kingmason704
Villager
The Wicked Witch of the White Forest---
Synopsis
This story begins in the Crook’s Fane, a noisy tavern where rogues, drunkards, and wanderers cross paths. Amidst clashing mugs, slurred songs, and a dancing bard, two fates entwine.
Salora, a sly foxkin rogue with a silver tongue and her loyal baby dragon perched on her shoulder, hunts for coin and adventure.
Beside her is Darius, a human ranger and monster hunter who can’t stand animals — a constant point of clash with Salora’s love for them.
When a wealthy stranger offers more than just gold, they are drawn into a conspiracy far larger than the tavern’s walls. An ancient evil stirs: the Wicked Witch, builder of an undead army, already breaking the wards that once bound her.
What began as a night of coin and ale will set them on a path toward kingdoms in peril, companions yet unknown, and choices that will test loyalty, survival, and fate itself.
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Introduction
In the crooked tavern known as the Crook’s Fane, rogues, drunkards, and wanderers gather, never knowing how their fates may twist together.
Among them is Salora, a cunning foxkin rogue with a silver tongue and a loyal baby dragon at her side. Quick with charm and quicker with wit, she moves through the world with playful grace and hidden purpose.
Her unlikely companion is Darius, a hardened human ranger and monster hunter. Skilled with blade and bow, he harbors a deep disdain for animals, often clashing with Salora’s adoration of them. Yet, despite their differences, their paths have been bound by more than chance.
A single encounter inside the tavern sets events into motion, leading them toward whispers of the Wicked Witch—an ancient evil who has shattered her bonds and begun raising an undead army. With kingdoms trembling on the edge of ruin, Salora and Darius must choose: chase after coin and comfort, or risk everything to stand against the darkness spreading from the cursed White Forest.
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Chapter One: Crook’s Fane
This story begins in a tavern called The Crook’s Fane, a crooked old building whose rafters creaked as if they might collapse under the weight of a hundred drunken songs and secrets. The air was thick with pipe smoke, spilt ale, and the tang of roasted meat. Candles guttered in iron sconces, casting long, dancing shadows across the mismatched crowd gathered inside. It was the kind of place where adventurers and scoundrels alike found themselves, willingly or otherwise.
At a corner table, Selora leaned back in her chair, one hand swirling a half-empty cup, the other absently stroking the small dragon perched on her shoulder. Its tiny chest rose and fell in time with hers, a faint puff of smoke curling from its nostrils. Across from her, Darius slouched, sharp eyes scanning the tavern like a hawk sizing up prey.
Selora’s gaze flicked toward the bar, where a portly man in fine, strained clothes nursed a drink. His purse sagged heavy with coin, an easy mark if ever there was one. She tipped her chin toward him.
“I see the one you’re talking about. What’s your plan for getting his gold?”
Darius smirked. “Simple. Go work your charm. Men like him fall fast when a woman like you bats an eye. Find out how deep his pockets go.”
Selora rolled her eyes, but rose with a graceful stretch. “Charm, is it? Don’t act like you wouldn’t trip over yourself if I aimed it your way.” With a flick of her fox tail, she crossed the tavern floor and slid onto the stool beside the man.
Before she could greet him, the bartender’s two heads turned her way. The right one, sharp-jawed and sour, growled, “Are you trying to bring the Wizards down on us? Magic’s prohibited in my bar.”
Selora blinked. “Magic? I haven’t cast a thing.”
The sour head jabbed a finger toward her shoulder. “Your little beast puffed smoke. The wards don’t lie. Magic’s magic—beast or no. Leash it, throw it out, or it goes in the warded cages.”
Her dragon blinked innocently and sneezed another curl of harmless smoke. Selora bit back a groan. “It’s only smoke, not fire. He’s not dangerous.”
The other head, round-faced and genial, chuckled. “Peace, brother. Selora’s one of our better customers. A long tab, aye, but she pays eventually. Let me pour her a drink. You hush before you scare off good coin.”
The portly man beside her chuckled, amused. “A tab, you say? Allow me.” He pulled seven gold from his pouch and clinked them onto the bar. “Clear her debt, and another round besides.”
Even the sour head stilled at that. The genial one grinned wide. “As you wish, my lord.”
Selora turned to the man, offering a sly smile. “That’s awfully kind. What shall I call my benefactor?”
“Barthos,” he said proudly. “I am but a traveler, passing through from my lord’s hall to another, carrying messages of import.”
Selora’s thoughts raced behind her expression. Important messages, a fat purse, and a room for the night? Better than robbing him outright. She leaned closer. “Passing through, are you? So you don’t live in town?”
