“We wait.” Oras made himself comfortable on a fallen tree. It was one of three, placed as benches around a naturally hidden fireplace. “Hopefully, whoever owns this house will come back at some point.”

  Theria and Celia sat down on the other two logs. It took no four seconds for the redhead to strike up a conversation. “So, what do you think of capybara, Celia?”

  The blonde tilted her head to one side and tapped her chin with her index finger. “Cute.”

  “Accurate,” Theria laughed.

  “Please don’t advocate that we get a pet capybara as well,” Oras groaned.

  The suggestion made the blonde raise an eyebrow. “Is that an option?”

  “I don’t think so. I heard of people who tried, but typically the capybara just become co-habitants, not proper pets.”

  “They’re kinda very stupid animals,” Theria said. “Cute though.”

  “Does anyone ever eat them?” Celia wondered. “Simple curiosity,” she added, when the married couple gave her a weirded out glance.

  “I suppose people might in a famine?” Oras crossed his arms, trying to give the question proper thought. “I can’t see another reason. I can’t imagine they taste good and there’s things you can catch easier that have more meat to them.”

  “Like deer,” Theria said. “Nature’s endless bounty.”

  “Indeed,” Oras agreed.

  “If Master says we should not eat capybara, then I shall obey,” Celia stated.

  The leader of the party locked eyes with his (hopefully) second wife to be. She seemed confused by why he was suddenly staring at her. ‘The programming sits deep,’ he thought. He was distracted by something behind Celia. “I believe the owner of the house is returning.”

  An elderly woman approached. She had grey, curly hair, framing a wrinkly face that once had been beautiful, but had not held up well when the skin had started to sag. Still, her grey eyes were wide awake. Her every step was supported by a staff of gnarled wood that went higher even than the tip of her pointy hat. Her clothing was a patchwork of grey and brown pieces of cloth, the occasional green mixed in for good measure.

  The woman was the very image of the word ‘witch’.

  [Witch AI Image]

  “Now, who do we have here?” the crone asked, a smile on her lips. “I haven’t had visitors in a long while. What brings you to my patch of the woods?”

  “We are looking for the reason why the local capybaras have been disturbed. Have we found it?” Oras spoke without thinking, only realizing how accusatory that sounded after it had left his mouth,

  “Not a fine tone, young man,” the witch chided him with a well-natured tone, then considered his words. “The local capybaras are acting- Oh. Oh… you may have found your reason, yes.” The witch gestured for them to follow her. With some hesitation, they did. “Healthy caution,” she said, while slowly tapping ahead. Her knees were not the best anymore.

  The witch guided them to the back of the house. She kept her firewood there and a large cauldron befitting of a woman of her pointy hat size. A tap on the rim of the cauldron had the cast-iron ring out like a bell. The three legs of the cauldron stretched, one after another, as if it had been stirred awake.

  “I have been stripping off the seasoning from my cauldron recently,” the witch said. “Lots of scrubbing in the little river here. Most of what I made the last few years have been Potions of Rodent’s Bane, because the rats kept getting into my herbal stashes.”

  “The traces wash off into the river and the capybaras flee it,” Oras summarized. “That tracks with it only happening downstream from the rivulet.”

  “ I hope there hasn’t been anything too bad?” the witch grabbed her staff nervously with both hands. “I do not want any trouble.”

  “Just some munched crops and confused villagers,” Theria responded. “We’re hired to clear up the confusion. Which we have, apparently.”

  “I am done with stripping the seasoning off my cauldron. Just did the last wash earlier,” the witch lightly kicked the large iron instrument, when it began to walk towards them. It settled back down. “You can tell the townsfolk that, by my name as Wickela, there will be no further disturbances. I’ll be more careful what runoff I have into the water.”

  Oras sucked on his gums. There was a detail that he was still concerned about. “If any were to eat fish that had swam in the water, should they be warned?”

  “It… should be fine…” Wickela tugged anxiously on a lock of her hair. “...but if someone dies in close proximity, that would be accredited to me, whether linked or not. Could I accompany you back to this village?”

  “Do you not know where Wilse is?” Oras wondered.

  “I don’t even know what a Wilse is,” the witch responded with a nervous cackle. “Sounds like I am in Midyurt?”

  It occurred to Oras only now that the woman was speaking Common, not Yurter. Everyone could speak Common by means of ancient magic, but it was unusual for someone to start a conversation in it, especially this far out in the sticks, when they had a home tongue.

