The Strangest Curse

A TF story where a wizard has her head turn into a nose. Yes, I know of Son of the Mask.

“The Strangest Curse”

         A flickering beacon shines through the woods, and illuminates the site where a skirmish came to an end. It belongs to a lantern that’s held by a shaky hand. To anyone they’d see that the person is a formal wizard, from a college far away. Right before her is a prone figure that is splattered with the mud from a hard fall. The figure that holds it is adorned in brown robes, with lighter accents. A blue cloak drapes across the lantern hand’s shoulder, and flows down her back. An angered face with freckled, pale skin stares from under the cover that a pointed hat with a wide brim covers.

“You’ve...you’ve been had! I’ll see to your wounds, and offer a potion, but I need to know why you decided to accost me!” Ludmilla shouts.

         The man that she had nearly struck down with a burst of magic. A missile made up from fiery, blue mana which had collided with him to a great effect. It knocked the wind from him, and from his perspective must’ve shattered his ribs. His unnatural features are on display, now that the lantern shines down onto him. He’s a humanoid, timber wolf with grey fur. He’s dressed in a linen tunic, tan trousers, and boots. Both his outfit, and his features were concealed under a black cloak that lies scattered off to his side.

         His eyes glance over to the spots where the woodland path is completely waterlogged. The lupine man made sure to outnumber the wizard, and with elementals made from water provided to him by a dear friend. Ludmilla destroyed them with ease, with a spell not unlike the one that she struck her opponent with. Only the one that she conjured forth was a projectile shower, rather than a single bolt. She’s as green as adventurers come, but her staff, hat, and clothing denote that she comes from a magical academy. The fruits of her study are what led to him dying in a ditch off in the aptly named Swamp of Grief.

         It’s not like that the brigand in a position to negotiate. Every breath is harder to gain after the last one, and the pain is immense. He puts his faith into the person who provided the elementals. He surmises that Ludmilla stands no chance against such a foe. His friend wouldn’t want his death, not just for the companionship, but also that he serves as her forester. “Simple enough. You’re interfering with my good friend’s work. I don’t think you’ll be able to challenge them, much less defeat them...eh, That won’t stop you, and I’d rather not die…

         “You’re on the right path, which is why I attacked you with those water spirits. As long as you follow the trail you’ll arrive at our home, and she’s waiting for me to return. The one who has let those magical flowers proliferate throughout the valley is who she is. Now, can you hand me that potion? I truly don’t know anything else, and, well, you’re a woman of your word, yes? Head up the path, then see that my word is just as true. I ain’t got cannon fodder to throw at you anymore, so we’ll just wind up like this again if I try anything...”

         Those amber, lupine eyes the man has wince when the lantern hovers closer to him. Ludmilla tries her best to study the man’s expression, and weigh if he’s telling the truth. The brigand might as well be staring into the sun with how long it took him to lure her to the elementals, and how dark it is. The wizard examines him with those emeralds that lie behind her glasses. Fear pulses through him as he wonders if she’s going to just finish him off where he lies. There’s a pang of relief when he sees her hand subconsciously linger near her satchel. He locks eyes with Ludmilla, and coughs for added effect.

“I’m just going to say that if the fight turned out in my favor; you’d be dead. Like I said, I’m honest…! I wouldn’t leave you on the ground with a bashed in chest.” The wolf man chuckles.

“That’s fair…” Ludmilla gulps.

         It takes a her a moment to search through the satchel that rests on her hip. He doesn’t mean to do it, as any will to further manipulate the wizard struggles to rise above the agony he’s in. There is relief that she seems to search faster after he lets his head fall to the side, then he groans. The man’s tail musters up a tired wag when his eyes land on what the wizard procures from her bag. A small, glass phial that contains a red fluid soon comes to her fingers. Anyone aside from the most destitute would identify it as a healing potion. Ludmilla bends down, and hands it off to the man.

