Despite having heard of some mysterious artefact and the whole realms' fascination with finding it, the little witch remains drawn to the swamp. Her swamp. Or so she tells herself. It is as impractical as it is idiotic to declare the surrounding area as her property: she has already encountered two others in the vicinity, and what is there to stop others from trudging through the murky waters? Certainly not her, for all of her potions and poisons are useless against a rampant invader. The witch is a rather dainty thing, fashioned from a design that favoured a cunning mind and slender body rather than bulging muscles and dim wits: she may consider the ashen trees and stagnant ponds as hers, but she knows better than to spill her own blood for such a claim. It is because of this reason that she does get offended when her gaze lands on the bloody bay stag.
Is he mad?She glances at the curved set of horns atop his bloody crown, but carries her gaze across his quaking body as she wades closer. I've never seen a man style his hair in such a way. Nor laugh so... maniacally. Her own tail drags across the surface of the water collecting all manner of debris, but her mane is pulled up into a much messier style of bun. She feels no embarrassment for having come to this realisation, however: she favours functionality over beauty. And sanity over... whatever that just was.
Deciding it to be best to proceed with caution rather than curiosity, the witch ceases her approach with a flurry of coughs. Not now, fool! You look weak! Her head immediately falls near the surface of the water as she attempts to catch her breath. A few moments pass before she glances at her companion with watery grey eyes.
"If you've come for the relic, others have already searched for it here." Her tone hints at some of her frustration with her ailment, but it can easily be mistaken for impatience. How many others will churn the banks of my swamp with their hooves before this relic is found?
Is he mad?She glances at the curved set of horns atop his bloody crown, but carries her gaze across his quaking body as she wades closer. I've never seen a man style his hair in such a way. Nor laugh so... maniacally. Her own tail drags across the surface of the water collecting all manner of debris, but her mane is pulled up into a much messier style of bun. She feels no embarrassment for having come to this realisation, however: she favours functionality over beauty. And sanity over... whatever that just was.
Deciding it to be best to proceed with caution rather than curiosity, the witch ceases her approach with a flurry of coughs. Not now, fool! You look weak! Her head immediately falls near the surface of the water as she attempts to catch her breath. A few moments pass before she glances at her companion with watery grey eyes.
"If you've come for the relic, others have already searched for it here." Her tone hints at some of her frustration with her ailment, but it can easily be mistaken for impatience. How many others will churn the banks of my swamp with their hooves before this relic is found?