  “Who… exactly are you?” Oras asked slowly.

  “Witch Wickela,” the crone tilted her head. “An old crone who likes to brew tea, potions, and stay out of trouble. I have done something unthoughtful and I shall assure nothing bad comes of it, if that is alright with you, young man?”

  Oras gave the living cauldron another glance, then the house. Now that he looked closer, he realized that there was an… edge to the dirt. Beyond the rim of the property, the ground looked different, from the colour of the soil to the kinds of leaves that covered it, everything was subtly changed.

  There was more, a lot more, to the witch than met the eye.

  ‘Even if I wanted to dispatch of her, I don’t think I could.’ The thought was an experiment, a question to himself what he would do in another situation. In this one, he saw only one viable path forwards. “We can guide you, certainly.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” the crone said. “Then let’s make haste!”

  Haste by the standard of an octogenarian was quite the slow process. She needed help more than once to move down the steps of the rivulet. Many little curses about the yoke of gravity and old bones were mumbled.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  When they reached the river, they faced a major challenge. The water moved with the usual speed, its colour hiding its depth. Even if Oras was willing to swim across it, which he was still not, that was impossible for Wickela. “We’ll have to find a good spot to cross.”

  “I will solve this problem, young man,” the witch said. She brushed one of the many folds of her robe aside, revealing a pouch of exquisite, purple velvet. It was cinched closed by silver threads, loosening fluidly at the mildest touch. Wickela’s hand disappeared into the pouch, More of her arm followed, until she was elbow deep in an object that would have struggled to hold a plate. “Where is it…? Ah!”

  Her hand returned, clutching a model boat. Without a second thought, she tossed it towards the river. Oras had a feeling what might happen, yet was still surprised when he saw the object grow from a model to a proper rowing boat. Its hull was fashioned from dark wood and the seats between its elegantly curved planks were covered in red cushions.

  Oras wanted to ask again who the woman was, but bit his tongue. There was no reason why he would get a better answer than her name the second time around.

  “Help an old woman onto the boat, if you would?” Wickela requested.

  Oras offered an arm. She grasped it tight. The boat tilted of its own accord, lowering its rim to help her step inside. Oras had only heard of objects enchanted to have a will in legend before, yet he was witness to two within the same day.

  ‘All of this from investigating capybaras,’ he thought. ‘The world is certainly large.’

  Once they were all situated inside the boat, Wickela gave the simple order. “Downstream until the young people tell you to stop.” The oars wiggled in confirmation, then pushed the rowing boat off the shore. It moved autonomously down the stream. “Oh, now that we have got a moment - I don’t believe you gave me your names?”

  “Ya mind askin’ that question differently?” Theria joked. “‘Cause that’s fairy stuff.”

  “I would humbly request you tell me your names,” Wickela responded with a chuckle. “If that is alright with you. Just to make some conversation.”

  “I am Oras.”

  “Theria.”

  “Celia.”

  “Wonderful names… you are an adventuring party?”

  “A relatively new one. This is our third mission,” Oras responded. “We did not anticipate us looking what had spooked capybaras would lead us to a witch, especially not one in possession of so many magical items.”

  “When you live a while, you pick up a thing or two.” Wickela tapped the bottom of the ship with her staff. “Sometimes you make a thing as well.”

  “You made this ship?”

  “On request for a young nobleman from the north, yes. When it comes to enchantment, materials are often the greater challenge.”

  “How did it come to be in your possession then?” Oras wondered.

  “We agreed that I would make the ship for him and that it would revert to me upon his death. 60 years later, it was delivered to me by his son. A very good lad.”

  “How… old are ya?” Theria asked.

  “What year was it again?”

  “11 of the Stringless Era.”

  “Oh, right, new era… Ah, who needs to remember how old they are? I am long since past the point of caring.” The witch put her staff across her lap, releasing the gnarled wood from her grip. “Not an assuring answer to you, I understand.” She chuckled nervously. “I do not like to lie, but I know that these truths make me suspicious to most.”

  “We are keeping an open mind,” Oras said.

  “As I am accustomed to, from Midyurters.”

  “Where are ya from, if ya can answer that?”

  “Everywhere.” Wickela gestured outwards into nature. “Part of my oath as a witch was to forsake the memory of my birthplace. I could be from every place or none at all.”

  “If you are from every place, have you perhaps heard of a dragon that travels the world?” Oras asked.