         Ludmilla walks backwards down the path as he goes to uncork the tincture, and he downs it. Healing potions tend to have fruits, and vegetables brewed into them. It tastes sweeter than any ale he has had, further improved as the pain fades away in a moment. The wolf man shakily gets to his feet, but jumps back when his eyes land on Ludmilla. The wizard makes sure to point her staff in his direction, and she shakes her head. The wolf man backs away, and keeps his eyes trained onto the staff.

“Now, clear off!” Ludmilla shouts.

         Ludmilla watches him sprint off into the darkness without any objection. The relief from surviving an ambush, and an evasion at finally taking a life drags her vigilance off. The wizard turns around, adjusts her hat, then continues down the loosely trodden trail. Her staff remains in her hands, and she scans the nearby foliage, thicket, and brush for any threats. In woods as cursed as the Swamp of Grief, anything could be hostile, or puppeted by some unseen force. It’s not just the witch who could be the macabre marionette. Evil magics can animate the dead, or warp animals.

         An hour almost passes by Ludmilla. The path is cuts through the looming, spindly branches, and the thorny thicket all around. The forest parts way into a clearing where someone has made a humble home for themselves. A simple, one story cottage made up of white, daubed walls that have a timber frame to reinforce the structure. It has windows, a rugged wooden door, and a roof made from brown shingles. Ludmilla’s eyes furrow, as she mulls over what her approach should be.

“I shouldn’t underestimate a hedge witch. Still, she can’t be too skilled if she isn’t even versed in botanical magic.” Ludmilla thinks.

         There’s an electric pulse that permeates the clearing. The kind that anyone attuned to magic would be able to sense. Ludmilla’s eyes widen with its presence, before the cause begins to manifest. Golden light begins to form a circle in the clearing that lies ahead. She takes a step back, glances over her shoulder, and clutches onto her staff. The opportune moment to counter the spell had passed her by in that moment of hesitation that looms over every novice. It fills itself in, and the mage realizes just what it is: a Dimension Door. She prepares an attack as she witnesses someone step through.

         It can’t be anyone but “Gisèle,” or who the contract pointed out as the culprit. A witch that lived somewhere in the swampland out in the west. The wand she carries looks to be made up from several, blackened sticks from the surrounding trees. All of them wrapped around eachother to form a single, spiral horn. Her robes are rough, cotton cloth that are patched, then frayed at the edges. In the moonlight Ludmilla can make out blonde curls that pour out from the hood she dons.

“I’m surprised that showing up uninvited, and at night is the least disrespectful thing you’ve done.” Gisèle says.

         An interstice where every moment counts, but Ludmilla is the one not as versed in short, quick conflict. Her eyes widen when Gisèle flourishes her wand to the side with a swing of the arm. Ludmilla sees a purple glow begin to spark up from the gnarled branch of a wand that Gisèle wields. Her eyes completely widen, for another crucial moment slips past her. Now the window for a counterspell has closed, so Ludmilla commits to her attack.

Ludmilla’s mind races. “I didn’t expect...not even some of my instructors were as quick to cast!”

         Ludmilla conjures forth the mana bolt that she had prepared. A brilliant, fiery ball that’s sure to repeat what it had done to the transformed brigand from earlier. Crystalline, blue energy crackles within the azure gem that is atop the wizard’s staff. Her mana isn’t impeded, but Ludmilla finds that she isn’t able to follow through with the casting motion.

         It would seem that Ludmilla’s entire body doesn’t respond to any attempts to move. Her arm isn’t able to maneuver the staff to lob the projectile, and she can’t even look down to assess what happened. She worries that perhaps she had been struck, and it’s too quick for her body to even alert her with pain. It’s a split second sensation that the wizard had read about in recounts of battles, and duels. It’s only as she’s brought down to a kneel like a marionette that it dawns on her. She’s unharmed, but the situation she’s in is far more perilous than an injury.

“Hold person!?” Ludmilla’s eyes widen as she puts the pieces together.

