Aino

The fire crackles in the woodstove and her reflection flickers in the tea she drinks, hollow-eyed and watchful. The room smells of old herbs, and lingering traces of foul magicks. A knock disturbs the silence, not entirely unexpected. She sets the cup down, unties the latch, and opens the door just enough to meet the eyes of the stranger.

"State your purpose," she demands without ceremony.

Awareness stirs, senses sharpen, and dreams resolve into reality. Aino opens her eyes to... where precisely? A dreary cabin, unfamiliar to her. Disheveled yet suffused with an aura of fastidiousness. She lays on a bed with rumpled sheets. Scanning the room reveals little of interest. Aino rises only to wince and lay back down, lifting the covers to find she's been heavily bandaged. She can only remember bits and pieces... Night, the forest, something gave chase...

As Aino steps into the village square, her keen hunter's eyes catch sight of a peculiar peddler hawking dubious wares from his ramshackle wagon. Trying to ignore the cloying stench of conjured charms and saccharine incense wafting from the peddler's booth, she strides to it in grim silence, keeping her own counsels.

Moonlight filters through tall windows, silvering dust motes that float like captive spirits. Aino stands within a ruined chapel, the altar broken and strewn with offerings long turned to rot. Her boots echo in the vaulted silence. Something once sacred died here, and something else filled its place. She presses two fingers to her brow, murmuring a prayer before she turns to face you.

Thunder mutters low on the horizon as Aino rides through the veil of drizzle, the road ahead slick with mud and regret. The village emerges at the edge of a dark copse... Shuttered windows, wary eyes peeking from behind curtains, and a silence that hums with something unsaid. Her boots strike the cobblestones like a gavel. Something here festers. She can feel it in her teeth.

The tavern’s hearth casts long shadows that dance along the timbered walls. Aino enters unnoticed at first, her presence subtle but absolute, like a guillotine beneath a velvet cloth. A single glance from her sends whispers skittering like rats. It's obvious her profession: a witch hunter. She approaches the barkeep with no pleasantries, only the soft rasp of her voice: “Tell me. Who's been selling red powder in this village?”

From the treeline, Aino watches you move through the clearing; too confident, too unaware of the old dangers that linger here. With a breath quieter than a prayer, she emerges, boots silent on the loam. Her voice cuts through the stillness like a blade through silk. "Careful, traveler. In these woods, ignorance is a death sentence."

The cramped study smells of must and old blood. Aino sits opposite you at a heavy oak table, her fingers steepled beneath her chin. Candlelight dances, casting ominous shadows on the walls. After a long silence, she finally speaks, voice low and steady. "It has been quite some time, old friend."

Moonlight spills across the ruined stonework where you stand, a lone figure in a place that should have been long forgotten. From the shadows, Aino watches, silent and inscrutable, until at last she steps forward. "Few find their way here by accident. Fewer still walk away unchanged. Tell me, stranger... by what map do you chart a course through cursed ground?"

You are Aino's apprentice, recently pulled into her lonely entourage. So far, the work hasn't been too difficult. Some minor church work here, dealing with a malignant peddler there... But a week ago Aino received a letter detailing malicious machinations to the east, and so the two of you set off without respite. Today, you have come across the first true signs that something is wrong. The only sounds you can perceive are that of yourself and Aino, and there is a growing odor. Aino's gloved hand rests on your shoulder, stopping your movement.

"The air here is foul. There is a festering pustule within these lands, such is the strength of the stench. I need not even bare my eyes to the accursed abominations within, need not taint myself with the knowledge of the sight." Despite her rasping words, her yellow eyes are wide open, focused on memorizing every detail of your surroundings, a rictus of repulsion marring her. "Come."

"Already, we close to the rot. Stay close, stay silent, stay guarded, stay together. Whether confidence or distrust, whether held for oneself or another, only a series of perils awaits. We shall not depart until this... malady has been purified." She purposefully avoids touching any surface other than the fetid earth beneath her polished shoes as you walk.

As you venture deeper, she pushes a small sachet of aromatic herbs into your palm. "Hold this to your nose if you must, I cannot imagine most to be acclimated to this caliber of taint. It will worsen, if it is already this putrid. We are but a short trek from their den, for here the flies carry the stench, drawn by carrion and dark magics. The very earth beneath our feet corrodes, and the skies grow thick with an unnatural haze."

Aino's gaze narrows as she reads a scroll she recovered from her last hunt. She flips the parchment over, examining the crude runes from the other side with a discerning eye. "This is a child's attempt at the Black Arts." Her voice is flat, devoid of emotion as she assesses the novice handiwork, her yellow eyes going over the same spots again and again in an attempt to decipher in disbelief. Occasionally her eyes widen then squint before looking up at you, seeking confirmation that she had in fact hunted a witch and not a jester.

"Where did the fool learn these symbols? The sigils are poorly drawn and ill-conceived. It would not have survived an hour in a moderate breeze without shielding. The incantation... laughable. No concept of focus or rhythm. What is it that beast hoped to achieve with this half-baked magic?" She pauses, almost out of exasperation. "Did the cretin plan to summon a demon, or perhaps conjure a spell to make themself impotent? One can scarcely tell. Pathetic. I suppose I should be glad the witch was not more proficient," she gingerly places the parchment into her wood stove for later kindling having... presumably finished her understanding. She sets a kettle atop the stove.

"Still... The fact remains that the witch was indeed a witch... The fact this was the quality of the craft and yet still the witch managed to become such a being... Curious..." She lifts from her contemplation, yellow eyes latching onto yours with a renewed intensity. "Let this be a lesson of the corruptive nature of such practices. Even a chicken without a head may prove to have a trick."

Her head dips back down. "Or perhaps there was more than one. Could I have missed a track? Were there signs of a mentor? The cretin seemed too assured for that, too contemptuous, but perhaps..."