The Wayward Witch Chronicles

Where adventurers went missing, something foul lingered– and West had a feeling this one was going to be worse than most.

The initial reports regarded a pair of missing adventurers. One of them had family connections, and when their thrill-seeking daughter failed to return home, the resulting fuss among the gentry earned a look from the Bureau. The Messenger who wrote the report found that the adventurers had pursued suspicious rumors of a treasure in a forgotten corner of the empire, and the Bureau assigned Investigator West to uncover what had happened to them.

But his investigation exposed something more. It wasn’t just a single pair gone missing; it was a pattern of many parties vanishing, one every few months, all following the same rumor.

Nearly half a month later, the end of West’s investigation was coming into sight.

The backcountry road to Whitecreek village stretched at first atop grassy hills, where he could see across the expanse of the world. But as he neared his destination, the road dipped downwards and wove in and out of scattered thickets. The trees created occasional blind spots along the way, but most were spindly little things. If West anticipated trouble (and it always served him to suspect it, at least a little), he’d expect no more than one or two bandits could hide themselves at any single point along the road. He kept his head up, but had no reason to expect any threat.

That might have been why he didn’t realize he wasn’t alone until something small and powerful thudded right into him.

On sheer instinct, he’d interposed his right arm– the only reason it hadn’t struck him right in the chest. There was no arrow or bolt, no fallen bullet, no sign of injury. His skin tingled and went numb where the blow struck him.

West could only assume magic.

Reflexes kicked in. West dropped into a crouch behind a low-lying shrub and scanned the area for his assailant. Whatever the spell had been, it had slipped through his magical defenses, but there was no effect that he could see yet. That meant it was powerful, and West had no way of knowing what it was meant to do until it was too late.

It took him a half-second longer than it should have to identify the source of the unexpected assault– a young woman who watched him intently from behind a half-grown oak. She was too thick around the hips for a Mani, but her face had the unmistakable sprightliness of a half-blood Glamori.

He dodged to put the shrub between them, but she moved to keep eye contact. She wasn't acting like an attacker, though. The hexagonal rod in her hand dangled toward the ground, and she stared after him with intense curiosity.

Then the dark-haired woman spoke: “Ribbit.” She pinched her face crossly, but lacked the edge of hostility. She almost seemed to be scolding him.

West’s sense of danger waned with his disbelief. “Pardon?”

“Ribbit,” she repeated sternly. “Ribbit, croak. You’re not doing it right.” She turned her attention back to the device in her hand, holding it up in the sunlight and inspecting it closely. “Fifth-century make, old Tarlusian empire witchcraft enchantment. Hexes. You should be ribbiting.” She narrowed her eyes at him, as if accusing him of somehow messing up the spell.

“Were ye... were ye tryin’ to turn me into a frog?”

The Glamori shook her head. “Not trying. Didn’t mean for it to fire. And didn’t know it would be homing– rare in those days!” The curve of her lips made her look positively gleeful, more excited by the discovery than concerned by the mishap. “But, since it did, and you were in the way… what went wrong…?”

The flabbergasted West watched as she mumbled over the wand, losing interest in him altogether as she turned to walk away. “Hol’ on there.” West swallowed down his shock and assumed the voice of an annoyed authority. "Have ye got the papers to be playin’ around with those things?” The woman glanced over boredly, but her attitude shifted when he drew a silver badge from his vest.

Realization dawned, and regret followed. “Oh. Uh… Investigator?” The woman hazarded, showing her teeth in a drawn smile.

“Papers,” West repeated, eyes narrowing.

“Sorry! So sorry, sorry– yes, papers, I have papers–”

“Get them.”

The woman grabbed for a black case leaning against the tree, then worked the latches. West’s eyebrows shot up when she flipped it open, revealing two sets of ten wands each. Each wand was strapped in place, with a set of papers tucked behind them. “What’s yer name, lass?”

“Vera Barrows.” West knew he shouldn’t feel quite so pleased by her panicked obedience, but sometimes the job came with small satisfactions. “I’m with the Deacon’s University– Department of Magical History.”

“Ye’ve got a permit to be workin’ out this ways?”

“Yes, yes!” Abandoning the scramble for her wand papers, Vera tugged open a flap on her belt pouch, withdrawing a small card and presenting it for inspection.

West accepted it, inspecting the university seal. “Yer nae a professor?”

“No sir, still working on it.”

“Says ye’re cleared fer six months o’ fieldwork. This’s yer third month?”

“Almost fourth. Took us a bit of time, you know... looking.” Vera trailed off. West recognized her dodgy shrug, the same one a hundred adventurers had thrown his way before. Her group was onto something, and she didn't want to let others in.

West handed the permit back. “Who’s out here with ye?” Striving for a note of congeniality, he loosened up his expression until he was nearly smiling.

"Work partners," Vera answered. "Heavy lifters. Make it easy for me to get my work done."

"An' where're these partners now?"

"Errands. Ought to be back anytime now."

