2.

For a moment, as the wizard approached his camp, he wondered if the creature had lied to him. His campsite was little more than a circle of stones arranged to make a campfire, next to a rotten stump, within a tight circle of trees to hide it from the view of any who might wander these woods, chosen conveniently seated next to a large outcropping of lichen-covered boulders to block the wind. At first, in the dim dusk, he could see no one.

But then, as he got closer, he realized someone was sitting by his unlit campfire, though he could not tell who they were. They looked like a pile of loose rags beneath a large, tattered pointed hat that hid their face entirely in shadow. He ducked behind a tree as approached, bringing up his crossbow to point at them, bolt-loaded and drawn. “Alright,” he shouted from his hiding place. “Who is it who waits by my camp?”

The pile of rags shifted. Beneath the hat, he could see two eyes gleaming in the darkness. “Naught but an old crone,” came a thin, warbling voice. “Hoping to warm herself by a kind traveler’s fire. Just a little warmth, stranger, if you’d be so generous.”

The wizard peered around the edge of the tree, looking suspiciously at the figure. The creature hadn’t said she was an enemy. Then again, it hadn’t said she wasn’t one either. But he figured, if this crone – if indeed that was what she was – meant him any immediate harm, it would not have difficult for the creature to tell she was a foe.

He lowered his crossbow, approaching the campfire cautiously. The two gleaming eyes watched him intently from the pile of rags as he sat down upon the stump, leaning his crossbow against it, well within easy reach. He carefully stacked the wood in the stone circle until it leaned against each other, and set some dry leaves in the center. Then he sat and concentrated. After about a minute, the dry leaves began to smoulder, smoke curling up at their edges, and then a moment later flame began to lick at them. As soon as the first flame appeared, the wizard clapped his hands, and with a small blast of hot air, the flame roared upwards, hotter and hotter, to catch the wood on fire. Soon, a small, merry campfire was beating back the creeping shadows of the forest.

“Ah,” said the crone. “So you know some of the Art.” From within the rags, a pair of gnarled, knotted, twisted hands extended, to warm themselves by the fire.

“A bit, here and there,” he replied cautiously, packing his pipe, lighting it with the end of a hot twig from the fire.

“So modest. ‘Tis not a small thing to summon flame so young. And handsome, too.” The crone’s eyes twinkled in the shadows of her hat, catching the dancing flame.

The wizard grunted noncommittally, puffing on his pipe, watching the crone warily. “So do you know some of the Art as well, then?”

“A bit, here and there,” she replied mockingly. The gnarled joints of her fingers popped as she flexed them dangerously close to the fire.

“So why did you not start the fire yourself?”

“My talents lie elsewhere.” She shifted beneath her rags, careful, the wizard noted, not to let the flickering light of the campfire illuminate her face. “Might I impose on your kindness a bit more, stranger? You would not happen to have any extra rations to fill an old woman’s stomach, would you?”

The wizard puffed on his pipe strong enough to release a cloud of smoke as he considered the crone. Finally, he opened his pack and rummaged through it, removing a small slab of hardtack. “Bread. But it’s very hard.”

“My teeth are still good, young one,” the crone replied. She caught the bread with surprising deftness as he tossed it, and it quickly disappeared into the shadows beneath her hat with a loud crunch and small noises of satisfaction. “Thank you. Very kind for a young man. You may call me Elyse. What may I call you?”

“Martimeos. Martim for short.”

“Martimeos,” the crone sighed, as if relishing the name. She withdrew her clawed and gnarled hands back into her rags, so all that was now visible of her was her eyes glinting in the firelight. “Well, Martimeos. What brings a kind young traveler such as yourself into these woods? This is a dark forest, full of spirits and darker things that would lure unlucky travelers from their path.”

“Just wandering.” Martim tapped out the ashes of his pipe on the side of the stump, taking a small iron scraper from his boot to dig at what he could not tap out.

“I have been watching you, curious man. It does not seem like you are wandering. It seems like you are looking for something.”

Martim paused in his scraping, feeling a chill run up his spine. He resumed, calling lightheartedly, “Oh? And how long have you been watching me for?”

“Oh, weeks now. Night and day. ‘Tis very easy with talents such as mine. What curious creatures men are.”

Martim found his mind racing over the past few weeks. He wondered if she had been watching when he had stopped a few days back to bathe in a cold, clear stream he had found trickling through the woods. The hag’s gleaming eyes revealed nothing. “I don’t know that I appreciate that, crone,” he muttered.

“Elyse.” The crone tilted her head, curiously. “I...’twas meant to reassure you. Had I meant harm, I could have stolen in to cut your throat in your sleep long ago.”

“Very reassuring.” Martim put his pipe away, and leaned forward to warm his hands on the fire. “And why were you following me?”

