Witchblood Spire

The Mistress of Wirewatt Farm
Cold winds whipped across the farmer's face and jacket.

Storm season in the East, no doubt that'd cause trouble for the cityfolk, he mused, smiling at the distance between his lands and the churning ocean. Inside the house, his wife would be preparing the evening meal, produce straight from the grounds, his grounds, with a few spices from the recent woven tradesmen. Elsewhere, his children were likely sat by the hearth, building their gadgets as young gnomes often do. Soon, he would join them back at the fire, a hard day's toil ended, and a contented warmth in his heart that only the farming life could provide. He pulled his coat tighter around him and quickened his pace.

The billowing leaves of his orchard sent a flurry of leaves across the path as he passed. Possibly shocked by the falling swarm, the gnome's dog cocked his head and let out a sequence of barks and howls. Sighing, the farmer hushed the animal with a reassuring hand. It let out a whine, but heeled obediently.

Looking up, he saw a brilliant starscape, unspoiled by any cloud or smog, the full moon beaming down and casting the fields and woods in a serene glow. No city gnome gets to see a view like that on their commute, the farmer chuckled. As he gazed, a sudden gust knocked the tweed cap from his head, sending it over the stone wall of the path.

"Bleeding thing..." He marched off in pursuit, hopping the short barrier and descending the hillbank after his wayward hat. Enjoying the prospect of a chase, his dog ran off ahead, in search of the quarry, barking happily.

Reaching the bottom of the rise, he looked around the grass, expecting to find it in a puddle or some other form of bad luck. Instead, he saw neither his hat or his companion, though joyful canine sounds echoed from the treeline just ahead. An impressive wind, to blow a hat from cobble to copse, he exclaimed. Determined, he continued towards the thicket.

Upon entering the leafy ground of the wood, the farmer instantly felt a change in the atmosphere. Outside the line of roots and bush, a small gale was blowing strong enough to knock down a small tree, yet here, he felt almost no hint of a draught. The sounds of cold air and roaring winds could still be heard from behind him, but further ahead, the forest was quiet, the faint rustle of a dog somewhere distant.

The farmer decided that this was an unusual phenomenon, and made a note to look into the windbreaking capacity of trees and foliage, and any agricultural applications of such. For now though, he ventured further after his friend, the occaisonal bark guiding him forward. In the unnatural quiet, a few ravens nested in the branches of the larger trees.

As he continued on, the number of roosting birds seemed to increase. It took a minute or so, and he almost didn't notice, but the gnome realised that every single one was a perching raven. So many were there, that some branches were lined with entire rows, heads turning to follow as he passed.

The thought was just beginning to enter his mind that he had been walking for a very considerable distance, and that the odds of the mysteriously absent wind carrying anything, let alone a thick woven cap, this far into the wood, were slim, when suddenly a noise came from ahead.

A few panicked yaps, unmistakenly belonging to the farmer's dog.

Instantly, the gnome's heart leapt in his mouth. The indescribable feeling of horror that one feels when one's pet might be in danger gripped his entire body. Standing still for a second to judge the source of the commotion, before bolting towards it as fast as his halfling legs could carry him, he called out for his friend.

As he ran, tears, half fear, half rage, began to well up in the farmer's eyes. He continued to shout, hoping the dog would spring out of a ditch, unharmed and happy as always.

Bursting through a larger bush, he found himself in a clearing. He saw the moon centered almost perfectly about the open circle in the canopy, illuminating, thank the gods, his dog. The animal was reared in a defensive stance, head low and hind legs high, snarling and whimpering in equal bursts.

Following the direction of his friend's eyeline, he gazed out into the forest. Nothing jumped out as out of place, but he knew to trust a canine instinct. He had never wanted more for the two of them to be back home with his family. The farmer edged towards the dog, hoping to steer him back towards the path, and out of this abberational woodland.

As he got close, his companion suddenly turned round with erratic speed, letting out a terrified bark in the process. It leapt towards the farmer, knocking him to his side, and turning him round.

Not two feet away, now facing him directly, was a figure.

Gasping in confusion, the farmer tried to make sense of what he was seeing. That's when he felt the first pain.

He cried out. Everything was black.

He fell. Everything was white.

He cried out.

"Telsa! Addison! Farday!"

A shifting in the leaves. It came down to his ear.

"My... the girls took it much better..."