"Aye? Well that bein' the case, we've got two options. Either I can ask ye a couple o' questions and ye can give me a couple o' straight answers, or we can both sit tight and wait fer yer friends to come around, so we can all have a wee sit-down about what yer business is. Nae to mention," he added chipperly, "a wee refresher lesson on why you shouldnae be foolin' around with magic what gives injury to folks walkin' by." Vera flinched. "So, what's yer preference, lass?"

Fidgeting and fretting, Vera defaulted to a long silence.

"Right then." West eased his back against a red-leafed maple. "If ye dinnae mind, lass, we'll jes' leave the wands on the ground there ‘til yer work partners come by and we all get a chance to talk."

Red-faced and frowning, Vera laid the wand in her hand down and took a reluctant step from the open case. West cushioned the back of his head with interlaced fingers and waited. The Glamori muttered to herself, worrying at a broken fingernail as the time whiled by.

Finally, laughing banter and tromping boots sounded from beyond the curve of the road. Two men approached, both physically imposing types of very different breeds. The brawnier of the two– somewhere in his mid-thirties, wearing a set of worn scale mail over with a noticeable gut, with the beady eyes, prominent incisors, and flared ears that suggested some trace of Feral blood– noticed the strangeness ahead first. His hand loosened the straps on the rightmost of two battle axes he carried as he cleared his throat, nodding his companion's attention toward West.

The second man stood several inches below his imposing hulk of a companion. Where the first man was husky and worn, this one was trim and meticulously clean. Even with the marks of recent travel on his boots, the younger man kept his chain shirt impeccably shined, as well as the helm he carried on a strap over one shoulder. On his back, West spied the hilt of a sword and an iron-rimmed shield of polished wood.

The swordsman paused his stride. “Vera? Who’s this?”

“Investigator West, sir.” Vera spoke sharply and clearly, like she’d been called on to answer an equation at a lecture hall. Her composure slipped though, and she winced as she stammered, “Had an incident– an accident really, but all’s well, but–”

“That’s enough, Vera, thank you.” The swordsman turned his attention to West. “Investigator, may I ask, what’s happened?” Despite Vera’s earlier claims that they were only muscle to assist her studies, it was the swordsman stepping into the lead. He stood straight and met West’s eyes with respectful attention, but his voice rang faint amusement.

“Aye, well, before that, could ye do me the favor of a few introductions?” West grinned, but his tone left no opening for negotiation.

“Of course. My name is Roman, of the house of Corinth. My colleague here is Barros Westley. And Vera you’ve met, it seems.” Smiling, Roman inclined his head to the Investigator.

“Well, as to that. There was a bit of a mishap with one o’ those wands she’s got stocked up there. Namely, it misfired on a passerby. Who happened to be me.” Roman's smile faded. “Now, it’s lucky that I’m less vulnerable to hexin’s than average folk, but I cannae help worryin’– if it happened now, whether it’s happened a’fore–”

“Never!” Vera gasped.

“– and whether it might happen again,” West continued, raising his voice. His face was all straight, serious lines now. “Now in a situation like this, I’d usually be takin’ note of a practitioner’s permits and licenses, and reportin’ all that back to the proper folks–”

Vera began to sputter and fuss. “I have– I have PAPERS, for all of this–”

"-- but,” West bolstered his voice again to carry over the argument, “since there’s nae anyone to report to way out here, it jes’ comes back into my jurisdiction anyhow. More than that, though: It is my business whether ye folk are what ye seem to be, seein' as we're likely goin' the same way.”

The group’s disposition transformed. Vera looked like a sack of bricks had dropped on her foot, eyes bugging wide. Barros, who had been listening wincingly, straightened up with renewed interest.

Roman affixed a steady smile to his face, but new depths of computation flickered behind his eyes. “Well, that is interesting. If you don’t mind, perhaps we can move this discussion somewhere more comfortable? Barros and I just spent the afternoon on patrol, and a drink and some clean clothes will put us all in a better mind for this sort of talk.”

West’s skin itched, suddenly hyper-aware of just how dusty, mucky, and sweaty his own traveling getup was, and he couldn’t help wondering if that had been part of Roman's calculations. “Hm. Well, ye make a good point,” he conceded. “It’s been a long day o’ travel fer me, and there’s nae reason we cannae talk this o’er some decent food. Besides which, it'll be easier to take a proper look at those papers out o' the elements.”

Vera grimaced, but Roman nodded, gesturing forward with an open hand. “There we are, then! The town’s not far from here, and their inn is– well, it’s better than camping, anyway. Vera, if you’ll pack up your things, we’ll be on our way.”

Vera glanced at West warily. When the Investigator waved her on, she grabbed up her wand case, packing it and slinging it over her shoulder in the time it took West to blink. Her spine straightened, as if having the case back in her possession gave her a fresh dose of confidence.

That changed when she caught the amused look Roman followed her with, though. Blushing and wilting, she hurried ahead. Barros followed behind her, putting his hand on her shoulder and mumbling low, deep reassurance.

“So, Investigator,” Roman said, “this way.”