         Ludmilla tries her best to try and free herself from the magical bindings put onto her. No way to cast spells, and not as skilled in trying to do any sort of purely mental, subtle casting. In her peripheral she notes that across her shoulders further down, it looks as if she’s had glowing, purple fishing line wrapped around her. Gisèle’s version of such a commonplace, yet powerful spell relies more upon direct restraint rather than a sigil that commands someone to stay still. There’s not even enough yield to try and worm her way out, or apply force in a direction break it through brute force.

         It’s only until they stop right before her, that Ludmilla realizes that Gisèle approaches her. Ludmilla stops her futile attempts right as the witch, Gisèle, finishes her stride to her. The woman dressed in rough robes made from treated cloth that now have a plethora of beads, shells, and other crude adornments. Ludmilla ceases her attempts to get away, and lets out a small peep as the witch levels the wand above her head. Those emerald eyes grow wide with fear, and she tries to flinch back as it erupts in that same, purple glow. Gisèle’s glow with an unnatural, lavender that matches her spellcasting.

“Just why are you here, wizard?” Gisèle says.

         There’s no point in trying to deny her true motives, and Ludmilla fears that in doing so, the witch would get it out of her in some way. Better not to be forced in such a manner. Ludmilla feels a hopeful spring in the sense that Gisèle hasn’t decided to just kill her. The wizard’s mind races back to the wolf man that she had spared earlier. It’d be like a fairy-tale, or an Aesop about the importance that mercy has in dealings with others. One favor that repays another, one that lets Ludmilla live another day.

“It was the posting in the village. About the flowers that have sprouted up around the-” Ludmilla is cut off.

Gisèle brushes it aside. “I’m incredibly sorry that my bonegrass specimens managed to invade the swamp, and the surrounding wilderness. It was an error, on my part solely.”

         Ludmilla blinks a few times. The candidness that Gisèle displays throws Ludmilla off guard. It was a sincere enough apology, but her surprise keeps her lips sealed. A frown passes over them however as Gisèle breaks the silence that falls across the glade. “There’s nothing to be done about it now, and I don’t have a great deal of gold lying around to pay fines. All my income comes from brewing up strength, healing, and sleep potions for the surrounding villages. It’s not like I’m making Elixirs of Agelessness for the nobility, and there’s no war around to send off medicinal product to.

“I’m afraid that you’ll have to tell the bailiff that you’ve changed your mind on the matter. That you’re a wizard, not some common constable.” Gisèle puts a hand to her chin.

“Gisèle! You know who else arrives to solve this problem if I don’t? The church! And sure, I’m a formal wizard, but I know how much of a pain in the arse they are! I had some friends in the Necromancy club for-” Ludmilla’s cut off.

“Fear not, I don’t intend to mortally wound, or harm you,” she says, “No, that’d disturb my work. In exchange for your life, why not help me build up the deterrence that I’ve slacked on?”

Ludmilla gulps, and looks up with widened eyes. The dread that her loss had planted into her has now spread throughout her entire body. Those chill inducing brambles snare her neck, and it’s a struggle to get any words out.

“Right…! I-I’ll tell everyone back in town that the magical flora is natural, a-and that it’s n-nothing to worry about!” Ludmilla whimpers.

“Of course, please do so.” Gisèle says.

         Those two, frightful emeralds land on the gnarled wand that hovers above her forehead. It’s an instant realization that her surrender hasn’t whisked away the looming sword that dangles overhead. A blade that winds around itself, and can do far more than just slash at her. Between the intensity in which the magic crackles over her, and her helplessness. Ludmilla feels that sword occasionally poke at her scalp. Not enough to draw blood, not yet, anyways.

“Unfortunately I’m not a skilled enough spellcaster to enforce a pact, or geas. What I do possess is a talent at reading, and understanding others.” Gisèle chuckles to herself.

