Arsa followed the woman, rose in hand. He caught glimpses of the long silver hair glinting between the trees, but she was far faster than she appeared. Circe and Gostor were behind him, ensuring the others didn’t get lost trying to keep up. Flynn and Acadian were helping Frank back onto the cart, blood coating his leg.

As Arsa chased after her, hoarsely whispering for her to wait, he was startled when he rounded a tree to find her facing him.

“Why are you following me?” she asked. Her voice was gentle, but mature with age. By elven age, she would have been a couple of hundred years old - so, barely middle-aged.

He staggered back, almost bumping into Circe and tumbling over Gostor.

“I… Uhm,” he stammered. “What was that? Who are you? Why are you out here?”

She gripped the handle of her basket and turned her face away avoidantly, “Why should it matter? I helped you, and now you can be on your way. This place is not safe at night.”

Circe stepped forward, “Then why are you here, alone? I scarcely believe roses are worth the dangers in these woods.”

“I live here,” the woman said. “And roses happen to keep the creatures here away. It’s why I left one for you. So you would find no trouble on your way out.”

The cart rolled into view, Frank groaning and hissing over his wound. Flynn looked to Circe with worried eyes.

“The bleeding won’t stop. My power isn’t closing the gash,” he said.

“Of course not,” the drow interjected. She exhaled, as though she had convinced herself of something unpleasant. “Come with me. I can fix him up.”

She began to walk off, but the others remained hesitant.

Acadian called after her, “How do we know this ain’t a trick?”

She hadn’t answered before Frank groaned out in pain, demanding they follow her.

They followed her cautiously deeper into the woods, slowly starting to hear the sounds of cicadas and nightbirds again. The path eventually became more well-trod, thorned rose bushes spiraling throughout the scrub.

The dark of the forest parted in the midst of a circular clearing, in the middle of which was a small cottage. The small, rounded house was built up from weathered stone and aged wood. Thick glass windows expelled a warm glow from the inside, lighting the clearing with a warmth that was not present in the rest of the forest. Around the perimeter were more rose bushes that scaled the exterior with their vines.

A delicate stone pathway led to the arched wooden door, where the woman was inserting a key into a brass doorknob. She opened the door and stood to the side, gesturing for the group to come inside.

Acadian parked the wagon close to the roses and helped Flynn carry Frank inside, who was still tensing in pain. They stepped into a wooden interior, with smooth planks of timber that creaked pleasantly underfoot. A warm fireplace crackled against the side wall. Crooked shelves with jars of herbs, bottles with strange liquids inside, and a plethora of books decorated the opposite side like wallpaper. Thick, old furnishings were dotted around the space, each covered with large knitted blankets. A wooden ladder at the back led up through a square hole to a secondary level.

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Once everyone was inside, the woman flicked her wrist in the air, and the door shut behind them. At once, the furniture moved and rearranged into a comfortable platform. She pointed to it and instructed the men to lay Frank on it.

They did so as she rushed to the bookshelves, quickly pulling some of the herbs as well as a potion bottle and a mortar and pestle. She began grinding the herbs with the potion, forming a viscous paste.

“Hold him down,” she said, scooping a dark navy pulp onto her fingers. Each of the tallfolk held onto one of Frank’s limbs (Gostor was busying himself by searching the cabinets for drinks).

She smeared the substance onto the slash in Frank’s calf, the man yelling out at the touch. A loud hissing came from the wound as the flesh began to bubble beneath the blue. For a moment, the skin of his leg almost looked like scales. Within a few moments, though, the sizzling had ceased and the screams faded away. The wound was pale and dry, but it was no longer bleeding.

Frank’s chest rose and fell deeply as his breathing calmed. He was sweating and gripping the cloth of the furnishings tightly.

“It can heal now,” the woman said. “The Tailor’s claws are nasty. They curse the flesh they touch to be unrepairable.”

Flynn was patting Frank on the shoulder, “The Tailor? That thing has a title?”

The dark elf scoffed, “It’s just what I call him. Speaking of, I am Morgana. Morgana Underrun. You are?”

They all went around giving introductions. The others had to introduce Gostor, who was sat in the corner on a pillow, drinking out of his cask as he was unable to find anything else in any of the cabinets.

Morgana offered them tea, commanding the room to rearrange itself into a more casual layout. She served them their refreshments and joined them by the fire.

“I must ask,” she took a small sip from her cup. “What is a group of adventurers such as yourselves doing in a place like this? There is nothing to be found out here.”

Acadian leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, “Politely, I don’t think that’s true.”

He motioned around to the cottage. Morgana nodded and grimaced.

Gostor took a breath from drinking to shout, “Witches!”

Morgana went still a moment before taking another sip. She cleared her throat and made a log levitate from the pile into the fire.

“Witches, you say? Quite the loaded word. Pray tell, what inspired such a hunt?”

Arsa turned on the couch to face her, “We have reason to believe there is a coven planning something. Something big. And I’m afraid we’ve gotten ourselves caught up in it.”

Morgana set down her cup and clasped her violet hands together. Her eyes were severe, striking them all with their reflective sheen. Circe held her tea on her lap, never taking a sip of it. She caught Morgana’s gaze and held it.

She moved the cup and saucer to the side table in the middle of the furniture, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?”

Everyone looked at Circe, but no one said anything. Morgana maintained eye contact with her, not blinking once. Circe broke first, but only barely.

“I have been called a witch many times, and I very well may be one. But I am not the dark artist I believe you are looking for. Nothing granted me power, nor did I craft it from scratch. My talent for unspoken arcana is my own inherited gift. I may be a witch, but it was my power that saved you from these woods. It is my house in which you find sanctuary now.”

Circe was quick to respond, “A sanctuary is not such simply because you call it so.”

“Would you prefer the shadows beyond my door instead?”

Acadian stood up, “We meant no offense, ma’am.”

“I did,” Circe said.

Arsa grabbed her arm, “Shut-the-hell-up.”

Morgana raised her hand, silencing everyone. She calmly rose to her feet, collected her cup, and walked to the wash basin by the window. She set the dish inside before turning to face them all again.

“Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. I mean you no harm. To prove such, you are welcome to stay here for the night, where it is safe. I will prepare a space for you upstairs.”

Circe twisted her head around farther than it should have reasonably turned to stare at Morgana once more, “Does it not concern you to keep six strangers in your home?”

The dark elf smiled at her as she crossed the floor, “If you planned to harm me, you would have done so already.”

She grabbed one of the ladder rungs before stopping and flashing another grin Circe’s way, “And the other way around.”