Hara and the Witch

Chapter 1: Witches and Teapots

'Alright, lay it down. You want me to kill a troll, that it?' Hara had asked. Plim flew around the room happily, perching first on a chandelier then on Hara's head.

'You are quite brash,' the witch said. She had been staring Hara down since she and Plim had entered, as if she were preparing to fight them - as if she had forgotten she was trying to hire them. Most prospective clients tried to make a good impression (except for the one time they'd almost died, because the man thought they were bailiffs come to take his house... and that other time a whole town had tried poisoning them so they wouldn't have to pay - at least that's what Hara had assumed it was all about). Either way, most of them tried. Not this woman, though. She had summoned them through personal messenger and, because they were skint, they had arrived at once.

Her house was gorgeous, a tumbledown cottage with grass and daisies sprouting all over the roof. It sat on the edge of the forest, the darkness of the trees reaching out like arms but not quite touching it. From the outside, at least.

The moment they stepped through the door it was like walking into the woods themselves. None of the dainty flowers and sunshine softness from the outside made its way in. The room they stood in was cool, faintly smokey and full of milling shadows. Despite the windows they had seen on the exterior, no natural light filtered into the room.

There were pots everywhere, most of them full, a fire struggling to burn in the corner and a broom - not the first Hara had seen but certainly the nicest, shining blue-gold and covered in innumerable etchings. Plim took all this in her stride, investigating each corner with interest and, when she found an empty cage, delight, but Hara imagined the witch would frown on her joining in the exploration (however much she wanted to) so she stood still and asked about the troll.

'But no,' the witch said when her guests made no response, sipping a cup of putrid smelling tea and watching Hara untangle Plim from a teapot she had hopped into. 'It's not exactly that I want you to kill it.' She eyed the repentant Plim. 'More along the lines of... revenge.' She smiled. Her eyes caught the struggling firelight and sparked, revealing they were glinting purple grey hue. She stood straight yet relaxed, as if she was simultaneously at peace and ready to fight, while her clothes, all black as midnight whispers (a cloak atop a wide, flowy skirt and a collared shirt with glimmering shell-like buttons), were full of movement as if they was constantly being rustled by a breeze, although the room was still. Her brown skin was peppered with freckles, each one seemingly placed with care. The witch put down her teacup to adjust her cloak and Hara saw her left arm ended just below the shoulder.

'The messenger didn't mention that,' Hara said. There was something about the witch's smile that unsettled her. It was so very serene, and yet surely revenge wasn't something to be serene about?

Hara had been working as a paid quester for just over three years. There had been plenty of jobs she now regretted taking, just as many she wished she had taken a chance on. She had spoken to plenty of disgruntled and equally distasteful prospective employees, innkeepers who would have her track down everyone who hadn't paid their tabs, merfolk who bade her bring them all those who fished in that particular town so they could... dispose of them. There was even a florist who dearly begged her to fly off and fight the sun, as she blamed it for a recent hot spell that had scorched all her dahlias and set her sunflowers into early (and apparently unacceptable) bloom.

Over time Hara had become more pensive about the jobs they accepted. She didn't judge... much (Plim was a different matter; she judged everyone, even those whose work they accepted), but she was discerning. As a rule, however, she didn't go in for revenge. It was such a difficult matter and rather too personal for her liking.