         Ludmilla tries to shrink away, even if the Hold spell constrains the slightest movement. Her green eyes begin to twitch as she follows the wand as Gisèle circles the wand up above. The witch glares down at the restrained mage as she speaks. “I do want to tell you something to get you through the trials ahead. You’re a sheepish, scared thing that has a sort of inner strength to them. No matter how badly you tremble, fret, or panic; you’ll fight through it. The burden of duty assists that drive, but I think you just want to do right by yourself. It’d explain how you fought off Thibault, and the water elementals I gave him.

         “I swear however, there’s three horrific traits that every single, trained wizard has without fail. An academy wizard can have all three, but your lot always has at least one. If it’s not a lust for power, it’s incorrigible arrogance, or in your case; prying curiosity. The kind that stories talk about. A complete disregard for privacy. You’re...nosy.”

         The two women stare at one another, and there’s an impassable chasm between the two. Not just the power imbalance, but that was the largest one. The entire affair to Ludmilla was a job, but clearly there was a vindication to be had for Gisèle. There are so many reasons as to why someone so powerful would be an unlicensed, hedge witch living in somewhere so perilous. Ludmilla tries to sort through the potential reasons, until Gisèle speaks again.

“For attacking my friend, and trespassing...I think a good, old-fashioned witch’s curse is warranted. I think I have time to apply it as a fleshwarp.” Gisèle says.

         Curse. The general catch-all term for a long-term, or permanent magical effect. It could be one an object, place, or a person in this case. It’d be embarrassing, but Ludmilla would manage...until Gisèle called it a fleshwarp. Now that requires preparation, skill, but most importantly; it’s permanent. Immutable as it isn’t like it’s a transient force that can be dispelled. No, it’s outright morphing, and altering the biological body. The preparation part is covered with Ludmilla being helpless due to the Hold spell. Ludmilla doesn’t get a chance to plead right as she feels the wand tap against her forehead.

         A crackling, ebon energy travels along the length of the wand. Ludmilla’s eyes widen, and she shuts them tight right as the tip begins to barrel down onto her. It’s a subtle touch that doesn’t announce itself with a great sundering, or an overwhelming pain. Some seconds pass, while Ludmilla awaits for some kind of life-ending flourish. It’s as Ludmilla goes to open her eyes to inspect what happened that an alarm resounds like a clarion clangs in her head. Her eyelids refuse to follow the simple impulse, and she lets out a mortified cry.

         Gisèle brings a hand to her chin, and looks on at her work that is well underway before her. The definition that Ludmilla’s head has that denotes her visage is rapidly being taken away by the curse the witch laid onto her, or rather; Gisèle is letting Ludmilla’s own nose do it for her. The wizard’s nose grows without any sign of stopping. At a rate where it might as well engulf the woman’s head in mere minutes, and that’s the goal.

         Ludmilla continues to try to open her eyes. Unfortunately they’ve been sealed over with the same, sebaceous tissue that covers her nose. As her nose inches to her upper lip, and begins to encroach on her eye sockets that the ocular orbs meld into the olfactory organ that her skull is being reconfigured into. All the while her freckled skin transmutes into cartilage. It crawls across her cheeks, and brow like fluid that stains cloth. The small blemishes melt away into a pale, waxiness that soon develops pores which speckle the entire surface.

         The wizard’s confused screeches come to an abrupt end right as her lips fuse together, and disappear into the smooth flesh. Her cries are muffled by the cartilage that seals her mouth over, but her voice fades away. Ludmilla’s airway reconstructs, and her vocal cords aren’t needed anymore. Her cheeks begin to burgeon out, and open up into fledgling nostrils. Her chin extends as to be the divider line between the nares. One by one her features fade away into the sebaceous, smooth surface, but one remains: her nose. In fact it begins to grow, and mold Ludmilla’s head around it.

         The conversion of her skin to a thicker, more fatty state finally completely covers her head. Every inch that it takes over on her scalps replaces hair follicles, until her all of her hair falls in a wreath around her kneeled form. Gisèle remembers the last time she cast this immutable curse. Ludmilla’s nosehead looks complete on the lower parts, only the top still looks like a human skull. More importantly are the ears which remain present on the sides. This isn’t going to be the case for long, especially as the ears begin to quiver, and sink into the fatty tissue.