  “A dragon that travels the world?” the witch tilted her head in thought. “Usually dragons are the sedentary sort… and I assume you aren’t talking about a Dragonblood like yourself?”

  Oras shook his head. “My first memory is of a dragon that came to visit our village. It stayed for a couple of days and spoke of ambition.”

  “It?” Wickela tilted her head. “Did the dragon take precaution to change its voice to be unidentifiable?”

  “So I am told and so I remember.”

  “Do you have a name for me?”

  Oras shook his head to that as well.

  “What about the colour of the scales?”

  “Blue.”

  Wickela reclined, the boat growing a backrest for her seat to accommodate the motion. Thinking, she tapped the side of her resting staff, before finally sighing. “I can hear that this means a lot to you, young man. When it comes to blue dragons… they are known to like to travel. I have known some in my day, but have not heard of any in a long time. The names wouldn’t be of help to you.”

  “I see,” Oras responded stoically. Disappointment would have been misplaced, he had not expected to get a clue to it here in the first place. He turned his head to the side, then nodded at the riverbank. “We have to walk from here.”

  “Ah… it’s not right by the river?”

  Celia crossed her arms. “No, the village Wilse is about an hour away from the Wil.”

  Wickela giggled at the doll woman’s tone, but had little to laugh about during the rest of the walk. When they finally arrived in Wilse, the witch was desperate for a chair. “I really am not made for walking,” she groaned. “Never was.”

  “Who do you bring back?” the village elder asked from his porch.

  “The answer to your mystery,” Oras responded, then left it to Wickela to explain for herself.

  “Yes, hello… ehem, I may have accidentally leaked a bit of Potion of Rodent’s Bane into the river, which caused your local capybaras to get a bit uppity. I wanted to personally apologize to the affected and make sure there are no adverse side effects for anyone that ate the fish.”

  “Oh, I see… well, we best call the council then to report this development,” the village elder got up.

  From there, the Dragonblood party was effectively just a witness to the events that unfolded. The village council gathered up after the town bell was rung, then Wickela explained the situation. The Riverman family was lightly concerned, agreed to the inspection and to contact Wickela if any symptoms should develop in the future.

  What happened beyond that was outside the party’s purview.

  “The clerk of the guild said to give whoever solves our issue this,” the village elder said and presented the party with a token. It was a wooden coin, marked on both sides with a semi-complicated pattern seared into the surface. “Said it’ll be proof that you finished the mission.”

  “Interesting way to verify the matter,” Oras said and put the token away.

  The day was not yet over, so the party leader had a choice to make. They could either leave immediately and get a couple of hours into their journey back already or they could stay the night in the provided house and enjoy the free meal and a proper bed. The only reason to opt for the latter, realistically, was to chat with the villagers and Wickela. If they had no interest in that, they could just say their goodbye.

  ‘Better to be rested tomorrow,’ Oras thought, electing to stay.

  The council thinned out shortly after he had made that decision. With the question answered, almost everyone was happy to just return to everyday life. The few that remained were the curious or the parents of the children that wanted to hear stories of the outside world.

  The Dragonhoard party was the centre of attention only for a little while. After they had told the children of their encounter with goblins, which they were not quite interested in, and a Ceramic, which they took in with fear in their eyes, Wickela was the more interesting person to needle for stories.

  The witch showed the kids some ‘magic’ - parlour tricks that Oras and Celia observed keenly, trying to find the trick in each of them. Sometimes they succeeded. Most of the time, they did not.

  Eventually, the children got tired and were shuffled back home. The curious men and women stayed for a little while longer, asking for the news of the outside world. Once they had learned what the party knew, they too left. Now, it was only them and the witch. They continued chatting for a little bit. Oras was trying to pull anything out of her that made her more than a mysterious, powerful yet friendly stranger in the woods.

  He failed.

  “Any other witches in Kumsyurt?” Theria asked. “Just outta curiosity.”

  Wickela shrugged. “You ask the wrong woman for that. I am in no coven, no sisterhood, I just live out in my own. I have no real wider contacts and I certainly have none here.”

  That was about what Oras had expected.

  The witch looked around the now empty council building. “I will let you youngsters have the bed,” she said, once she had found what she wanted. “I’ll go to sleep before I get more wrinkles.”

  The trio watched the crone disappear into a broom closet. All of the questions Oras had about that, he just answered with ‘a witch is a witch’ in his head.

  They went to sleep soon thereafter.