Heartbreaker

A spell accidentally wrought. She lived in the woods north of the fort on the hill from which the town of Forton gets its name. A single cottage that was once a part of a larger tannery, the fields in which the cattle were reared and even the other building have been long since received the blessing of the creeping forest, but this one building persists. Raised alone by her grandmother, she was a shy but kind woman. She would come into town for the market, buying goods and selling her artisan weaves. The patterns, the way the fibres played with the light as it washed over the fabric, and her masterful use of dyes gave the pieces the character of silver or well folded steel. It is said that once the flowers from which all dye is gotten was once the holder of multitudes of glimmer, whereas now, for the most part, dye plays only the part of something murky or stark in its contrast or lack thereof. But this daughter of the woods must have seen what all else could not.

One hot day around harvest time when the markets were busiest she did not come. Instead she had other business. Forton is a modest town but we are lucky enough to be home to a doctor and his apprentice son. It was apparent that the woman’s grandmother had collapsed that morning and had lost consciousness. Once she had woken again a numbness had spread across her body. The doctor and his son were thus employed to help remedy this woman. There was no saving the grandmother, only an offer of comfort, but as the weeks rolled on the fee that the doctor required for his services began to outweigh the income from the market. His son would volunteer to take over the burden of medicine making and delivery for his father for a substantially reduced fee. Or rather, an augmented fee.

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All I can say is that he was a vile lover. A vile lover and the pen that bursts the ink well that would bleed into the scratches of parchment that carries this equally vile spell. The grandmother’s health collapsed and the son stopped coming. The grandmother would pass away and the woman would stop attending the market. Or so it was believed. The truth is, the spell had been configured. A lace of words written on the walls inside her head, everything the son had said, everything he did, had leaked into her chest and saturated her heart. Like a knot in a tree it would hang in her like a bell that would never ring again. She was empty and muted. The shimmer that she had once weaved had vanished. Although she was there, others could not see her. The thing that broke her heart had removed her. She faded.

I visited her, we were schooled together when we were children and her late grandmother taught my own mother a great deal. I wanted to fall in love but she would not let me. She shared with me her spell. I pushed her too hard. My only hope is that each time the spell is cast it’s pain weakens, but it has been a month and by Kesh I still cannot look into the ponds and see my reflection. There is nothing, she lives on but I have failed her. I will not wield this spell; Heartbreaker. My thoughts are reserved for one magick only and that is a death curse to the doctor’s son.

A diary entry by an unknown author torn from its book and inserted into a grimoire found within a hollow witch elm north of Colton village. Part of Mr S. E. Guivian’s private collection of arcane literature in his personal library in Mormarth. Donated by travelling mercenaries.