“I must say that this new looks suits you perfectly. Just remember that Remove Curse doesn’t apply to-” Gisèle stops herself, for Ludmilla’s ears finish their descent.

         Ludmilla’s now deaf as the dorsum completely engulfs her ears. Her cheekbones disappear into the broad surface. In a steady growth there’s protrusion that elongates the top of Ludmilla’s skull. Panicked breaths roll out from nostrils that begin to extend out from what used to be her cheeks. Where a human face once was is now a pore-laden, smooth surface that reflects the fireplace light in its reflective gloss. Nothing unique remains on Ludmilla’s nasal tip.

         What were once cheeks have swelled into open nares. It’s as the curse settles that Ludmilla’s ala twitches for a breath. Her fully-developed nostrils are large enough to put her fists into, and have some breathing space. Ludmilla’s now sports an oversized, olfactory organ for her head. It’s not too much larger than how it was before the curse. Her dorsum, it’s tip give her a few more inches in height, and the nostrils give her “face” some bulk.

Gisèle laughs as the curse finally begins to take its intended shape. “Ahahaha! I can’t, you look so ridiculous! Well, it’s not like you can even hear me.”

         The noseheaded wizard doesn’t pose a threat to Gisèle anymore, so she lets the Hold fizzle away. The glowing wire disappears in a shower made up of sparkles. Ludmilla’s hands immediately shot to her head, and she lets her hands roam about the porous surface. The wizard pieces her condition together through one of the few senses she has left: touch. Gisèle watches the realization click right as Ludmilla’s hands cling to her nostrils.

*******

         In that moment where her eyes, and ears sunk into the waxen skin that her skull was covered over with; she wondered if she died. That Gisèle killed her in such a way that it only brought forth discomfort. It wouldn’t be entirely improbable. A pure fleshwarp’s “downside” was that there were still biological laws to follow. A true Curse was just a magical effect laid onto, and bound onto someone. Unable to even move, and far too flustered to notice that the scents around her hadn’t left her perception. Ludmilla was completely stunned in that moment, unable to comprehend that her life had fled past her without much fanfare.

         Thankfully that illusion broke the moment that her restraints were lifted, and she became aware that she still had a physical body. What Ludmilla had done to her was truly immutable. It wasn’t like a biological transformation left a pattern to go about reversing it. Or that a simple wave of a wand, some usage of pure mana, and the dislodging of a curse would fix her. Maybe someone could try to mimic her previous visage, or even species. The thought ebbs away enough of Ludmilla’s terror to allow her to inspect the damage.

         Lost in a void that oppresses her far more than any tyrant, witch, or other force could hope to do so. It was fear that lead her to freeze up regardless. The last thing she heard was Gisèle complimenting herself on the “karmic” nature of what her new look is. She reaches for the last point that her mind can muster.

“My eyes, what happened to my eyes…!” Ludmilla’s hands shoot up to her face.

         Her heart pounds in her ears when she does so. Ludmilla’s hands land on something warm, and rather soft. It’s pliant in its entirety. Her digits conform to a curve, and the surface shifts a bit under her palms. She also notes that there are delicate craters, or small indents that she brushes over. A featureless curve that perplexes the deafblind woman. It’s clear that whatever she is now; she doesn’t have eyes anymore. The shock that she’s been blinded overwhelms any attempt to try and identify herself, for the time being at least.

“No, no, no!” Ludmilla’s thinks to herself in her fitful examination face.