Barthos shook his head. “No. I’m only staying the night at the Silken Petal, Willowcreek’s finest inn. By dawn, I’ll be gone, duty calling me elsewhere with tidings that must reach the kingdoms.”
Selora feigned a pout. “Gone so soon? A shame. Perhaps I’ll call on you tonight at your inn, before you vanish.”
His cheeks reddened. “I would welcome the company. Room three, just above the courtyard.”
Later, she slipped back to Darius’s table, her dragon curling around her neck like a scarf. “Room three, Silken Petal. Fat purse, leaving come dawn.”
Darius grinned wolfishly. “Perfect. Tonight, we slip in, take everything, and vanish before sunrise.”
That night, Selora entered Barthos’s chamber. He poured her wine, puffing his chest like a peacock. “At the tavern, I could not speak freely. But you should know—the Wicked Witch has broken her bonds. She gathers an undead host in the White Forest. I carry word to the kingdoms, that we must either bind her stronger than before, or march to destroy her outright.”
Selora froze, caught off guard. “The Wicked Witch? Who—or what—is she?”
Barthos’s face grew grim. “A blight, once chained by wards older than memory. Now free. She stirs in the north, building an army of corpses. If the kingdoms do not act, all lands will fall.”
Behind them, the door creaked. Darius slipped in, blade drawn, his smirk wicked. “Well, isn’t this touching? Sharing secrets over wine. Shame it ends with your purse on our table.” His tone was mocking, but the steel in his eyes was real.
Barthos paled slightly. Selora jumped between them. “Darius, wait! I’m sorry, Barthos. We had… foolish plans. But listen—if what he says is true, this isn’t just his problem. If her army marches, it crushes us too.”
Darius scoffed. “Have you bumped your head, fox? Since when do we play heroes?”
Selora snapped. “Since the day our own homes are at risk! She’s raising an undead army, Darius. The kingdoms could fall. Where does that leave us?”
Her words struck home. Darius stiffened, then slowly sheathed his blade, cheeks flushing red. He turned to Barthos with a stiff nod. “Apologies, lord. Name’s Darius. If there’s a fight worth having, maybe it’s this one. Where is she hiding?”
Barthos studied them, then sighed. “The White Forest. Twisted, cursed, crawling with her spawn. Few who enter return. Two weeks’ journey, if you dare.”
He dropped a pouch heavy with gold on the table. “This was meant for the king’s soldiers. Half now, half when the deed is done. Use it—for weapons, gear, supplies. Bring me word the Witch is destroyed, and more coin than you’ve dreamed awaits you.”
Selora’s tail swished as she slid the pouch across the table. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
Darius smirked, recovering his swagger. “Then it’s settled. We’ll take the job.”
Barthos lifted his cup in solemn toast. “Rest well tonight. At dawn, your path begins with a new beginning. The White Forest.”
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Chapter Two: Whispers in the Alley
The streets of Willowcreek buzzed with morning life: merchants calling wares, children darting between legs, carts rattling over crooked cobbles. Darius adjusted the pack on his shoulders, his eyes forever scanning. Selora walked beside him, tail swaying lazily, but her ears twitched at every sound.
That’s when she noticed him.
A figure in a hood, too still among the bustle. Not watching them directly, but his head tilted just enough whenever they moved, his stance shifting as though to keep them in his periphery.
“Darius,” she murmured, lips barely moving. “Left side. By the tannery. He’s following.”
Darius didn’t break stride, though his hand brushed the hilt of his blade. “He’s sloppy, if he meant to tail us. Want me to cut him off?”
Selora’s grin was quick and sharp. “Split him like a rabbit between hounds? Let’s.”
They broke off, circling the alleyways like predators. When the hooded figure ducked into a narrow passage between buildings, Selora was already waiting. Her dagger flashed, pressing cold steel against his ribs as she slammed him against the wall.
“Alright, shadow-boy,” she hissed, her fox ears perked high, her dragon hissing faint smoke from her shoulder. “Why are you watching us?”
The man’s hood fell back just enough to reveal a pale face streaked with soot and dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t flinch at the dagger—if anything, he smirked. Glass vials clinked faintly from the straps across his chest.
“I watch everyone,” he said, voice low and strange, like gravel over glass. “But you two? You’ve stirred whispers. Whispers of the White Forest. Of the Witch.”
Selora narrowed her eyes. “And what of it? That’s our business.”
He chuckled darkly. “Your business? No. Your funeral. You don’t go chasing the Wicked Witch unless you’ve already given up on living. If you crave death so badly, there are dungeons enough nearby. Traps that will gut you clean. Beasts that will eat you whole. Quicker ways to die than having her wear your skin as a puppet.”
