The Witching Hour

Chapter 2 - Remeyra

The moon shines brightly upon the forest path as I move with purpose, my steps silent and sure. The pain of my mother's loss is a constant in my heart, a void that threatens to consume me. Loroakan, the wizard who murdered her, is the focus of my wrath. I have to harness this pain, transform it into a weapon to bring him down.

Every shadow seems to whisper of the past, a childhood marked by abandonment and the salvation I found in the care of my adoptive mother. She had become everything for me, her teachings shaping me into who I am. Now, those teachings are tools I will use to avenge her.

I pause at the edge of the forest, the lights of a nearby inn twinkling in the distance. The people there will never know the pain I carry, the fire that burns within me.

The path ahead is illuminated by the soft glow of lanterns hanging from the inn's eaves. The building stands as a beacon of warmth and refuge. I adjust my cloak, pulling it tightly around myself as I approach the entrance.

I push open the door, and as I step inside, I'm greeted with the familiar scent of ale and wood smoke.

The inn is modest but cozy, a huge difference from the cold forests I've grown so accustomed to. The walls are adorned with faded tapestries, depicting scenes of past revelries and forgotten battles. The floor is worn out from years of travelers passing through, each leaving their own mark. 

I take a seat at the bar, nodding to the bartender, a grizzled man with a kind face. 'A glass of red wine, please' I say, my voice steady despite the turmoil within me. He nods and sets about filling a tankard.

As I wait, I let my eyes wander. The patrons are a mix of locals and travelers, each absorbed in their own conversations and concerns. A group of dwarves huddle near the fireplace, their hearty laughter filling the air. A lone bard strums a lute in the corner, singing a melancholic tune that resonates with how I feel.

As I take the first sip of my wine, I think about who I am, or what I am, to be precise. I was raised by a hag, because my father, a brave elf, died when I was young, slain in the Late War, and my mother, a weak human, left alone in her depression and poverty, chose to abandon me.

I probably would've done the same..

One day, when I was fourteen years old, she took me in a dark and mysterious forest. Deep into it, there was a hag's hut, scary and rugged, especially for a child of my age, an eerie silhouette against the moonlit sky, with crooked walls and twisted roots both terrifying and fascinating. I remember how she sold me with no hesitation, sold me for a few shillings and a vial of some potion. I chuckle to the possibility of her being dead. I was only a child. In human years, I was barely seven.

I think about how the hag, as scary and rough as she was... raised me. She took me in, raised me as her own, teaching me the ways of Dark Magic and Blood Magic. She showed me how to wield it with precision, how to tap into the hidden power within me. And how now... she's dead.

Blood boils within me, as I take another sip from my red wine, the sour taste piercing my tongue and blurring my mind. My muscles tense as the inn gets more and more crowded, people of all shapes and races drinking, singing, gossiping. Far in a corner, three rugged men are having a heated argument. I can't help but notice their anger.

A fight is on the verge of starting.

I roll my eyes at their stupidity, drowning myself in wine and thoughts. Their voices rise, sharp and aggressive, cutting through the din of the inn. I watch them with detached interest, noting the clenched fists and the telltale signs of a brawl about to erupt. The room's atmosphere shifts, a palpable tension hanging in the air.