to arrive. And before long, he received his answer. Like the snapping of a twig, a sudden shift in the sound of rainfall alerted Orgoth to someone close by. He stood to his feet just as four men emerged from the darkness, the Sellswords from the inn.

“Many blessings to you, friend” said the lead Sellsword, with the same plumped smile kept on his smug face just as before. This time however, Orgoth did not return the favor with a kind word. Instead, he gripped the handle of his Axe with both hands.

“Why so blunt, Hunter? Have you been hiding something from me?”

“There is nothing hiding in these woods apart from yourselves. And as you can see, there is nothing at all blunt in my possession” he replied gripping his Axe tighter.

“And yet, here you are, sharing light with the very lady of whom I spoke to you of only hours ago” the Sellsword tosses the bounty poster at Orgoths feet that immediately drowns in the mud.

“Do not dare insult my intelligence by saying she is anyone but that very woman. As far as the evidence entails, this makes her your prisoner, which makes you, the madman”

Orgoth keeps a close eyes on all four Sellswords whom slowly spread and encircle the camp. Faced with a longsword, a spearman, a shield and axe, and a polearm glaive, his options were limited, say for his choice of death. Though despite their armoury and their numbers, Orgoth did have one advantage over the four. But he would do everything in his power to see it not used. Instead, he pulled out his pouch of silver and tossed it to the lead Sellswords feet.

“There’s enough coin in there to purchase your own manor. I plead with you all, return to the Priests of our King, and tell them that you never found us, or that we were already dead, or that we never existed to begin with. We were just simply a story made up by a superstitious people who told too many bedtime stories. I assure you, this bounty, is not anywhere near worth the price to what is in that pouch. Just take it and go” Orgoth spoke with the up most sincerity.

There is a moment where all parties halted and counted their cards. The lead Sellsword collected the pouch and inspected it. Sure enough, his smirk returned.

“It’s funny. I knew a man who carried a purse exactly like this one.. He was meant to be the fifth in our company. But he rode ahead a few days early to collect the bounty for himself.. I suppose you haven’t seen him? …”

Orgoth does not answer. There was nothing more to say. He knew just as well as the four what was about to unfold. The lead Sellsword pocketed the purse and drew his weapon along with the rest of his company.

“Get the girl” he ordered to the Glaivesman, who broke the encirclement on Orgoth for the lady. The others slowly closed in.

Orgoth had to time it right. He had only one advantage, and was left with no other choice but to use it. He dug in, held his mighty Axe ready. The Glaiveman reached the lady and took her shoulder. Gently she turned, and locked her eyes on him. Orgoth kept his own on the lead Sellsword, undoubtedly the one longing most for revenge. He readied his longsword for the killing blow when the Glaivesman gagged. All eyes turned to him as he to them, with the beak of his own weapon embedded into the under of his jaw. With a final look to his company, he gave an unnatural smile before turning his head left to right in a swift motion that saw his throat slit completely open before collapsing under his own weight into the mud. The man was dead before he hit the floor. The remaining company turned their focus to the lady still along the floor before the fire, seemingly unbenounced to what just occurred.

Orgoth’s moment came. He butted the Spearman first with the pummel of his axe before kicking the swordsman away second, giving him the space needed to strike the shielded axeman. Within only a few blows, he turned his opponents advantage into his downfall. Feinting a killer blow, Orgoth instead hooked the edge of the mans shield and pulled it out wide, exposing his under-guarded torso to be pierced by the Spearmans impatient joust, rendering his own companion unable to continue the fight and fall onto his back. With the Spearman now defenceless, Orgoth used his already built moment and swung his axe around high, taking his head clean off his shoulders. His body dropped to his knees before into the mud. The lead and final Sellsword finally returned to the fight, and he swung his blade with a clear sense of skill. He pushed Orgoth back, driving him all the way to the campfire where the lady not once glanced to Orgoth or him. Her eyes remained only on the fire that had begun to recede to near embers.

The Swordsman was good, but experience always bested skill, and Orgoth had the man right where he wanted him. Kicking at his armored leg, the Sellsword lost his balance along the muddy terrain and overextends his strike, leaving him open for the final blow directly into the lower of his spine. The Swordsman dropped to the floor with a sudden gasp before a lack of breath. His limps dropped before the rest of his body did. Orgoth’s cold steel ran red through the downpour. He tugged it out from his defeated opponent. Defeated, but not dead. Catching his breath, Orgoth returned to finish off the axeman that still drew breath.

“Mer-cy! Mm-ercy!” he cried out between mouthfuls of blood. With no hesitance, Orgoth buried the mans face into the shallow mud, and drowned out whatever life remained in him. His body turned still, and with it the night turned silent again. Orgoth embraced it and allowed a moment to catch his breath, collecting the fallen Sellswords personal affects and coin, just as he did the the first Sellsword that came into these woods merely a few days ago.

“Bb-Bastard!.. Ffucking Bastard!!” cursed the lead Sellsword, once again stealing the moment. Orgoth slowly returned to him.

“You think this is over? Others will come. Mark my words they will come!”

Orgoth payed him no mind. In fact he allowed it, for he knew well what was install next for the man as he dragged him from the shoulder cuff of his armor and placed him on his back before the lady by the dying fire.

“What is this, you’re sick ritual? You force your prisoners to cut your meat for you? You’re nothing but the son of a whore! You hear?! A bastard son, to a bitch of a mother!”

Orgoth locks eyes onto his, and it is enough to finally silence the Sellsword.

“You’re right. Everything you say is true. All but one. She is not my prisoner… I am hers..” Orgoth wonders off, and in his place sits the lady, brandishing her blunted stone knife.

It is the same for the Sellsword as it was for the Deer, five precisely marked strikes break the mans ribcage, with his screams only coming muted by the final strike to the heart.

“This one is ripe. It is enough to suffice” the Witch said between enthralled breaths.

“.. I know..” Orgoth replied in the same manner as he did with the Deer. By the end, that’s all they ever were, more Deer to the slaughter. His heart still beated in her hand as she dropped it onto the weak fire, only this time it was like oil onto embers, erupting into a gargantuan wall of blood fire, rapidly growing in size and light. The Witch inhaled the cinders and began her song once more.

The shadows the flame cast along the surrounding woods seemed to come to life without restraint and took on the form of demonic beasts, all of which danced with the Witch around the pyre, as did the Sellsword’s itself, whose body had left this plain, and was now captive to the next.

With his back turned to it all, Orgoth blinded himself only from his own guilt, for he remained doomed to always hear the swarming mass of vocals arise with the Witches song, calling to her Devil. It was horror, a nightmare of which Orgoth could never escape. He could only clench on to his arrow head broach just as he clenched on to the remaining shred of hope that somewhere out there, his family was safe, that the promise the Witch made to him those many years ago remained kept, years of which that were now barely a forgotten memory.