“Her smile was selfish, yet not malicious; as if she never meant the world any harm, but desired everything it had to give.”
Aurian’s exhaustion finally caught up to her; she hit the muddy bank of the river on her knees and she nearly fell on the side, into the water. Despite the searing summer heat, the waters of the sluggish river brought no relief, and the air was filled with the whine of mosquitos.
Her leather armor was tight and uncomfortable, her braid of fiery red hair dragged in the mud. As a Witch of Earth and Fire, she could do nothing for the heat, and being in a foreign land away from her home, her powers were diminished, besides.
Even if her powers were at their lowest, she’d spent some time training in the art of the sword some centuries back, but the blade on her hip seemed to weigh immeasurably heavy, dragging her down. The long trip from her homelands had sapped her powers, her lack of food had sapped her strength, and foolishly, stupidly, it seemed as if she was going to meet her end, not in some climactic battle or fearsome magical confrontation, or even at the end of her unnaturally long life, safely ensconced in her bed... no, no, it seemed that her fated death would be one of exhaustion and dehydration at the edge of a smelly river in a strange land.
She let out a long and weary sigh, and let herself fall on her side. The land she was from, the land of the North, they at least had made peace with Witches. A Witch was something to be feared, to be sure, but a Witch could be negotiated with, reasoned with, bargained with.
In these lands, the Southern lands, a Witch was something that needed to be killed on sight, a horror from foreign lands.
As she lay in the mud, she closed her eyes and tried to reach for her powers, reach into the darkness of her soul for that flickering light. Earth was a fickle element to work with if untrained, however she had lived for nearly eight hundred years, and the mysteries of Earth were known to her.
Beneath her, the elements that lay sleeping in the mud were cajoled and encouraged to attract together, some elements flaking away, some coming together in strange, intricate dances that she herself hadn’t fully deciphered.
It was slow, it was mentally taxing, it was taxing on her powers, but she could synthesize mud into gold, dirt into crystal.
Crystal and gold were what she sought. In a land that mercilessly killed Witches on sight, magical power was a liability to a Witch, an existence that instinctively used magic as easily as breathing, as reflexively and unthinkingly as blinking.
As the fist-sized ruby coalesced, edged in filigrees of gold, she funneled her powers into it, threads of gold curling into protective spellforms. They crystal would store her powers away, the gold would keep them from escaping.
Now that her powers were drawn out of her and safely contained in a gem, she was simply another girl, albeit with a rather expensive and richly appointed jewel that she tucked away into her belt pouch.
She dragged her sword from its sheath, and, using it as a crutch, struggled to her feet. She had to keep going. She had to survive. There were things that needed doing.
She forced herself to her feet, and once more wished she had been born with the mysteries and understandings of Air or Water. Air could cool her, Water could give her a clean source of water, instead of this disgusting, brackish river water that stank. She sheathed her sword awkwardly, and struggled out of the mud.
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As she pushed through the river weeds, she spotted a small embankment, a slightly higher point where she could climb up. It was a risky venture; while she would be able to see everything around her better, it would also paint a target on her. The Southerners did not like intruders from the North.
She made the choice to climb, and as she did, a massive stone building appeared, surrounded by workers dressed in chains.
Some chipped away at stone slabs, others moved logs to where other slabs awaited- as Aurian took in the sight, it became obvious they were constructing something massive, a temple or palace, perhaps.
She let out a small sigh. If she stood up here, she would be instantly noticed. The worksite was patrolled by guards, too- men with strangely curved swords and headdresses.
If only it were nighttime, she could flit amongst the camps, undetected and unseen, taking food, water, wine, even fresh clothing as she liked, but... it wasn’t even noon, the sun was hot, heavy, and oppressive on her neck and back.
Was there a way she could somehow sneak around the worksite, even in her diminished condition? Was there a well, where she could drink to her heart’s content? A... cafeteria, a place where food was stored and served?
Did they even call it a cafeteria in these lands?
She crawled through the grass carefully, quietly, dragging her thick braid behind her. Realistically, pragmatically, she knew she should have cut the thing off, cut her hair short, but the pride of a Witch was in their hair, something they grew freely and without restraint throughout their long lives. Mortal myths told that a Witch was made Mortal by cutting their hair, but all it did was make for an angry Witch. A terrifying, furiously angry Witch.
Instead, she’d braided it, and looped it around herself so that it wasn’t in the way, but now the stupid thing was dirty, filthy, and caked in mud.
She took her time in crawling in the grasses. She made no effort to hurry. She didn’t want to be detected, because she was convinced that the very first thing that they would do would be to slay her on the spot. She didn’t at all look like a Southerner, with their suntanned skins and their dark hair. Her own skin was fair and pale, her eyes were green, and her hair- well, when it wasn’t caked in river mud and filth, was a brilliant and fiery red.
Too different. They’d slay her on the spot.
And she was tired. So, so tired.
She fumbled the stone from her pouch. It had been a good idea, in theory. In reality, she needed her powers, and the sensation of being without them, even for such a short period of time, filled her with a staggering sense of loss.
She crushed the gem, and relished the feeling of the powers of fire and earth flow into her.
Using the powers of Earth, she allowed the ground to swallow her up, carefully reserving places for breathing holes. She closed her eyes, reminded herself to wake up in several hours, set protective and preservative wards about her body, and then drifted off to sleep.
When she awoke and emerged from the earth, the sky was purpling into night, and the camps were filled with flickering torches and raucous noises of slaves and slavemasters, whores and children.
Aurian slipped through the camps, using a combination of sneaking and spells of confusion to befuddle anyone that came near.
She found a woman alone, and scrambled her wits with a buffet of confusion magics. She demanded food and drink, and knowledge of a place where she might wash herself of the dirt and mud she’d accumulated.
The woman immediately recommended the river for bathing.
Dumb bitch.
The food was good, if strange. The wine was delicious, if coarse and newly made, unlike her own century-aged vintages. A large jar of fresh water was provided to her, and with the woman’s help, her magnificent hair was returned to its burning luster.
She bore the foreigners no ill will. In fact, she’d been chased from her homelands in the North- she was technically a vagabond in these strange lands.
But, she was a Witch. A Witch was greedy. A Witch was selfish. A Witch was terrifying. Her smile was selfish, yet not malicious; as if she never meant the world any harm, but desired everything it had to give.