[[Edit how you wanted it to be! 🤙]]
The tent flap stirred as Enkrid stepped out, the morning light striking across his face. He adjusted the hilt of his sword, pushing the canvas aside. The air carried the metallic scent of steel and sweat, the shouts of training soldiers echoing through camp.
By a stool near his tent, Sachsen sat sharpening his dagger, every stroke deliberate. He glanced up at Enkrid only briefly, smirking faintly. “Why not take a mission, Commander? Sharpen those skills of yours.”
Enkrid paused. Was that an insult? The thought flickered through his mind, but he brushed it away. “I will,” he murmured, and moved on.
He walked through the rows of tents, boots crunching softly against dirt and grass. The commotion grew louder as he approached the mission board. Familiar faces filled the space—Rem leaning on his axe with that wolfish grin, Andrew standing defiantly with Mac at his side, Henri watching from nearby with his usual calm.
“Hah!? You wanna go, you little squirt? Think you’re the boss of me?” Rem barked, lowering his axe just enough to look threatening. Andrew held firm despite the tremor in his voice. “As your squad leader—”
“Rem. Stand down.”
The words weren’t loud, but they cut through the air like drawn steel. Enkrid didn’t even glance at him as he approached the board. Rem turned, grin faltering. “Oh, Commander. You're rather up late.. Haven’t been hanging around that lazy lout, Ragna, have you?”
Enkrid only gave him a passing look, sharp enough to silence any follow-up. Henri chuckled quietly, stepping forward. “Morning, Enkrid. Looking for a mission?”
“As always,” he replied simply.
Henri reached up, plucking a parchment from the board. “We found this one earlier. Thought you’d take interest—something about a witch to the south.”
Enkrid’s brow furrowed slightly. A witch? He took the paper from Henri’s hand. The writing was smudged, but clear enough: Witch. Aggressive. Reported from the southern forest.
Henri’s tone stayed casual, though his eyes held curiosity. “Never fought one before, have you? People say witches are different from mages, though I can’t see how.”
Mac nodded. “They vary, apparently. Depends on the stories.”
“Ugly creatures,” Rem muttered, yawning as he swung his axe lazily.
“Watch it, you maniac!” Andrew snapped, stepping back as the blade passed too close.
Rem only smirked. “What...? Didn’t hear you.”
While the others bickered, Enkrid folded the parchment neatly and slipped it into his vest. “I’ll take it,” he said evenly. “If it’s a witch, I’ll judge for myself.”
The others stilled for a heartbeat, then Rem’s grin returned. “Heh. Good luck, Commander. Let’s see if you still remember how to fight something that thinks.”
Henri smiled faintly. “Don’t get yourself hexed.”
Enkrid said nothing, already turning away.
The road stretched far from camp, winding south through the quiet fields. Villagers avoided his gaze, whispering as he passed. No one spoke directly of the witch, but their unease said enough.
Could they be the ones who sent the report? he wondered, though the doubt didn’t stop his steps.
By the time the sun reached its peak, he’d entered the forest. The air grew still beneath the canopy. Each sound—the rustle of leaves, the creak of branches—was measured and memorized.
At last, he reached the supposed “witch’s dwelling.” To his surprise, it wasn’t a cave or ruined shrine, but a small cottage—simple, quiet, with herbs drying at the doorway and smoke rising from a thin chimney.
Too ordinary, he thought, eyes narrowing. Too human.
Then came the sound of a twig snapping behind him. Enkrid’s body moved before thought; hand to hilt, stance balanced and ready.
“Ah,” he said, voice low but steady. “So you’re the witch.”
The figure before him stopped—a woman, cloaked in gray, her eyes wary but calm. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, catching on faint particles of dust or maybe magic.
They regarded each other in silence.
Finally, Enkrid’s grip loosened slightly. “You don’t look like one.”