She breathed hard and quick and fast, trying to
hyperventilate, and draw the smoke into her lungs,
hoping to die before the flames touched her. She
screamed for her mother when the first tounges of
flame touched her legs, and cried until she forgot to
form words. As her blood started to boil, her cries
were incoherent shrieks of pain.
I woke up screaming just the same, my scythe
already solid and ready in my hand, the cheap motel
bed shredded. My blood splattered the torn sheets.
I rose unsteadily, shaking, trembling, and forced by
scythe back into non-reality. And I remembered the
dream… I remembered being 14 year old Claudette de
Auburgine, who went to the stake as a heretic in 1442.
At least her death dreams weren’t as bad as some of
the others….
It took me an hour to stop shaking, before I
could change the dressings on the stigmata over my
heart. Before I could hotwire another clean car, and
get back on the road, before….
At a traffic light in downtown Cambridge,
I closed my eyes, stilled my breathing, and I
remembered the oath I swore. Remembered the
sharp pain of my blade slicing through my breast,
remembered the oath I swore to Kimberly Oak and to
the Great Mother. I could feel my pulse quicken, feel
that same dark rush I felt when the oath was done. I
could feel the object of my hatred getting closer, feel
the bastard as a chill down my spine, approaching my
position at 800 kph.
I knew where the bastard was by the time I
opened my eyes, and eased through the now green
light. I caught sight of my reflection in the stolen
SUV’s rear view mirror. I told myself I shouldn’t smile
like that; that that mad grin would tip someone off.
But I couldn’t help it.
It was December 19, 2021, sixteen months
after the Pure Culture Imperative put my people in
camps and I was going to kill the man responsible for
it all. I couldn’t help but smile: today I was going to
murder a President…..
hyperventilate, and draw the smoke into her lungs,
hoping to die before the flames touched her. She
screamed for her mother when the first tounges of
flame touched her legs, and cried until she forgot to
form words. As her blood started to boil, her cries
were incoherent shrieks of pain.
I woke up screaming just the same, my scythe
already solid and ready in my hand, the cheap motel
bed shredded. My blood splattered the torn sheets.
I rose unsteadily, shaking, trembling, and forced by
scythe back into non-reality. And I remembered the
dream… I remembered being 14 year old Claudette de
Auburgine, who went to the stake as a heretic in 1442.
At least her death dreams weren’t as bad as some of
the others….
It took me an hour to stop shaking, before I
could change the dressings on the stigmata over my
heart. Before I could hotwire another clean car, and
get back on the road, before….
At a traffic light in downtown Cambridge,
I closed my eyes, stilled my breathing, and I
remembered the oath I swore. Remembered the
sharp pain of my blade slicing through my breast,
remembered the oath I swore to Kimberly Oak and to
the Great Mother. I could feel my pulse quicken, feel
that same dark rush I felt when the oath was done. I
could feel the object of my hatred getting closer, feel
the bastard as a chill down my spine, approaching my
position at 800 kph.
I knew where the bastard was by the time I
opened my eyes, and eased through the now green
light. I caught sight of my reflection in the stolen
SUV’s rear view mirror. I told myself I shouldn’t smile
like that; that that mad grin would tip someone off.
But I couldn’t help it.
It was December 19, 2021, sixteen months
after the Pure Culture Imperative put my people in
camps and I was going to kill the man responsible for
it all. I couldn’t help but smile: today I was going to
murder a President…..
The Neo-Witch Avenger protects today’s witches from supernatural and mortal evil; the Neo-Witch Avenger concerns herself with avenging the witches who have died over the centuries, at the hands of the pious and the fanatical.
To her enemies, the Neo-Witch Avenger is implacable death, a grim pagan reaper bearing a century’s olds hatred, who strikes in the name of the murdered and martyred.
She is a theological terrorist, an assassin who speaks to ghosts. The Avenger gladly gives her body over to enraged burning souls, letting the spirits of a hundred generations of executed witches and shamans use her body, her mind and her blades in their quest for brutal justice.
Any who would harm a witch, any who would violently oppose a cause a witch stands for, be warned: Neo-Witch Avengers exist.
Their numbers are few, but their blades are sharp.
Written by Chris A. Field.
Artwork by Anthony Cournoyer.
The latest release in Skortched Urf' Studios Dept. 7 Advanced Class Update line is available at Your Games Now and the ENWorld Download Shop .
