You leaned your back against a stout tree by the side of the road; you shut your eyes for a moment or two, no more. But when you opened them, the witch was there, her face right up against yours, so close you could count the hairs growing out of the wart on her nose.
"No harm to you, no harm to you, says I," said the witch, her breath stinking of clotted blood. "No harm mean I to you."
"Thank you, dearie, says you. I'm very grateful that you're not slitting my throat right here, right now, though you could do it so easy. That's what you say."
The witch cackled; there are equal parts sand and air in her lungs, it sounds like.
"Give you another reason to be grateful to old Agatha, says I. Do you another good turn, though you'll owe me for it later.
"You're traveling alone up this road, but you'll meet others soon enough. You'll meet where the roads come together, at a house at the edge of the woods. Walk past the house; don't spend the night. That's Agatha's gift to you. Take it or not! I care not!"
You jolt awake, your back sore from leaning on the tree. There is no one in front of you.
"T'was just a dream," you say aloud, to drive the memory of it away. Getting to your feet, you continue on your way.
(Protocol for this Play-by-Post: Put player questions or comments within parentheses. Posts not between parentheses will be considered character comments or questions.)
Puckersnap jumped back. He didn't know how the witch got so close. But there was one thing he did know; her breath smelled like a symphony of pine, moss, and earth. Her each exhale was a whisper of starlight.
"Oh come now. They'd never swallow that. What is a whisper of starlight anyway?" The goblin folded the thought and tucked it away.
"Agatha," he murmured to himself, rolling the name around on his tongue like a precious gem. It had a certain ring to it, he thought, a sense of mystery and intrigue that seemed perfectly suited to the protagonist of his dark tales. He imagined an impeccably dressed witch on ... what? ... a boat ... yes ... travelling down a river. There is a murder and she must navigate the treacherous waters of jealousy and greed to uncover the truth.
"By the shadowy embrace of Norgorber. That's more improbable than a bugbear knitting a sweater."
Puckedsnap's ears poked out from beneath a floppy hat adorned with feathers, ribbons, and various baubles. He scratched one ear and tucked his quill behind the other. His hair was copper except for the part where the tip of his quill touched it.
His amber eyes sparkled at the thought of the house at the edge of the woods. He thought it would make for a good start to his second story.
There were no stories or warnings about these woods being haunted. Or that a witch has made residence here.
Garrison checks his surroundings just to make sure he was alone.
He says a silent prayer to Stronmaus to protect him on his journey deeper into the woods.
Anyone observing him would notice the scar which from the top of his head and travels down his face and neck and continues on. His chainmail makes a rustling clinking has he prepares to move on.
Ata Irfan shakes his head to clear it of sleep. Sitting on a rock by the tree, he pulls out his journal and quill then writes down what he recalls. Pondering the advice of Agatha, he puts away his journal before adjusting the green shemagh head scarf and tucking part of it warmly around his neck and beard while letting part of it fall in front of his chainlink shirt. Leaning on his spear, he rises and reflects on the dream of the witch. He is no stranger to visions and mirages, some more real than others, some more honest than others, but he sensed no evil to the presence of this Agatha and so is not worried but wonders what path his pilgrimage will take before he can return to the desert sands and oases of home. Her voice, a mix of sand and air, reminds him of home. Perhaps this Agatha is part of the Mother of Oases' plans for him.
Ata Irfan sets off deeper into the woods trusting that his lonely path will cross others soon enough.
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You have no idea how the witch got so close.
You leaned your back against a stout tree by the side of the road; you shut your eyes for a moment or two, no more. But when you opened them, the witch was there, her face right up against yours, so close you could count the hairs growing out of the wart on her nose.
"No harm to you, no harm to you, says I," said the witch, her breath stinking of clotted blood. "No harm mean I to you."
"Thank you, dearie, says you. I'm very grateful that you're not slitting my throat right here, right now, though you could do it so easy. That's what you say."
The witch cackled; there are equal parts sand and air in her lungs, it sounds like.
"Give you another reason to be grateful to old Agatha, says I. Do you another good turn, though you'll owe me for it later.
"You're traveling alone up this road, but you'll meet others soon enough. You'll meet where the roads come together, at a house at the edge of the woods. Walk past the house; don't spend the night. That's Agatha's gift to you. Take it or not! I care not!"
You jolt awake, your back sore from leaning on the tree. There is no one in front of you.
"T'was just a dream," you say aloud, to drive the memory of it away. Getting to your feet, you continue on your way.
(Protocol for this Play-by-Post: Put player questions or comments within parentheses. Posts not between parentheses will be considered character comments or questions.)
(Provide a physical description of your character as you travel on the road.)
Puckersnap jumped back. He didn't know how the witch got so close. But there was one thing he did know; her breath smelled like a symphony of pine, moss, and earth. Her each exhale was a whisper of starlight.
"Oh come now. They'd never swallow that. What is a whisper of starlight anyway?" The goblin folded the thought and tucked it away.
"Agatha," he murmured to himself, rolling the name around on his tongue like a precious gem. It had a certain ring to it, he thought, a sense of mystery and intrigue that seemed perfectly suited to the protagonist of his dark tales. He imagined an impeccably dressed witch on ... what? ... a boat ... yes ... travelling down a river. There is a murder and she must navigate the treacherous waters of jealousy and greed to uncover the truth.
"By the shadowy embrace of Norgorber. That's more improbable than a bugbear knitting a sweater."
Puckedsnap's ears poked out from beneath a floppy hat adorned with feathers, ribbons, and various baubles. He scratched one ear and tucked his quill behind the other. His hair was copper except for the part where the tip of his quill touched it.
His amber eyes sparkled at the thought of the house at the edge of the woods. He thought it would make for a good start to his second story.
There were no stories or warnings about these woods being haunted. Or that a witch has made residence here.
Garrison checks his surroundings just to make sure he was alone.
He says a silent prayer to Stronmaus to protect him on his journey deeper into the woods.
Anyone observing him would notice the scar which from the top of his head and travels down his face and neck and continues on. His chainmail makes a rustling clinking has he prepares to move on.
Ata Irfan shakes his head to clear it of sleep. Sitting on a rock by the tree, he pulls out his journal and quill then writes down what he recalls. Pondering the advice of Agatha, he puts away his journal before adjusting the green shemagh head scarf and tucking part of it warmly around his neck and beard while letting part of it fall in front of his chainlink shirt. Leaning on his spear, he rises and reflects on the dream of the witch. He is no stranger to visions and mirages, some more real than others, some more honest than others, but he sensed no evil to the presence of this Agatha and so is not worried but wonders what path his pilgrimage will take before he can return to the desert sands and oases of home. Her voice, a mix of sand and air, reminds him of home. Perhaps this Agatha is part of the Mother of Oases' plans for him.
Ata Irfan sets off deeper into the woods trusting that his lonely path will cross others soon enough.