Quest

Genre: Fantasy (old-school)

The old woman that lived in a ramshackle hut just inside Black Forest was known to be a witch. The village never tried her or attempted to extricate her, though whether that was due to respect or fear or the simple fact that she never seemed to bother anybody, was unclear. What was clear, was that she was the only tie the village had to the supernatural.

It wasn't unusual to see her picking blue-cap mushrooms in the early morning dew, which were highly toxic until the sun dried them, or spot her rushing, naked, toward the swamplands in the dead of winter.

Hero traveled with resolve in his heart, but doubt on his mind. The old woman had never harmed anyone in his village, but she had never helped anyone either. Still, he had to try. His fair Evan's life depended on it.

There was no door on the shack, or at least, not the kind that allowed for knocking. A sheet of leather, tied with bits of rawhide served to keep the dwelling private. Boldly, he swept it aside and stepped in. He was surprised to find it spacious. He could not even see the back end of the hut, though it had not appeared to be longer than two horses standing nose to tail when he was outside. A long hallway lined with expensive looking fabrics greeted his eye. Shelves lined it, filled with all manner of strange things that one would expect to find in a witch's abode: glass jars filled with strange powders, bits of bone and gems, bird feathers, a polished human skull.

Hero hesitated, his riding boots just a bit too big and his father's sword, an unfamiliar weight at his hip. Even with the inspired name that his mother had left him with, at the end of the day, he was simply a farm-boy. He could turn around and put the sword back and crawl back into bed and no one would ever know. No one would ever judge him. A drop of sweat made a moist track down his temple. He thought then, of Evan, scared and alone, possibly hurt. The sweat made progress down to jaw. He exhaled slowly. He took a step forward.

The witch was suddenly in front of him, which would have been surprising enough with a normal person. She was anything but normal. She was a haggard woman, with a messy bun of silver and white peppered with twigs and leaves and dirt. Her eyes were wild and glassy. Her mouth was a severe line decorated with deep cut wrinkles from frowning or pursing her lips or both. Her clothes were handmade and looked strangely new and well-kept. Hero supposed that when one spent their nights running about naked, their clothes were bound to be in good shape. Her frown deepened, as if she could read his thoughts.

Hero straightened. It was strange to be this close to her. She was an enigmatic thing, seen only in snatches. As a child, he had attempted to follow her once, only to find himself hopelessly lost in a patch of forest he should have known by heart. Honestly, he had expected similiar treatment for invading her home, but she stood there in silence instead. Frowning and pursing her lips and squinting one eye at him.

When it became clear that she was not going to speak, he coughed into his hand and, heart in his throat, began to tell her his tale.