The Vampire & Her Witch

The cold air outside Baron Loghlan’s tent bit at Ollie’s exposed skin with sharp teeth, cold enough that each time he exhaled, it created small clouds of mist that hung in the air before dissipating into the darkness. The fires scattered throughout the camp provided just enough light to see by, their flickering flames casting dancing shadows across the trampled grass and muddy ground.

After the unnatural quiet of the tent, cut off from the sounds outside, the camp felt unreasonably loud. Men called to each other as they went about the chores of the evening, horses standing in neat rows whinnied under the gentle touch of their handlers, fires crackled and popped, filling the air with woodsmoke and other, more tantalizing aromas.

The night was alive, and it was only after enduring the intense conversation, sealed away in the large tent that blocked off all sounds, that Gavin and Isolde realized how impressive Sir Ollie’s simple demonstration of witchcraft at the start of the conversation had been.

”Give me a moment, and I can fetch our cloaks,” Lady Isolde said before she disappeared into an adjacent tent where people attending dinner with the baron had left their things. She returned moments later with an armful of thick fur cloaks, along with her husband’s swordbelt and sword.

She draped one cloak around Ollie’s shoulders with practiced efficiency, her movements quick and purposeful as she secured the clasp at his throat the same way she would have for her children before wrapping herself in another. The fur was warm and heavy, smelling faintly of the oil that had been used to keep it supple, and Ollie found himself grateful for the added warmth as the chill of the night settled over them, even if he was a little bemused by Lady Isolde’s sudden transformation into a mother hen around him.

Sir Gavin remained at Ollie’s side, his strong arm still supporting the young witch’s weight while his free hand reached out to pluck a torch from the iron sconce mounted outside the tent. The flame sputtered briefly in the cold wind before steadying, casting a warm orange glow across their immediate surroundings. Lady Isolde collected a second torch for herself once she’d settled Gavin’s sword on his hip, and together, the three of them began to make their way through the camp at a slow, measured pace that accommodated Ollie’s unsteady gait.

”Where are we headed, Sir Ollie?” Gavin asked quietly as they passed between rows of smaller tents where the baron’s soldiers were settling in for the night.

”There’s a small stream just a bit upriver from here,” Ollie said, his voice still carrying the weight of exhaustion even as he tried to keep his tone conversational. ”There’s a copse of trees there,” he said before his voice trailed off as he debated about whether or not he should say more about why he needed to visit the trees while they were still in the camp and could be overheard.

”It would help if I could spend a few minutes among the trees,” he said simply, hoping that they would understand without him having to spell things out for them.

They walked in silence for a few moments, the only sounds the crunch of their footsteps on the frost-touched grass and the distant murmur of voices from the camp behind them. Lady Isolde kept pace on Ollie’s other side, her torch held high to illuminate the path ahead, and after a while, she cleared her throat delicately.

”Sir Ollie,” she said, her voice warm with genuine curiosity. ”I hope you don’t mind my asking, but could you tell us a little bit about what it’s truly like to live in the Vale of Mists? Among the, er, the Eldritch, I mean. Not about the grand things,” she clarified. ”Just, everyday life. How people live, and what it’s really like there. If you don’t mind,” she repeated.

”I don’t mind at all, Lady Isolde,” Ollie said politely, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite his fatigue. ”But it probably isn’t that different from life in your village,” he added. ”Even though the Eldritch look different, once you get to know them, they’re just people.”

”Even the small things interest me,” Isolde pressed gently, hoping to better understand the man who had upended her understanding of the world so much and transformed her husband’s life for the better. ”What’s it like, day to day?”

”Well,” Ollie said, considering the question as they continued their slow progress toward the stream. ”I suppose my village in the Vale is a little different from the rest. It can feel a little, um, chaotic, sometimes because we have people from so many different clans and traditions in our village, and everything had to be built very quickly since, well, since things started the way they did,” he said awkwardly.

”But now, it’s become something more than that,” he said, pausing while memories flickered behind his eyes like the flames of their torches. ”When it started, I used to lead most of the cooking. I never knew what I’d have to work with until the hunters came back with whatever game they caught, or we’d get a cartload of vegetables from one of the other villages,” he explained.

”I made giant pots of eternal soup out of a lot of it,” he said with a nostalgic smile on his lips. ”Just like the pot we used to keep simmering in the back of Master Baden’s kitchen. But it’s important to keep people’s spirits up with different things, so they feel like there’s a treat or something to look forward to. I made cabbage rolls one night, or berry scones for breakfast if I had butter and fruit to work with.”

”Now, it turned into a sort of tradition in the village,” Ollie continued as he started walking again. ”Things are still a little lean, but people were at least able to plant cottage gardens before the rainy season started, so we don’t need as much help from other villages.”

”Now, once a month,” he said. ”I make a giant pot of soup or stew for the village, and everyone brings a dish of their own to add to the feast. We fill the village square with long tables and hang lanterns, people sing and dance, and if you don’t watch your step, the children will knock you over, chasing each other and playing games. It’s lively... and it’s starting to feel like home.”

”That sounds lovely,” Isolde said, mentally comparing it to her own village. ”We only have celebrations like that for special days, like the Holy Festival of Lights or the Harvest Festival. Even then, Gavin and I can only attend half of them.”

”More now that I’ve stopped going to tournaments in the spring,” Gavin said, flexing his arm, still in a bit of disbelief that there was no pain when he moved. ”But we still try to attend at least one festival in Dunn, and one in Lothian City every year, so we can’t see all of the festivities in the village. Do the, er, do the Eldritch have holy days? Festivals?”

”After a fashion,” Ollie said, stepping carefully as the ground began to slope downward as they drew closer to the copse of trees. ”Lady Ashlynn and Lady Nyrielle’s betrothal banquet had an all day festival before the feast in the evening. Even people who weren’t invited to the feast came to the festival to play games, trade at the market or to eat... There was so much food from all over the Eldritch nations across the mountains that we nearly stuffed ourselves sick,” he said with a light laugh.

For a time, as they walked, the trio shared stories about festival games, whether they were games they’d all played in Lothian City during the Holy Festival of Light or games played by the Eldritch that Ollie was just beginning to learn. The barriers between them lowered a bit as they found they had more in common than Sir Gavin and Lady Isolde thought they would ever have in common with a witch.

That ended, however, when they reached the swiftly flowing stream, winding its way between the towering trunks of hearty oaks and gently swaying elm trees. Leaves on the ground crunched lightly underfoot as Ollie sought out the oldest of the trees in the copse, an oak that had been there since long before any of them had been born.

”This will do,” Ollie said, letting go of Sir Gavin to take a seat at the base of the oak tree among its exposed, gnarled roots. ”Stand back a little bit. This isn’t dangerous to you, and you’re welcome to watch, but you don’t want to get in the way of what I’m about to do...”