A Tyrant, Sort Of

The city of Skatikk was, reasonably, not the only settlement in Bonecracker territory. While Skatikk was by far the largest—with the tallest walls and highest population—there were walled villages scattering the landscape, dirt roads branching here and there, headed for others. The Wither Witch was located an hour’s walk away from one such smaller settlement, or, in flight terms, barely a trip worth talking about.

Sable had found that, with high consistency, sapient populations in this world lived densely, and always enclosed by a wall. With monsters roaming the landscape, passive defenses were a necessity. Especially up north, in the Red Plains, where the monsters—of which Sable had seen a few—were bigger, stronger, and blatantly more bloodthirsty.

Why these people were the ones prospering, rather than Aylin’s clans in the gentler forests to the south, had perplexed Sable, initially. And honestly, it still did, though she’d theorized, and learned, a few reasons why it might be so.

The biggest reason was that more dangerous zones led organically to a higher percent of classed individuals—even those that didn’t ‘deserve one’, so to say, compared to those chosen in lower level zones. Not just blades forged stronger by heat, it seemed to be more extrinsic: simply existing in high-danger areas granted higher access to those strange sets of powers. And they progressed faster, too.

Put in terms Sable understood: living in dangerous areas came with passive XP boosts.

So while Aylin’s people had lush landscapes and less monsters, the Red Plains had classed farmers, smiths, tailors, soldiers, and every other profession necessary to thrive in their harsh environment. A suite of super-powered individuals to smooth out the woes of the arid, stretching, inhospitable place they called home.

Having only two data points—the Red Plains and the Rustling Woodlands—Sable couldn’t make concrete deductions. Maybe gentle environments did lead to higher rates and advancement of civilization on the global scale, as it would in Sable’s world, and the benefit of more classes only mildly offset the detriments for places like the Red Plains. But it seemed the opposite from what Aylin had said. She would need to explore more to find out.

And as it stood, she had more pressing matters. While fascinating, learning the intricacies of a new world came second place to staying alive in that world. The accrual of power—both literal, through levels and stats, and figurative, through practice and knowledge—was something Sable needed to focus on with razor intent. The next step to that was tutelage, learning to wield her talents with magic.

The Wither Witch lived in a wooden hut, secluded, not attached to any of the sparse, winding roads that snaked across the plains. Squat and round, large enough to move around but small enough to be cozy, Sable honestly got the impression of a relaxing cabin retreat. Though Sable expected no kind grandma living her twilight years in the retreat of the wilderness, down there. The Wither Witch had a reputation—she was a necromancer—and lived in the middle of a monster-infested landscape. She was a classed of some power, according to Skatikk.

Sable wasn’t entirely sure how to handle this. How would a normal person react to a dragon showing up on their doorstep and asking for magic lessons? What approach did she take? Demand and bully, like with the city of Skatikk? Or entice the mysterious goblin woman with promises of wealth—or whatever other compensation she’d prefer? Something else entirely?

If she refused, then what?

The problem was, she knew too little about the Wither Witch. An ill-tempered mysterious necromancer who had ventured to the Red Plains for some unknown reason. If she was mysterious to the locals, then obviously Sable hadn’t a clue what to expect from her. And because of that, not an idea what the best strategy would be when it came to extracting magic lessons.

The ‘ill-tempered’ part, especially, indicated it wouldn’t be the easiest task.

At a guess, Sable would once again be relying on her predecessor’s fearsome reputations. Ill-tempered or not, surely she wouldn’t refuse a dragon’s demands, right?

Sable set Aylin down a safe distance away from the hut. Before Sable revealed herself, Aylin would do some scouting. Feel the situation out. Taking back into the air, Sable watched from a safe distance as Aylin headed for the Wither Witch’s house.

The goblin girl glanced around, oddly more nervous for this encounter than she had been during the capture of Skatikk. Sable understood why. This discussion would be more intimate, being one-on-one, and less about bludgeoning her way forward. And mages, much less necromancers, had a reputation in this world.

Arriving at the door, Aylin knocked.

Though high in the air, Sable’s keen predator eyesight meant she could make out the details far below with ease. She watched, intrigued, as after several long moments, the door opened. The Wither Witch peeked out.

If stumbling mid-flight had been possible, Sable might have done so.

She was human.

Not just that, a young woman. Early twenties, if Sable had to guess, around her own age—or, her pre-death age. She had imagined a gnarled old goblin woman, hunched over and walking with the support of a staff. It had been a reasonable enough assumption, seeing how they were in goblin territory, but no. Human.

Sable had yet to run into any sapient creature other than a goblin, and she’d thought that would continue for the short term. Apparently not. How the leadership of Skatikk hadn’t mentioned the woman’s race baffled Sable, though she supposed she had rushed the conversation in an effort to hide her motivations.

She was heavily tattooed. The intricate designs snaking across her body stood out sharply against pale skin. She was dressed for the hot weather, arms and lower legs exposed, and the ink covered most of her body, even crawling past her collarbone, a few inches up her neck.

