November 13, in the farm.
At the mention of Analand and the Old World, the old woman snorts with laughter.
"What do I care for Analand! Better to tell me you are on a mission to bring down the kingdom. Then I would more like have given you what you want, and with my blessing.
"52 years ago I and my kind was driven from my home by a mob of my fellow Analanders. My mother had her hands cut off and my father was hacked to pieces."
Casparan and Bendyn feel their blood run cold in their veins as the implications of what the woman is saying dawn on them. She is a witch! A sorcerer! One of those who draws their unholy power from the vile arcane eminations of the undying carcassses of the last dragons. Their powers are their reward for sating the lusts of foul daemon familiers in frenzied couplings in the darkest of places. They can steal your thoughts, twist your loyalties, and burn the flesh from your bones. Casparan just manages to resist the instinctive urge to make a gesture to ward off evil spirits. Bendyn as well, although he can't surpress the shudder that runs though him making the tip of his crossbow bolt waver uncertainly for a moment.
There is an angry strirring amoung the figures in the group and a few muttered curses. But it has no form as yet, no appearance of attack. But the old woman quietens down and hears out the rest of Casparan has to say. Occasionally Bendyn finds his line of sight obscured as on of the group clustered around the old woman moves across it. One of the group approaches the old woman. Casparan and Bendyn get the impression that the newcomer is female, although they are not dressed as such. But then again, nor is the old woman really. They exchange words in a urgent whisper. There is some form of disagreement, but you cannot catch the actual details, only the tone of it. Eventually, the old woman seems to agree, or at least conceed some point.
"And what if we do let you go with your ponies and supplies? What guarantee do we have that you will not return in force later?"
ooc: History: 52 years ago a pomgrom swept across much of the Old World. It was lead by the charismatic and self proclaimed 'Prophet of Luna' and 'Flame of Purity', a priest of Luna from the backwaters of Breland. For almost a year sorcerers were hunted down and killed. Cutting off their hands was common; a way to prevent them weilding their magic it was believed. For a while the prophet and his followers had the tacit support of the kings and lords, but eventually it began to get out of hand. The Prophet was declared a criminal and, not without a fair amount of bloodshed, his followers were rounded up or dispersed.
Note: Sorcerers are viewed in much the same way witches were in medieval europe. Feared and distrusted. Although, on occasion, visited under the cover of night when all else has failed. Of course, educated people consider most of the stuff about sorcerers as superstious peasant nonsense. But the old myths go back a long way, and are deeply woven into the fabric of history and legend. They are hard to ignore completely. These days, if folk law holds any truth, the number of sorcerers is very small, the power tends to run in the family (on the female side), and they tend to keep a very low profile.