         It’s not that she doesn’t recognize the condition that her head is in, but it’s the absences that induce such visceral fear. When she puts her hands to where her ears should be, all that remains is smooth flesh, and a firmness underneath that feels like hard bone. There isn’t a hint that she ever had ears on that flat surface that the narrow structure is covered with. Ludmilla notes that she hasn’t felt a single strand of hair grace her hands either. When she tries to reach for her scalp, her hands continue to flow across that same osseous surface. Her arms nearly have to completely extend to where the top of her head ends. It’s a hard, tapered tip that’s completely bald.

         For a moment there’s a fluttering sensation of her mouth trying to form the babble that her mind cries out. It brings her hands to where she remembers her proper face to be. That phantom sensation goes out like a candlelight that’s been put out with a bucket. It’s underneath that sloped cushion where her eyes, and nose are supposed to be. Her hands trace a narrow, hard bridge that connects to her neck.

“My face is all smooth, and my head’s triangular. No...it can’t be, if it is…” Ludmilla decides to test her theory.

It’s as Ludmilla grasps at her head in a dual, lateral motion that she finds her nostrils.

Ludmilla screams.

*******

         Gisèle glances around the front yard where their duel had been held, as Ludmilla tries to pull at her head. Forever barred from verbal components, for words are something that nostrils can’t make. Ludmilla tries to yank her head off in a frenzied fit. As if her newly sculpted head is a mere mask that can just be cast aside. Gisèle glances over as the noseheaded woman lets out a loud, sharp exhale. It trails off for a few long seconds, then tapers off.

         All around the cottage are the sounds of the lively swamp all around, and loud breaths that Ludmilla audibly sucks in. The noise matches quiet conversation in volume, and follows a rhythm of a heady inhale, then an exhale that comes out in a gust. Gisèle remembers the amber eyes she saw in the brush line, she looks over her shoulder to her cottage. Her eyes land on the figure that stands, watching, and waiting in the front window. Gisèle studies the embittered canine that looks to Ludmilla from her home’s window. She beckons for the man to come to her.

         The door swings open, and Thibault limps over to his master. He chuckles to himself when he sees that intimidating wizard reduced to a living punchline. Now she’d have to stick her nose in every single interaction. Whether she wants to, or not. “If you would be so kind, Thibault, might you lead her back to town? I doubt she’ll find her way through the wood in her current state.” Gisèle says.

Thibault only chuckles, and points to his snout. “I’m so terribly wounded, and besides! I think she should be able to follow her scent trail back, no?”

         Gisèle chuckles to herself, adjusts her wide-brimmed hat, and looks down to Ludmilla. The initial shock, and lamentation it seems have given way to practical reality. She obviously doesn’t have the confidence to stand, but she feels about the grass in her blinded state. “Unfortunately, even if the size greatly eclipses yours. Her nose is still a human one, and it’s not like she has any sort of magical enhancement.

“I should say, beneficial magical enhancement. Her sense of smell must be leagues stronger than she ever thought possible, but it’s in no way as useful as yours. Not that I think it would matter much to the mage. You think a trained, studious wizard would retire, and go into the truffle hunting business?” says Gisèle.

*******

“Is this what she meant by nosy!? Hey, if you can hear me…! I learned my lesson! Don’t leave me like this!” Ludmilla screams out into the void.

Ludmilla picks herself off the ground to a kneeling posture once more. “You heard me! I’ll tell the village there’s nothing to worry about…”

         Herbal spice from the witch’s alchemy garden hang in the air ahead of where she is. All around the fragrance that comes from blooming trees, and the sickly sweet scent the swamp carries lingers all around. To her side is someone who carries the scent of smoke, and charcoal. Gisèle lies ahead, and she’s sure of that. It’s like there’s a potent pocket of the garden directly ahead. Of course she’d use those abundant flowers, and herbs in her more, mundane products.

         There’s not much else she has left other than her downright dizzying sense of smell, and touch. Some of the blind wizards back at the college at least could see color, or just the presence of light. It’s the same with the absolute silence that envelops her. It’s not like her inner ear is merely buried away under cartilage, nestled somewhere in her massive nose. No, everything must’ve been transfigured, and distributed to allow the olfactory organ to subsume her entire head. Ludmilla isn’t even sure if she’s properly looking towards the floral scent that lingers in the air where Gisèle must still be at.

