Witch Hunt

The forest hissed beneath the hooves as if rejecting the intruder. Every tree stood frozen in a silent scream, its bark covered in scabs of lichen like rotting flesh. Branches clawed at Soap’s cloak, and the air was thick with the scent of damp pine and something metallic—like blood, or rust hammered into the living earth.

The mare wheezed, eyes rolled back to show red veins, foam bubbling at her lips, sweat dripping onto the ground. Her hoof struck a root, pale and bone-like, wrenching it from the moss.

• Easy, stupid thing - MacTavish muttered through clenched teeth - It’s not your neck in the noose today.

Cold seeped through his boots, gnawing at bone. A raven rasped somewhere in the damp canopy—a sound like rusted hinges. Soap turned sharply, hand on sword. Behind him, the mist hung like spoiled milk. No one. Only twisted trunks and the gray haze between.

Three days through the marshes—fog clinging to his skin, every sound echoed as if someone followed. Near Hoddenmoor, two watchmen met him.

• Who goes there?
• Sir John MacTavish - he replied, removing his glove to show the church seal - Sent to inspect the region and deliver the Church’s charity to God’s children.

They flinched. One crossed himself. Soap spent the first days at “The Stained Leaf,” posing as a humble knight. He helped out, handed out coins—the village slowly opened to him, like a flower to sun. Old crones whispered of the forest, kids told tales of a “forest aunt” who spoke with wolves. The men just grunted into their mugs.

• She’s just a healer - the elder grumbled - Feeds beasts, smells of herbs. Don’t be fooled by children.

But Soap grew weaker. One night, he saw the innkeeper lace his ale. The truth struck—no trust, no help. They’d never give her up.

He left under cover of night, following the children’s trail into the woods.

The path led to a glade. In its heart—her house, and a ring of blackened stones, scorched from within.

• Made it… - Soap whispered - Thank God…