near
enough for them to make out a few more details.
“Looks like he’s wearing some pretty rough
skins. You figure him for a nomad?” asked the younger brother.
“There wouldn’t be any nomads this far south.
They stay to the deserts or the plains. They might linger
near the shore, but the shore is clear on the other side of the
mountains,” countered the older brother, squinting. “Is that… is
that an old woman!?”
Without thinking, the pair rushed into the
tall grass. An old woman, alone in the Southern Wastes. They
couldn’t imagine how it might have happened, but it was a wonder
she was still alive. She was quite a distance away, and as such
they were badly winded when they reached her, but one look was all
it took to know she was… not right. She was a frail thing with
long, scraggly white hair. In one hand was a white ivory walking
stick. In the other was a curved knife. Her feet were bare yet
somehow undamaged by what must have been a lengthy trek through
rough terrain. Despite no doubt being alone in the Wastes for quite
some time, the old woman didn’t seem to be in poor spirits. Indeed,
a wild grin came to her face as they approached.
“I offer greetings to you, pair of men who
are not yet of middle age!” she crowed, gesturing vigorously with
her knife and stick.
Her voice and diction were bizarre, but she
spoke with great certainty, as though she had no doubt that she was
communicating properly.
“Do you need help, old woman? Are you ill?
What is your name?”
“In a manner more slowly. You desire that I
inform you of the name that belongs to me?”
“Yes, and how did you—”
“ In a manner more slowly! I shall tell
to you the name that belongs to me. This information I am quite
certain of, and it is an action that will give me great pleasure to
perform for you on this day. The name that belongs to me is
Turiel.”
“She speaks like those old prayers they used
to make us say,” the younger brother muttered.
“You seem healthy enough,” said the older
brother, speaking loudly and slowly. “Those furs you’ve got are
strange. They look fresh. Well-tanned, too. It is the wrong season
to be tanning hides.” He turned to his brother and added quietly,
“But then I suppose the nomads don’t keep to the same schedules as
the rest of us.”
“You sure she’s a nomad?”
“Absolutely. You can always tell a nomad.
They look out of place no matter where they are.”
“But look at that skin! She’s pale as a
ghost. That’s a Northerner.”
“I’ll buy that she’s a pale nomad before I
buy that she’s a Northerner this far south.” He turned back to the
woman. “Do you need help? Something to eat?”
“After some amount of thinking, my mind has
presented to me the suggestion that I do require help. And a thing
for me to eat would be quite useful in addition.”
“If you’ll just follow me to the house…” the
older brother began, but his word trailed away when the tip of her
walking stick touched his chest.
There was a dull blue glow, and the color
quickly began to drain from his face.
“What are you doing? Get away from him, you
witch!” he cried.
He attempted to rush toward her, but before
he could even move a foot, something clawed its way up his back
from behind, while at the same time something wrapped tightly
around his legs and constricted them. Both brothers fell to the
ground, the first stricken by whatever magic she had conjured and
the other tangling with some manner of beast he’d not yet been able
to see.
As the younger of the two desperately tried
to free himself of the grip of whatever had attacked him, the old
woman began to reap the benefits of her spell. The years began to
peel away from her face. Her craggy skin became smoother, her white
hair earning streaks of black. Withered muscles became firm and
healthy again. In the space of a few minutes she went from a hag at
death’s door to a woman perhaps old enough to be the mother of
either
enough for them to make out a few more details.
“Looks like he’s wearing some pretty rough
skins. You figure him for a nomad?” asked the younger brother.
“There wouldn’t be any nomads this far south.
They stay to the deserts or the plains. They might linger
near the shore, but the shore is clear on the other side of the
mountains,” countered the older brother, squinting. “Is that… is
that an old woman!?”
Without thinking, the pair rushed into the
tall grass. An old woman, alone in the Southern Wastes. They
couldn’t imagine how it might have happened, but it was a wonder
she was still alive. She was quite a distance away, and as such
they were badly winded when they reached her, but one look was all
it took to know she was… not right. She was a frail thing with
long, scraggly white hair. In one hand was a white ivory walking
stick. In the other was a curved knife. Her feet were bare yet
somehow undamaged by what must have been a lengthy trek through
rough terrain. Despite no doubt being alone in the Wastes for quite
some time, the old woman didn’t seem to be in poor spirits. Indeed,
a wild grin came to her face as they approached.
“I offer greetings to you, pair of men who
are not yet of middle age!” she crowed, gesturing vigorously with
her knife and stick.
Her voice and diction were bizarre, but she
spoke with great certainty, as though she had no doubt that she was
communicating properly.
“Do you need help, old woman? Are you ill?
What is your name?”
“In a manner more slowly. You desire that I
inform you of the name that belongs to me?”
“Yes, and how did you—”
“ In a manner more slowly! I shall tell
to you the name that belongs to me. This information I am quite
certain of, and it is an action that will give me great pleasure to
perform for you on this day. The name that belongs to me is
Turiel.”
“She speaks like those old prayers they used
to make us say,” the younger brother muttered.
“You seem healthy enough,” said the older
brother, speaking loudly and slowly. “Those furs you’ve got are
strange. They look fresh. Well-tanned, too. It is the wrong season
to be tanning hides.” He turned to his brother and added quietly,
“But then I suppose the nomads don’t keep to the same schedules as
the rest of us.”
“You sure she’s a nomad?”
“Absolutely. You can always tell a nomad.
They look out of place no matter where they are.”
“But look at that skin! She’s pale as a
ghost. That’s a Northerner.”
“I’ll buy that she’s a pale nomad before I
buy that she’s a Northerner this far south.” He turned back to the
woman. “Do you need help? Something to eat?”
“After some amount of thinking, my mind has
presented to me the suggestion that I do require help. And a thing
for me to eat would be quite useful in addition.”
“If you’ll just follow me to the house…” the
older brother began, but his word trailed away when the tip of her
walking stick touched his chest.
There was a dull blue glow, and the color
quickly began to drain from his face.
“What are you doing? Get away from him, you
witch!” he cried.
He attempted to rush toward her, but before
he could even move a foot, something clawed its way up his back
from behind, while at the same time something wrapped tightly
around his legs and constricted them. Both brothers fell to the
ground, the first stricken by whatever magic she had conjured and
the other tangling with some manner of beast he’d not yet been able
to see.
As the younger of the two desperately tried
to free himself of the grip of whatever had attacked him, the old
woman began to reap the benefits of her spell. The years began to
peel away from her face. Her craggy skin became smoother, her white
hair earning streaks of black. Withered muscles became firm and
healthy again. In the space of a few minutes she went from a hag at
death’s door to a woman perhaps old enough to be the mother of
either
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