The Bewitching Hour

✧ chapter eleven: givers of gifts

Lance's entire life changed that night in the Feldakor woods.

He's always been a curious sort, eager to see whatever he can see, but interacting with Yorak face-to-face and one-on-one has multiplied that natural inclination tenfold. It has verified every sneaking suspicion he's had since childhood that the village's war on that hilltop is not what it seems. It has confirmed that Yorak the Great and Terrible is perhaps not so terrible, if a little cranky and antisocial. 

Now that he has a taste of that forbidden truth, he craves more, and he will stop at nothing to get the answers he so desperately wants.

The village of Plaht won't make this an easy task, of course. Knowledge of magick in any form is heavily frowned upon and he has gotten in trouble with the council enough times that he wouldn't get a slap on the wrist if the elders knew. But there's nothing wrong with reading up on what's publicly available in the library, is there? And with Ina's help he has at least some semblance of cover.

Ina brings him a large stack of daunting tomes and Lance winces at the sight of it. She gives him an unimpressed stare.

"You wanted to know so badly," she reminds him. "You'll have to start somewhere. The elders wouldn't just write everything down in one easy-to-access place."

"I guess not," Lance groans. It's going to be a chore to glean anything at all from what little he is allowed to access.

Plaht's public historical records are extremely vague whenever they do make note of the local warlocks, and most of the recorded events seem to cover small disputes. Every time a sheep mysteriously drops dead or an especially strong thunderstorm burns down a woodshed, the misfortune is blamed on Yorak, or on different warlock called "Krolia". With or without evidence. It's more of the same absurdity and Lance feels silly for having wasted three days' worth of his spare time poring over everything he could find in those dusty books.

It's onto the mythological texts, then— Ina, admittedly, has to help him decipher those. They're written in the heavy esoteric prose of eras long past, often by hand in fanciful fonts that Lance cannot seem to read. Once interpreted, these texts are both more entertaining and more informative. Every little thing he learns about Yorak's people is somehow fascinating despite (perhaps because of) the shroud of uncertainty.

What the people of the nation of Aurita know as witches and warlocks are the descendants of a magickal race from the mountains of the distant northeastern nation of Daibazaal, once called the Galra. They were said to be enormous compared to mortal men, with animalistic features and glowing eyes and purple skin. Those features faded over time as the bloodline of the original species was thinned. Daibazaal was a warring nation of many races in those days, and the Galra eventually chose to scatter about the world due to increasing hostility towards them in what was once their home. They are, in the modern era, bound together not by location or community, but by occasional meetings in secret places and traditional rituals. They are a secretive people by necessity. They are secretive because of pride. Both of these things are true.

It is strange, for sure, to live in such a nomadic and independent way. But Lance doesn't know the pain of being cast away from his home, and he cannot imagine it. He wonders if those old scars can linger in the genes, like a grudge attached to one's blood, or if Yorak's distrustfulness is all his own.

"Where are these so-called secret meeting places? And how often do they meet?" Lance asks. Ina, pretending that she is not equally curious, stares out a window and shrugs.

"If that was known it wouldn't be a secret, would it?"

"Do you think certain people go to those meetings?"