"HEAR YE, HEAR YE!"

Deep breaths, I remind myself, the ringing echo of my voice in the square not yet dying away before the first doors begin to swing open, peasantry of all flavors poking their sleepy heads outside. I say square, mind you, but it's really more of a grisly rectangle, the remnants of a bonfire accompanying the gibbet overhead with a certain macabre congruence. Still, the sight steels my nerves and sharpens my wit, and I grasp my sword a little firmer, scanning the assembling crowd.

"It has come," I intone sonorously, the silver inlay on my jet-black armor gathering stares and low, muttering rumors in the crowd alike. "To my attention, that this village harbors..."

I wait, drawing out the tension until I can see the wide-eyed stares peak in their anticipation. A werewolf, perhaps, they're wondering. A vile cluster of beasts haunting the forests, maybe a wight, even!

But no.

"A WITCH!"

Gasps of horror simmer through the crowd, a rippling groan of repugnance and horror issuing from a hundred throats.

"Yes."

Lowering my eyes gravely and nodding with the utmost of solemn resignation, I sweep my arms wide, taking in the clustered hamlet in the arc of a hand and the shine of a blade.

"A witch, an emissary from the dark powers of the Shades Beyond, pledging her soul and her foul arts to the service of beings who do not know the light of truth! Yea, a witch, cavorting in sin - I have it on the most good and godly authority that she is known to practice sodomy, welcoming men into the snug embrace of an entrance not meant for procreation!"

My glower is at a peak, now, and I can feel the sigils burn on my plate as I stand before them, sword raised high.

"Bring her to me."

The momentary susurration subsides, and the crowd draws apart, townsfolk shoving and scampering in their haste to get away from the approaching figure: A girl, slight of frame and shapely even beneath her dress, no doubt enhanced by dark magicks, I'd warrant. Yet defiance blazes in her eyes, and I meet her flinty gray with the burning umber of my own.

Still, she hesitates not, and I beckon, the sword of judgment held high and a hand extended to her. Closer and closer she comes, until I can see the villagers darting back into their homes, the slam of iron bars across doorways and the slide of grates over windows drowning out all else.

With a grunt, I set out, an arm slung roughly around her waist as I haul her forward, stumbling lightly on the path out of the village to where I've made my camp. Over hill and through field, over fen and bog, we march, the clank of my armor matched by the somehow-expectant rustle of a silk too fine for a mere farmer's wife or stable mistress. The road winds on, until it's but a track, and then, at last, my camp, a sturdy tent and a dying fire guttering on the coals.

A ringing shnk heralds the sheathing of my sword, and, with black cloak tossed aside, I crack a grin.

"Hey," I offer, shrugging apologetically. "I'm quite sorry about the charade, but when I heard some of the Brethren talking about making their way over here to burn you, I didn't really have a choice, y'know. Too many people are so close-minded, y'know? No sense of taste, can't handle a woman who's got some independence and a sense of fun."

Rummaging through my saddlebag for a large bottle of Oakheart Stout, I offer it with a nod.

"Not all of us have shit taste, though. Care for a drink?"

A bit of dark fantasy mixed with my old standby of cheery butt-stuffings, or at least hints and vague omens of such. There are so many ways to go with this, and I'm open to anything under the sun for it - please don't hesitate to drop me a line, no need to jump straight in at all, if you don't want to!

As always, thanks for reading, and cheers!

-Werewizard