The Wytch's Solitude

Chapter 5

                   Chill settled down into the valley as night fell. Trees and shrubs and a lone lean-to were illuminated by a single moon and a cheery golden color graced the clouds. Only a sliver of the sun broke the horizon and already nocturnal creatures were waking from their daytime slumber. Cathryn could hear the sound of an owl in the distant, likely adjusting its eyes to the darkening skies.

                   The bonfire sputtered, sending a thick plume of smoke spiraling toward the top of the Elm's nearby. They were already losing their leaves, littering the ground with their foliage. Her eyes stung, so she massaged gently at one with her thumb and used middle finger for the other. It was relaxing in this spot, one of many that Cathryn frequented. She had no home and very rarely stopped moving. This area, trapped between the Havar Straight on the left and the Jasper Mountains all around, was a frequent haunt of merchants, travelers, and bandits alike. The Kings patrols rarely traveled this far, and that was the way she liked it. Parked off the side of the road, she contemplated sleep.

                   It didn't seem like such a bad idea, really, but she knew she wasn't alone. If she was going to sleep, she was going to do it right. Her satchel was lain on a rock behind her, the bright yellow fabric  being violated by an older man who thought he was much sneakier than he was. The look on his unshaven, acne laden face was disappointment. The satchel contained only trinkets; a couple of rocks from various lands, a few containers of tea, a dingy pot that was almost never washed, and a single wooden cup.

                   “Okay, Missy, where's the goods?”

                   Cathryn wondered how long he was going to rummage through her things before he got to the good part. Acting startled she shrieked, “Oh my!”, and jumped to her feet. She put on the best astonished mask she could conjure up, but felt that it was a little weak. She had met intimidating men before. This man was an embarrassment.

                   His posture was all wrong, first of all. Where as Cathryn stood straight, her narrow shoulders held back, the bandit leaned forward and almost seemed bashful to be robbing her. He was gangly, malnourished, and reeked of month old sweat and booze. She was honestly surprised that his nose wasn't crimson. Then there were his clothes, Gods they were awful. Cathryn dressed modestly, wearing a dress of a common blue and was woolen besides, but he looked like gutter trash. Were those boots ever in style? she asked herself.

                   “Please, I don't have anything you'd be interested in.” She didn't even try to hide any more. She wasn't afraid, and the drunk would be too intoxicated to notice. He only needed a little a little nudge in the right direction.

                   “Look, Missy...”  The man drew a knife that probably could slice cleanly through the air but might have a challenge with anything else. It had rusted through in some spots, so even though it had been cleaned and a sad attempt at polish had been applied the threat wasn't really there. “We can do'is two ways, eh? We cou-...well ain't you a perty girl. Maybe we could cozy up after this and I don't need to cut you up too bad.”

                   Her flaxen hair glistened in the firelight, reflecting reds and yellows, but her cheeks remained a sickly pale white. She stretched her lips into a pitiful frown that wouldn't have passed, even to the drunk, if it weren't obscured by night.

                   When the man approached he soundly found himself paralyzed. Gripped by invisible hands the man writhed. It was joyous to see that irritated, but unworried face melt into fear. His eyes widened as his mark, the slender woman who only stood a few inches shorter than he, approached. Twigs and leaves snapped under her feet. It was that smile that drained the color from his face; those lips that only raised on the right side and those eyes that looked cold and icy and alive with excitement.

         He looked into the eyes of the God's, feeling wrath that Man alone should not contain. He felt himself grow warm between the legs and shivered from the comparison. He stood still, as if her sight or glee was based on movement. For a moment, he lost sight of those eyes as steam shielded him from their view, but the respite was short lived. She was next to him now, he could feel her warm breath and smell the dinner she had eaten. It was sweet smelling and pleasant and terrifying.

         She could feel his muscles tense violently when she gently placed her hand on his shoulder. She flashed her teeth like an animal. They didn't gleam, but the white still showed. She felt the moisture of his anxiety, the physical manifestation of his terror. Her hand slid up gently, with care, until her hand rested on her the man's throat. As she tightened, the ethereal hands faded back to nonexistence. She could feel him squirm, could feel the blood rushing along her fingertips.

{indent]They stared at each other like intimate lovers, a loving look on one's face and tears on the other. And just like that the man's life was extinguished, that look of agony on his face as life was squeezed out of him. His throat fell to the floor before his body did, and the warmth of his body comforted the young, beautiful girl. Her purple dress flared as she spun back to the fire, almost dancing. The thud behind her caused an unseen woodland critter to scamper off.

         She could hear the body spasm every now and then and she was delighted. It was unfortunate for the man to come upon her and to have not heard the stories. She wondered how long it would be before this story caught the ears of tavern goers and wandering bards everywhere. Her reputation was pretty vast, even if it was inaccurate. She wiped the vile of the earth free while the songs spun tales that made her name known in villainy. No one would sing of the bandit, Rat. She tucked the name away into the back of her head and stripped before the flames. Tossing her garment next to the fire to dry, she too was soon on the ground letting the blood bake in the fire's heat.