The rags shifted. Martim caught a glimpse of a pale leg, surprisingly smooth, as Elyse readjusted her position, before it disappeared back within the rags. “Let us say that I am a wanderer myself. But even for one with some knowledge of the Art….these woods can be dangerous to an old woman. I wanted to know if you might make a suitable traveling companion.”

“And why would I want you as a traveling companion?”

“Why not?” laughed the crone. “Two with the Art are better than one, yes?”

“You do not even know if I am traveling the same direction you are.”

“Well then. Which direction are you traveling?”

Martimeos paused yet again. He did not know if he wanted to be telling this crone which way he was headed. But if it were true that she had been watching him, he supposed it did not matter. She would be able to follow him whether or not he told her. And there could be a price to lying to a witch. “South,” he said.

Elyse tilted her head once more. “And what drives you south?”

“I asked a Dolmec.”

The crone murmured appreciatively to herself, silent for a moment as the fire crackled and the shadows danced along the trees. Night had truly fallen now, the small circle of orange glow cast by the fire the only thing illuminating the forest. “You must have no mean knowledge of sigils to protect yourself from a Dolmec and win a telling,” she said after a while.

Martim blushed, remembering the creature’s mocking laughter. If not for its kindness – something Dolmec were not known for – it might have meant his life. “Y-yes,” he replied modestly.

“I could travel south,” the crone replied. “What say you, Martimeos? I will not slow you down, and I will share what rations I find. I am a huntress of no small skill. I could make sure you eat meat every once in a while, rather than hardtack bread weeks on end. And together we could protect each other from the dangers of this forest.”

Martimeos was quiet for a long moment. He would rather not that a crone and a witch follow him, but there was little he could do to stop her - and it might be best not to insult a witch who had tracked him in secret for so long. He would have to be clever about this, to rid himself of her. Perhaps as she slept tonight, he could hasten away, and set up a false trail for her to follow.“I suppose if you wanted, we might travel together,” he muttered finally, his mind racing with thoughts of how he might abandon her. “Very well.”

“Good,” said Elyse. And then she rose. Martimeos shouted, nearly falling off the stump in shock, as she stood up, revealing not an ancient and withered crone, but a young woman of pale, fair skin, a long shock of jet black hair that came down nearly to her waist, rough and woven through with leaves, and a pair of dark blue eyes set into a face that graced him with a wicked, mischievous smile. She was short, her head just reaching his chest, though her hat was tall enough that it rose above his head. Despite her changed face, her garb remained as it was, tattered and worn. “’Twas a glamour!” she laughed at him, as he steadied himself on the stump. “Have you not heard of this Art?”

“I know a bit of it,” he said, once he had recovered. He glanced up at Elyse, frowning. "Only to make small objects appear for a short time, though. Never to make illusions that move so convincingly. But why?”

“Hmm.” Elyse smiled, putting a finger to her lips thoughtfully. “I wanted to see the sort of man you were. I wanted to make sure you were not a braggart. And kind enough to offer aid to an old woman in need. And….” here, she flung her hair dramatically. “I wanted to make sure you would not take me along merely because of my striking beauty.”

“Striking, that’s going a bit far, isn’t it,” Martim replied, as her smile turned to a frown. He got up, brushing dirt from her pants, and peered at her thoughtfully, fetching his pipe from a pocket to chew on the stem of it, unlit. “Pretty, sure. But striking?” he snorted. “But how do I know that this is not the glamour, and what I saw before the reality?”

Elyse rolled back the sleeve of her rags, and extended a pale, thin arm out towards him, a thick black ring on her ring finger. “A glamour may fool the sight, but not the other senses,” she replied. “Come and feel for yourself if you doubt me.”

Somehwat to her surprise, Martimeos tugged off his thick gloves and stomped over towards her, peering curiously at her arm, running cold, coarse fingers up and down it, squeezing here and there. “'Twas impressive. How did you maintain concentration? It looked so real when you caught the bread...”

“’Tis...not so impressive as all that. You rely on the mind of the onlooker to fill in the gaps of your glamour that do not make sense.” She laughed as he prodded her upper arm, tickling her. “How much of me are you going to squeeze to convince yourself that I am real?”

Martim glanced down at her, her eyes sparkling mischievously, a faint blush on her cheeks. “Sorry,” he said, dropping her arm. “But….are you going to feel safe traveling alone with a man?”

Elyse crossed her arms, peering at him curiously. “I...have not seen much of men, except for from a distance, and in stories. ‘Tis true my mother told me they were dangerous. ‘Twas why I followed you for so long. But you do not seem dangerous to me; merely curious.” She shrugged. “What is man, but a woman, except more square, and with a funny bit betwixt his legs?” Martim gave her a frank look, and she blushed furiously. “I am not a child. I know what men and women do together. But you do not seem like the type of man who would force himself upon me. And if you tried, I would turn you into a moth.”

Martim’s eyes brightened. “D’you know how to do that?”

“Ah...no,” Elyse admitted.