And, of course, the strangest part. Her left arm, which from the elbow down, was stripped to the bone, leaving only black skeleton behind. A dull charcoal color, the appendage moved as easily as if guided by ligament, cartilage, and muscles. The woman’s bone arm was functional, but impossibly scraped clean, revealing the unnerving scaffolding of the human body.

Finally, the fourth surprise. It was something Sable knew was really not important, but she couldn’t help but notice it: the woman was stunning. Maybe that impression came because Sable had been expecting a withered old goblin elder, but instead, what met her—or, she supposed, Aylin—was sharp, piercing cheekbones, elegant tattoos, and green eyes with a scathing intensity to them. And dangerous-looking. That added to the effect.

Coming out of left field, the Wither Witch’s appearance was even more disorienting. Sable appreciated, briefly, that Aylin was the one down there, confronting her. Sable might have been lost for words.

***

Huh, Aylin thought.

She took in the unexpected figure that had opened the door—the so-called ‘Wither Witch’ Mistress Sable intended to enlist as a tutor. Tall, pale, black-haired, and uncomfortably soft-looking, with tiny round ears and nose, almost no sharp features to be found besides her jawline, it took only a quick appraisal for Aylin to come to a decision.

Humans were even uglier than she’d expected. She’d never seen one, and had only heard stories, but really. Didn’t do it justice. Or maybe this one was particularly grotesque.

Not that the odd-looking lady’s appearance mattered, considering why Aylin was here. But it was hard not to notice.

The other features—bone hand, black tattoos—at least added to her image as a dangerous spellcaster. Aylin had never seen anything like the exposed skeleton arm. How had that happened? And how did she keep control over it? A clearly magical injury. An amusingly in-theme one for a necromancer, Aylin thought.

Cold green eyes surveyed Aylin, the woman making her own appraisals at the same Aylin did.

“What?” the human asked flatly, sounding none too pleased she had a visitor.

Even with a single harshly spoken word, Aylin detected an accent. She supposed a human knowing a goblin tongue in any capacity was impressive. Or maybe she was using some manner of translation spell, which didn’t always clean up accents. Aylin had no clue.

“I was pointed your way by the Chieftain of Skatikk,” Aylin said. “Can I come in?”

The Wither Witch’s expression soured further, and Aylin almost thought she’d slam the door shut. But, muttering, she turned and waved Aylin in. Seeing the casual gesture from a bone hand was disorienting, to say the least. Aylin trailed in after her.

If Aylin had to guess, the woman’s compliance had come because of Aylin’s name dropping of a powerful figure, Chieftain Kirak. While the Wither Witch was isolated, and a powerful classed, she was still reliant on supplies from neighboring villages. This tiny cabin didn’t sustain itself. She needed food, water, clothing, and so on. Despite not wanting to, she had to play nice with the locals. Disrespecting the leader of the Bonecracker Tribe would, obviously, run contrary to that goal.

The interior of the cabin was bizarre, like nothing Aylin had seen, which meant it didn’t surprise her, considering the equally strange woman she was meeting with. Papers, chalkboards, and unidentified trinkets littered every available space. A whirlwind had come through her living area, leaving it in disarray—though by the looks of it, chaos was the room’s natural, even intended, state.

Aylin tried to make out the sprawling arcane writing on the chalkboards, but, for obvious reasons, failed. It did reinforce the image from the descriptions she’d been given. A woman who waded neck-deep in the esoteric topics of the arcane. Exactly who Sable was looking for. Well, minus the necromancer part. Probably not the ideal woman for the job.

And speaking of Sable, her dragon mistress couldn’t see their interactions, now, with the ceiling of the cabin blocking them, but Aylin would feed the discussion back to her, as she had with the city of Skatikk. Doing so was becoming second nature.

The Wither Witch cleared a spot for her at the table, then gestured impatiently for her to sit. The visible irritation was, honestly, a bit amusing. Aylin supposed she should probably be scared of such a powerful figure—as with Chieftain Kirak, Aylin could feel the woman’s class radiating from her, decrying her strength—but with a dragon on stand-by, it was hard to be fully respectful of her circumstances.

Maybe the Wither Witch was a heavy hitter, a powerful mage with a class, but to a dragon? Not that strong, surely.

That said, she found herself less composed than during the confrontation at Skatikk. This was much more of a … free-form assignment. Aylin needed to get a feel for the Wither Witch, and what it might take to convince her to help Sable. Her mistress hadn’t wanted to go straight to threats, which was odd, but Sable in general was an odd dragon, so Aylin had taken the orders in stride.

Aylin sat, and the pale woman did so too. She marveled at how white her skin was. That wasn’t normal for humans, right? It was kind of unnerving.

“What do you want?” she asked sharply. The accent was even more apparent in a longer sentence. “Be quick. I’m busy.”

Taking a breath, Aylin got to it.