A Mark Given on Feathers

Ch.1 - "Never make an enemy out of a witch."

"My mother told me to never make an enemy out of a witch" - Daud

      The lessons his mother had taught him, many he had forgotten through the passage of time. Along her features and a few flavours, songs and colours his memories seemed to have been swallowed, her lessons, few he kept in his mind and heart, part of a far away story before he was a man; Before he had a voice, before he had hands. Before he was capable, before he wrote his fate, from a time he only suffered from the tides. Before he broke the waves, and weaved them at his will.

       This lesson however, remained, as he breathed in and out the same feeling she might have shared with patrons that ordered naught. Plead and order, different sides of the same act of requesting, itself a coin, a fee. Her clients had a fear he couldn't remember seeing, but her words seemed to deliver the awareness of its existence.

       Along this lesson, he could recall in his mind the proofs of such things. Whispers, mainly of witchcraft; at times, between foul stenches of rotten mouths that alcohol didn't preserve, gnawing of broken teeth or putrid smiles. Torn and fragile nails, blackened by smoke, mud, blood, witchcraft, broken by fear. Such nails, broken, ripped off, either the nails or the fingers, the precision of such old memories was far from the best, but the reason why they were harmed was clear on his mind even if he wasn't sure if he was told so or he noted it himself. Unwanted touches.

        It was maybe the only lesson he could remember from his mother, now on his most progressive age. And like an unspoken promise to himself, by all means he kept it in his mind, heeding to those words that he wasn't quite sure who muttered it first; People whom left her presence keeping their teeth or not, or perhaps his own eyes had crafted such motto like a child without fable books, where tales of childhood were replaced by the very true however unforgiving reports of people's misfortunes. A teaching from experience, from his mother. And if he didn't recall a few glimpses before his eyes and a few facts on the back of his mind, he might have believed the myths.

       Despite old, those memories hadn't yet faded from the hems like ruined papers would with age. His mother hadn't been a witch, even if she carried herself so. Later in his life, he might have come to realise she wore those same rumours to her favour; truth remained that she was no witch, merely well versed on Pandyssian herbs and concoctions elaborated from its inhabitants, one she could count herself as one.

       And yet, such an intelligent motto was broken like matchsticks, through the hurried mention of a single name. A name that put him in a witch hunt, fuelled by the ghosts of his past and his regrets, whom wore the dark vests and dark eyes of a frightened Empress, and her frightened daughter. Had been so easy for him to follow it, revolve and mow that name against his molars, chewing it with grief. With the same ease, he choose to believe rumours gathered by his men.

        Months after the Empress' death, he had thrown himself into sorrow, grief and a witch hunt. Delilah. Delilah whom rumours murmured about but no proof behind them. The only certainty seemed to be behind the words whom whispered behind them. From his line of work, he had learnt to heed to such street wisdom when it came to warn. Some verse of truth it had, wherein embellishments or fears that minds purposely or not weaved, to make such words heard - in times like those that followed, more and more difficult it became to be heard. But Daud heard, his men for a while watched, heard, and swords sharp rested within hilts for a moment; the dull ones, never stopped clashing at the training rooms. He didn't have to search afar for urchins, men and women needing a chance to work in whatever mean to earn their rations and the means to survive.

       So when research seemed to have failed him, and corpses seemed to flood the district, as well the sight of the ruin the knife caused, Daud once more choose to give heed to rumouring, passed through ale and whispers, blood and coins wherever he could hear. And predictably enough, it was through barkeepers and muffles of servants he heard... A servant that knew a servant, that knew a servant that knew a servant, came with the hushed words he had no choice but to follow, a lead he would have preferred to not follow at all if he had another choice besides standing still.