Martim gave a silent 'bah' of disappontment, stepping back to look her up and down skeptically. Now that he knew she was simply a young woman - or at least, so it seemed - he was less intimidated. An old crone might have deadly knowledge of the Art collected over her lifetime, enough to kill with a few words, and be mad besides; Elyse though, was of an age with him - there was only so much she could have learned of it. Perhaps he would not have to try to escape from her. But still... "You know," he said, "trickery and deceit is surely a poor way to first approach someone you wish to travel with."

Elyse's gave a small frown, and her eyes flashed, as if she were annoyed. But after a moment she put a finger to her lips, considering. "Fair enough point," she murmured, eyeing him. "Here - a boon, to demonstrate my good intent." She reached out towards his face, and Martim flinched backwards, but she just laughed. "Stay still a moment, wizard! I just mean to soothe that knot on your forehead."

"Ah..." Martimeos reached up, to rub the lump on his head left by the Dolmec throwing the hilt of the dagger at him. He tensed as Elyse laid her hand on his forehead, ready to jump back if anything suspicious happened. He wondered to himself, somewhat ruefully, if he'd even let Elyse this close if she was not a pretty girl - he was young enough to still be charmed by beauty, but old enough to be aware of the power it had over him. But Elyse merely closed her eyes, as her hand - surprisingly warm, for the cool autumn air - laid gently against his forehead. And then that warmth, soothing, spread from her hand into his skin, washing away the soreness of the bruise the Dolmec had left him with.

She smiled at him as she opened her eyes, twinkling in the darkness, and then she took his hand as well, running her fingers over the shallow cut left in it from his blood offering. That same soothing warmth spread through his hand. Once she let him go, Martimeos peered closely at the cut to inspect it, wiping away dried blood. It was not quite completely healed - but it was mostly closed, now just a thin red line in his palm, with little threat of bleeding again. "You see?" Elyse said, as he curiously rubbed his forehead. "No need to be stingy with your trust - I can be of help to you."

"You can heal with the art," Martimeos said, his voice low and considering. It was a statement, not a question.

"Only a little bit - your bruise on your head is not gone, but should heal quicker now."

Martimeos gave her an appraising look. Healing with the Art was, from what he had heard, one of the more difficult skills. Elyse - whoever she was - must be clever indeed to have picked up even minor ability with it so young. He could appreciate someone who was talented with the Art, so long as they were not a danger. "Let me just ask - why travel with me?"

Elyse tapped her foot, then laughed once more, giving a simple shrug. "Again, why not? These woods are dangerous, and travel together is safer than travel alone. And I am curious of men; you seemed like the trustworthy sort, from what I saw of you. You know of the Art, too, and I am curious too to see how others practice it. I've no destination in mind of my own - I simply felt the need to wander. You understand, yes?"

Martimeos contemplated her for a long moment, weighing what she had said in his mind. He tried his best not to let her looks influence his decision. "Fair enough," he said finally. It would be nice, after all, to have the company of someone who had skill with the Art - so long as he thought she wasn't trying to kill him with it.

He looked around, at the deep darkness surrounding them, up to the star-dotted sky, and yawned. "It has been a long day," he said wearily to Elyse, as she watched him. Turning away from her, he grabbed a stick . Elyse followed him, watching as he walked around the campsite, at the edge of the fire’s light, using the stick to trace intricate patterns in the ground, brushing aside leaves to reveal dirt. “What is this?” she asked curiously.

“Protective sigils, so that we do not have to set guard,” Martim answered, furrowing his brow in concentration. “If any approach us with hostile intent, it will make a loud sound.” He did not mention that if Elyse decided to do something hostile to him in the night, they would make a loud sound as well.

“Hmm.” Elyse picked up a stick of her own, and watching Martim, attempted to trace the same shape next to one of his own.

But Martim shook his head. “Not like that. They have to be very precise. And drawn in the correct order.”

“Will you teach me?”

Martim gave her a sidelong glance. “Will you teach me what you know of the Art in return?”

“Of course. Fair is fair.”

Martim nodded, and then satisfied, tossed away the stick, and retreated back to his lean-to, laying down in a soft bed of leaves as he wrapped his black fur cloak around him. He glanced across the fire at Elyse. She too was bedding down on a padding of leaves, but made no effort to shield herself from the crisp autumn air. And her robe of tattered rags did not seem to offer much protection. He felt his face heating as her bare legs flashed in the campfire light as she adjusted herself, occasionally slipping out of her ragged dress. “Are you not cold like that?” he asked.

“Do not worry about me,” Elyse grinned. “I am very hot-blooded.”

Martim shrugged, then clapped his hands once more. The campfire immediately extinguished itself with a sudden ‘fwoomph’, leaving nothing but a bed of hot coals. In the darkness, he whispered a word to his cloak and it grew warm and comfortable, before wrapping it tighter about himself, rolling over, and falling asleep.