Fang, Witch & Moonlight

One | Shadows in the Cleave

The village of Lunor stood at the summit of a densely wooded mesa, far under the watchful gaze of its twin moons, Saelen and Roewen. Tonight, the lunar bodies waned, unable to spill their usual silver radiance across the land. Yet, even on a cloud covered night such as this, the forests hummed with life, energy, and magic.

The moons floated high, momentarily obscured by grey-purple clouds, casting dark shadows over two forests. The first, the Silverthorne woods, stretched out across the steep mesa, home to the Veylorin Coven, a small, isolated commune of seldom-disturbed witches. The dropoff on the Southern face of the mesa fell into a craggy, jagged beach. Beyond that loomed a sprawling, wine-dark ocean, stretching into the void of the horizon. The dropoff on the opposite side, below hundreds of feet of slate- grey rock, revealed the second forest: Blackthorne.

Between the dual-forests was the Cleave, a meandering tract of barren, desolate wasteland, nearly a hundred yards wide. Long since stripped away of fertile, nourishing soil, it stood as a bleak gulf between the two tribes. Coven legend claimed it was a millennia old, borne from an accidental expulsion of magic from High Priestess, Zeylinna, the All-Mother. Others believed it to be a natural gift, as if Astara itself had carved the landmark into the earth to separate the Coven from the inhabitants of Blackthorne: The Fanged Ones.

In any case, the bleak, parched land was contested ground, a no-man's-land neither the Coven nor the Fanged Ones truly held power over, conceding it as neutral territory. Tonight, a cloaked figure descended the zigzagging, man-made steps carved into the cliffside. Quietly, the cloaked one reached the base, stepping out onto the Cleave in silence. The figure moved across the terrain with practiced grace, retracing the path long since worn into her memory.

Her palm was face-up, outstretched. A shimmering ball of orange light levitated in her hand, still a meager illumination under the overcast heavens. The light flickered in and out, as if struggling to remain a stable mass of energy. Selene breathed heavily, sweat brimming her brow as she concentrated on the spell, yet kept her eyes sweeping across the landscape. Her long, leather boots clicked against the parched, coarse ground underneath. Her cloak, pinned across her collarbone with a crescent, silver clasp, billowed behind her as the wind picked up.

The young woman swiped a lock of dark brown hair from her eyes, wishing she had braided it before the excursion. Instead, it flew freely around her shoulders, starkly contrasting her pale skin. With her free hand, she pulled her cowl forward, dragging the hood over her head. She shivered, glancing up at the moons, gauging the time. Her usual partner, Freija, had fallen sick with fever a fortnight ago, unable to accompany her on tonight's watch. It's fine, she thought, throwing hazel eyes towards the Blackthorne forest. Nothing's happened in a year, at least. Maybe more. The clouds parted briefly. Moonlight spilled from them, soaking into the ground.

She froze.

Not twenty yards in front of her, just off her well-memorized path, was a large, dark shape. It didn't belong in the Cleave. Nothing did, really. There was no shade, no water, no soft earth for scuttling creatures to burrow into. Her eyes narrowed and her hand instinctively traveled to the corded belt along her waist. Hanging from it was a small, leather-bound spellbook. She fingered the embroidery along its spine as she slowed her pace, walking towards the mass.

"Rise," she whispered, thrusting her arm skyward. The orange ball did as she commanded, ascending into the air above her head. The wind blew again, pulling her cloak backwards, exposing her black corset and shorts. The silver pendant dangling from her navel swayed in the breeze. With both hands now free, she pulled the cloak back over her body, coming to a kneel in front of the shape.

An orange cast illuminated the form. It took her a moment to comprehend what she was looking at, but when she did, her pulse quickened: a mangled goat carcass, alone in no-man's-land. She grimaced, pressing her lips into a thin line as her hands hovered across the body, careful not to touch the corpse. There was red everywhere. She allowed the invisible hand of her magic to stretch from her fingers to the corpse. She closed her eyes, allowing the magic to whisper to her. The goat had met an unpleasant end, its final seconds only terror and pain. Deep gashes ran along the underbelly, releasing foul innards that spilled across ground. The Cleave greedily absorbed it, staining the area a dark ochre.