Darius finally stepped from the shadows, blocking the alley’s exit, his blade at the ready. “So you know of her. Speak plain, or I’ll let the fox open your throat wider.”
The man tilted his head, eyes glinting strangely. “I don’t know her. No sane man does. But I’ve studied things. Collected things.” He shifted, and Selora’s dagger caught a glimpse of the small vials strapped across his chest—blood, ichor, strange fluids that shimmered in colors no natural liquid should. “Things that crawl from the dark. Things that bleed and still writhe. I know enough to say this: if you seek the Witch, you’re walking into the jaws of the abyss.”
Selora’s eyes narrowed, her dagger still pressing against Corven’s ribs. The tiny dragon hissed from her shoulder, its smoke curling thin and gray.
“And what’s with all these vials strapped to your chest?” she asked, voice sharp as her blade. Her gaze flicked to the strange fluids glinting inside them—reds like fresh blood, blacks that shimmered oily green, and colors she had no name for. “Looks like blood to me. Blood from creatures you’ve murdered. Is that true? Because if it is…” She leaned in closer, her silver tongue now dripping venom. “…I’ve got a love for creatures and animals. And if you say the wrong thing, I might just gut you here and now and squeeze you into one of those bottles. See how you look on someone’s shelf.”
Corven stiffened, his smirk faltering at last. His eyes darted from the dagger at his ribs to the foxkin’s emerald stare. He raised both hands slowly, vials clinking faintly with the motion.
“Calm down,” he rasped, his voice uneven for the first time. “Calm down, beautiful fox. It’s not as grim as you think.” He swallowed, shifting against the wall though the steel kept him pinned. “Yes, some of what I carry comes from creatures I’ve slain… but not just animals. Things that would have torn your bones clean if I hadn’t struck first. Things from dungeons most folk don’t believe exist. Beasts from stories whispered to children—things you’ve maybe only seen in nightmares.”
Selora’s tail flicked, her grip still firm. “Keep talking.”
Corven licked his lips nervously, then went on. “What I take isn’t just trophies. I use them. I craft from them. Potions. Remedies. Poisons, when needed. A drop of troll ichor to slow bleeding. Venom milked from a cave viper that, properly brewed, can cure fever as well as it kills. I don’t collect to wallow in death—I collect so I can walk through it and keep breathing. And sometimes,” his eyes flicked toward Darius, then back to Selora, “so I can help others do the same.”
Selora studied him, her dagger never wavering. She wanted to doubt him, but there was something in his voice—a ragged honesty beneath the strangeness. Her dragon gave a soft rumble, as if sharing her uncertainty.
Finally, Corven dipped a hand slowly to his bandolier. With exaggerated care, he unhooked a single vial—a glass tube filled with cloudy liquid that shimmered faintly silver in the light. He held it out, palm open.
“Here. A gift.” His gravelly tone steadied as he spoke. “This will keep the dead… dead. Sprinkle it on their wounds, or smash the vial against them. It burns the rot that animates corpses. If you truly are headed into the White Forest, you’ll need it more than I.”
Selora’s eyes darted between the vial and his pale face. Slowly, she eased the dagger back and plucked the vial from his hand, holding it up to the light. The strange silver liquid swirled inside like mist caught in a bottle.
“Generous,” she said cautiously. “Too generous. What do you want in return?”
Corven’s lips curved into that unsettling smirk once more, though his voice remained low. “Nothing… yet. Consider it a warning, or a kindness, whichever helps you sleep tonight. I’ll be around, fox. The White Forest has a way of collecting fools. Perhaps we’ll cross paths again.”
Selora slipped the vial into her pouch, her tail flicking as she finally stepped back. Darius still lingered at the mouth of the alley, his blade half-drawn, watching every twitch of the man’s hands.
Corven tugged his hood low, shadows swallowing his sharp features once more. “Walk carefully, rogues. The Witch doesn’t need to find you—you’ll find her soon enough.”
And with that, he slipped away into the crowd, vanishing like smoke into the streets of Willowcreek.
Selora glanced at the vial in her hand, then at Darius. Her smile was sly, though her ears were still perked with unease. “Creepy bastard. But at least he gave us something useful.”
Darius grunted. “Or cursed. Either way, let’s not smash it until we need to. Come on—we’ve wasted enough time.”
This is my 1st time writing a book so please
tell me (the truth) if I should keep goin.Together, they turned back toward the armory, the weight of Corven’s warning settling heavier than the packs on their shoulders.
