The cracks of the decrepit loft wept rainwater from above. Open veins of knotted wood left way for droplets to gently slap the floorboards below, occasionally allowing wetted taps to break through the reverberated moans of the forgotten shack’s timber frames. Upon the heavily dusted boards of the attic knelt a young woman with porcelain features – her pure white face grimaced in pain as a single tear fought free from her blackened eyes.

Du Vanis Dudentot da Elda The zealot Witch chanted through the night. It roughly translated to ‘The Elda, come dance and come scream’ and was not a typical chant of evocation – it was a dare. A taunt aimed at something that all but a few knew even existed.

The witch had taken heed of the warnings before she set off for the city – her body would work differently when beckoning such a dark thing. Her wounds would not run dry, her joints would creak, her bones may soften, dry out, or even snap. What her mentors did not prepare her for however, were the tricks that would play upon her senses.

With bloodied wrists her arms stretched out to the shadows that danced over the candle lights. They waltzed in time to the flickering flames, the twitching spider webs, the rhythm of her words. Her long matted hair teased the fire. Just out of reach of the wax and wick.

Du Vanis Dudentot da Elda…

Invisible fingers brushed her lips with each word, as if ready to pounce down her throat. The smell of dust and smoke mulled into a sweet odour of sickness and death. The machinations in her peripheral distracted her with faceless smiles in the darkness. Whispers in the butchered language encouraged her and taunted her back.

Du Vanis Dudentot...

Her arm flinched at the laceration that appeared in the air, dousing one of the candlesticks as her blood sizzled in the flame. It appeared like a rip would in a piece of paper, and as her hands steadied themselves on the wooden boards below her, the hole tore larger. Slowly at first, as if something was struggling to peel back the boundary between this place and its own. As she pulled back to ready herself, the invisible fingers took one last grasp, this time missing her lips and glancing delicately upon her cheek.

She was expecting the sight of hands grasping at the ever-growing rip in the darkness, demonic and clawed, but instead there was nothing but a scene behind it. Something shining and fantastical. It appeared otherworldly – something from the stars. A pit in the night’s sky, devouring the worlds and stars around it, like water into a drain. It was entrancing, but as the darkest point began to dilate, realization hit the witch. This wasn’t a celestial vision, but an eye. A giant eye peering into the new hole in its cell and staring at the frail and bloodied body that created the window between them.

“Duvanis dudentot!” She bravely exclaimed, as the eye focused. The candles fought against the new rush of air that steadily blew from the other side. She tried to stand but failed as a large snap resonated through her body. She fell onto her side as bleached white bone burst from her thigh. She cried out as the pain almost blinded her vision.

“Elda!” She panted as the loss of blood finally began to take hold. Her body collapsed, and she wrestled the chant out one final time as a desperate death rattle.

Duvanis... d-dudentottt... da El-Elda.

The Elda - Come dance and come scream. As her eyelids fell and her body became limp, the other side disappeared. A final burst of air forced the candles to lose their battle. The amused whispers rang through her ears once more in her last moments, and finally replied.

Sheldissoh, da Elda. Shelvanis. Sheldentot.

They have stirred - the Elda.

They will dance. And they will scream.

*

“I’ve no time for your fuckery, Samsol!” The stout merchant belched up the dregs of his tankard as he snapped at his employee, who had clearly nursed her own drink. A third of her pint remained in her own cup. “You’ll drink that up now or I’m having it!”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The merchant was a bald and stout man of the west. He let his hands fall from his aged face which displayed the deep ridges one might have from a life of laughter, or more likely in Bellon’s case, regular frowning through his furrowed brow. He dried his ale-damped beard with the sleeve of his over-sized tunic and looked to his partner-in-crime.

A younger lass from the shores, with a beautiful yet weathered face, Samsol hid her long black hair beneath a modest coif. She allowed her eyes to beam with a sense of enthusiasm, allowing the light to shine against the mild greens and dilated pupils.

“C’mon, man. One more for the road? You’ve got to admit - it’s lovely here.” Samsol waved her cup in front of Bellon at an attempt to entice, before taking another pathetic sip. “We’ve sold all your wares. You’ve made a killing! We deserve to enjoy ourselves before we leave.”

“You’ve been enjoying yourself too much, ye little shite!” Bellon pretended not to be tempted, as he lazily brushed the cup away. Samsol chuckled, she knew it was only a matter of time before her boss would flag one of the staff for another round, and she cared little that this one would be hers to pay for. “If we haven’t reached the Western Shores by tomorrow morning, we’ll get caught on a busy trail, and then we’ll both get shafted for being late!”