         Every spellcaster has a sort of sixth sense that develops as their ability does. It’s the only certainty that Ludmilla has in her current state. Nowhere near close to be able to help guide Ludmilla out from the Swamp of Grief. The exception being if someone were to lay a trail of spells, magic items, or magical flora for her to follow. That kind of luck clearly isn’t going to grace Ludmilla given her current predicament.

*******

         It’s a cold, calculated sort of satisfaction that can only be cultivated through persecution, and personal ire. Gisèle, as a hedge witch was familiar with, and drew from as a source of motivation. It also serves as a way to indulge her vengeful side. The same kind of indulgence that Thibault was the source of so many years ago. Thibault buries away the resentment that his previous encounter with Ludmilla fanned within him. Gisèle could be petty, but irredeemably cruel wasn’t her. There’s a good chance that at some point, Gisèle have a loyal assistant to help brew potions, or to gather truffles. A Potion of Keen Scent would let Ludmilla do exactly that.

“Heh, I think you’re right. I can’t say I’d blame the girl though. I’d be a bit more pissed if you took my arms, or legs when you cursed me.” Thibault chuckles.

Gisèle only laughs to his remark, and holsters her wand. “I’d be so much colder, and tired if I did such a thing.”

“And here I thought you were doing as a good witch should for once. This seems more adjacent to turning people into newts, and frogs, and whatever else...” Thibault rolls his eyes. “I’d be exactly as you put it without my own. I fail to see the benefit to turning her head into a big ol’ schnoz, but-”

         Thibault’s hand traces to the massive bruise that hides under his tunic, then the fur under it. It’s still painfully tender, with a reminder anytime he takes a breath. It’s with the same hand that reaches for Ludmilla, and he remains crouched as the cursed mage gains her balance. His expression softens a bit with just how hurried Ludmilla clings to him.

“Can’t say that I’m entirely sympathetic though. I’ll bring her over to Ox Village, and let people that are fuss over her.” Thibault chuckles.
Gisèle nods. “Very well, and you have the Dimension Door in case anyone tries to shoot the messenger.”

“May you be unharmed, Thibault.” Gisèle says.

         The witch turns back to her cottage, and closes the door that her faithful servant had left open. Thibault, the errand boy for the hedge witch continues to press on. It was mere hours ago that the wizard he’s guiding to the village had struck him with lethal intent. Now she clings to her arms, as an unknown savior that leads her through the unfathomable darkness that her senses left in their wake. He wonders how Ludmilla might survive her transformation, until Thibault remembers. This isn’t the first time Gisèle made someone embody their nosy nature.

         There had to be someway for someone to imbibe drink, and eat food in such a state. Whenever he had to go into Ox Village for an errand he remembers the rumor about some poacher that stumbled into town. Said poacher couldn’t be sent away to some distant priory to be treated, if he died of starvation, or dehydration. Thibault shudders as his mind tries to piece together how someone make do without a mouth, and buries the thought.

*******

         Right as Ludmilla tries to prop herself up, and try to get to a stand; someone helps her up. Someone who carries a scent of chopped wood, smoke, and charcoal on them. Could it be that one of the charcoal burners found her? Why would he be so close to the cottage where that heartless witch lives? Or is it the wolf that she fought? It’s all so overwhelming to even think about with her transformation only mere minutes ago.

         Ludmilla buries away her thoughts to focus on the monumental task that is taking a walk. Her spatial awareness non-existent, and her nose weighs heavily on her neck. At some point in the blind march; her benefactor puts her cloak over her head. It hangs off the dorsal tip in a wide hang that Ludmilla imagines like stage curtains pulled back.

“How long am I going to be able to see stuff like that in my head?” Ludmilla frets.

Wherever they were heading, it’d be better than where she was, and that was enough to quell her concerns, for now.

*******