Den of the Swamp Witch

Jorn trudged along the muddy path, his angry torch casting long shadows across the skeletal trees of the swamp. A small mob of villagers followed behind him, armed more with purpose than iron, but resolved to see the deed done.

To see the witch killed.

Nearly all of them had lost someone to the witch; a husband that strayed too close to the mire, a child lured away in a dream, a wife cursed and unable to eat until she withered away. And so they marched, these wives of dead men and parents of lost children, to find the witch and see their loved ones avenged.

Jorn squinted in the darkness, then raised a hand and called for the others to stop. The ground was soft and soggy, and his boots sank into the wet mud. The hut was up ahead, just down the path. He could see tiny wisps of white light floating about its thick branches, and an ominous green glow emanating from its rough hewn windows.

Turning toward the group, Jorn drew his sword and said, “Steel yourselves. The witch is pure evil and a powerful sorcerer – do not look her in the eye, nor trust in her words. She will try to tempt and deceive you, but she does not walk a righteous path. She does not walk in Aelor’s light. She hides in the swamp, huddled in her den and fearful toward men and women of purpose!”

Jorn lifted his torch aloft and shouted, “Steel yourselves, I say! Steel yourselves against this coward of the night!”

As Jorn raised his torch, it illuminated a hulking dark shape looming just behind him. The creature was well over ten feet in height, its back hunched and arms dangling overly long toward the ground. Sharp claws skittered against the stony earth, and a pair of milky white eyes gleamed in the torchlight as a coarse, female voice cooed, “Coward, you say?”

Jorn spun on his heel to face the creature, his eyes widening in shock at the sheer size of her. He began to raise his sword to strike when the witch lunged forward, her razor sharp claws slipping through Jorn’s soft flesh like knives through linen. Jorn’s shout caught in his throat as blood welled there and his body convulsed - the witch's gaze sweeping over the assembled villagers.

Rearing back, she opened her mouth impossibly wide to reveal rows of sharp fangs and clamped down upon Jorn’s face, tearing flesh from bone before tossing the wet sack of his body to the soggy dirt. The witch began to chew, blood dribbling down her chin and she reveled in the fear of the human mob.

Swallowing loudly, she offered a sweet, bloody smile and turned her hulking form down the path, casting a glance over her shoulder and rasping, “Steel yourselves, villagers. I will be waiting for you.”

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