“Yeah… I get that! But we could set off in, like... what… two hours? And we’d still be well on our way to being early!” Samsol’s bartering skills came in useful when she was working the stall, but even more so when she was working Bellon over for another drink.

Bellon stroked his thick beard in contemplation, and at that point Samsol knew she had won. However, she was honest enough to sweeten the pot. “Plus, you’ve paid for three rounds, I’ve only paid for two. That’s hardly fair on you.” Bellon had already raised the attention of a bar hand before Samsol had even finished her pitch.

“If we get back late and I get an earful, I swear to god I’ll throw you under the cart…”

After Samsol’s first victory, it was much easier to talk Bellon into a seventh round. And even an eighth. It was at this point that Bellon got into the swing of things, and pissedly discovered that this outdoor tavern had a house special, which of course they had to try.

“They call this the Morren Ratlas!” Bellon had given up on the service of the tavern staff and had chosen to harass the barman directly for these drinks. They differed greatly from the foamy beer that the two had been quaffing up to this point. Instead of a hefty, wooden tankard, these drinks were in slim, yet tall cups made of hollowed out horn. A thick, black, sugared spirit replaced the gold and bubbling beer.

They both should have known better by the name alone. Afterall, its namesake – the Morren Ratlas – was a well-known and deadly variant of snake, which could grow to a length of up to fifteen feet, and would tower over any man, woman or child that was unfortunate enough to stumble into the Morren mountains.

They both remarked that the sweet, yet smoky concoctions went down a treat, but it didn’t take long for the Ratlas to bite. The rest of the session was a haze, and it wasn’t until the fresh night air of the streets hit them, that they were on their way home. Somehow without forgetting the horse and cart.

*

The two agreed after a few ill-conceived shortcuts, leading to dead ends and moments of navigational loss, that they were indeed going to arrive home much later than planned. In the black of night, and still within the city streets, Bellon began to formulate several plausible excuses.

“You need to relax, Bellon - you’re just pissed, is all…”

“Pissed is an understatement, you twat! I’m nothing but alcho from base to bollock!”

Samsol couldn’t help but chuckle at her partner in crime during his mild panic. “That was a lovely establishment though…” he sighed.

They began to exchange complimentary remarks about the tavern and its beverages as they tried to find their way through the city’s streets and its maze-like layout. The conversation died somewhat as they found themselves in a massive, open square. The buildings around it were much more intricate and high-class in comparison to the cramped terraced homes that they had shambled through before.

“This is the council square!” Samsol exclaimed with relief “We know where we are now - look, that's the city chambers. And over there is the Mayoral estate! That means…”

As Samsol tried to reclaim her sense of direction, Bellon’s eyes remained fixed upon the estate that his friend had pointed towards. He was sure he saw a glint of sorts upon the roof of the home, which was extravagant and covered in pale white stone and healthy, trellised vines. As he was about to lose interest and turn back, another small flash appeared. As he looked closer, and cautiously made his way towards the home, he saw a shadow moving slowly upon the tiles.

“Samsol… we need to find someone on patrol…”

Samsol pulled herself away from her drunken planning and looked to the mayoral estate. Her eyes, which were sharper than her older counterpart’s, could see the shape with more clarity.

White robes. Metal boots. A barely visible mask.

She grabbed her friend as he tried to step away for help. “What are you doing!” Bellon snapped in a panicked whisper “Someone’s breaking into the mayor’s house!”

“That’s not a thief, Bellon…” Samsol was as pale as a drained corpse, even in the dark of night. “...It’s an executioner”. Bellon stopped wrestling and looked back to the figure, which now stood tall outside a window that was now slightly ajar. As he fought through the haze of the alcohol, his vision had eventually focused. He could see the white robes which swayed in the gentle breeze. The moonlight glanced off armoured boots and gauntlets. And an expressionless mask of silver looked towards the two as they stared back in fear.

“A… Copulous executioner?” Bellon struggled to ask without stuttering. Samsol turned to the cart and began leading the horse with haste.

“We need to get out of here and let them do their thing. C’mon, Bellon - Let’s go home!” She demanded.

Bellon couldn’t help but to get one more glance before he followed in shock, but this time the figure had disappeared. Nothing remained other than the now fully opened window, and its elegant red curtain playing with the breeze.