Chapter Text
If you're looking for help that the church can't give you, then you're looking for the Witch. I know you might not like the idea of asking for help from someone who does such devil’s work, but from what your friend over there tells me, you're too desperate to be picky. Just between you and me, the Witch isn't all that bad! It's lived not too far from this town for a good while now, never done us any harm (not unprovoked at least). Done some rather unsavoury favours if the rumours are to be believed though. Don't tell any priests what I said, yeah? I like my head where it is.
If you're looking for the Witch, then you're looking for the old Belmont estate. You know the path? No? I suppose you aren't from around here. It's all grown over anyhow, not so grand anymore. The road you took to get here from the next town over, about halfway through the bit where the trees are real thick on either side, there's this especially gnarled tree with no leaves but plenty of moss growing on it. You've got to go a ways into the bush to see it, but behind that tree there's this path of mushrooms that look like little pebbles. You follow that far enough, you'll find a little gate with no fence. You've got to go through it, NOT around! And latch it behind you. The path widens enough to pull a small cart through after that. That's when you've got to start minding where you put your feet! Don't step off the path, you'd be on cursed land now. Those mushrooms keep back whatever haunts those woods, but you're fair game otherwise. You might hear someone calling for help or funny lights in the distance, but it's a trick to lure you out. Just keep walking.
Once you see the ruins of the old Belmont mansion you're almost there. If you're lucky, the Witch's cat familiar will meet you at the edge of the clearing to escort you the rest of the way. If you're not so lucky, it'll be a green stag blocking your path. You’ve got to bow and address it as you would a queen, otherwise it'll charge at you with no damn mercy! That thing doesn't like anyone, not even the Witch itself.
The Witch built its workshop right in the middle of the ruins, if you can believe it! Bold, eh? I swear it chose that cursed place because no one else could stand to live there. It got that estate for free no doubt.
You won't want to approach the place on your own, because that strange giant plant growing next to it is a people eating monstrosity. It only obeys the Witch, and even then, only after the Witch feeds it enough wild game. Even if you managed to get past it and break in, there's a wyrm that likes to slip down the chimney and nap in that giant fireplace. Awful lot of protection for a place with no valuables to steal, eh? But I suppose it's made a lot of enemies in its line of work.
No, it's best to wait just outside until the Witch greets you. I'd advise against touching anything in the garden while you're waiting, too. Most of them are ordinary herbs and such I think, but you can't know for sure until it's too late, now can you? Besides, it's just rude to mess with somebody's crops. You need the Witch to in a good mood if you want any help.
My last bit of advice is to think real careful about what you're willing to trade for whatever magic the Witch offers you. Making deals with it can be just as tricky as shaking hands with the Devil.
The food it sells though, that's just fine. Best apples I've ever bought.
Trevor sat at the back corner of the tavern where he could easily see the whole room. He hasn't passed through this town before, and he's curious as to what the supernatural presence is like here. The best way to find out is usually in the local gossip.
Of course, it's also just entertaining. He tries not to snicker too obviously into his ale as he listens to a farmer complain about being punished for defending his goat from acts of bestiality. Privately, Trevor agrees with the man. Anyone who assaulted animals like that had a hit to the head coming. But God, what an absurd conversation!
The alcohol burns up inside him before it can reach his blood, but the extra heat makes him flush as though drunk anyway. So long as he keeps the fire from escaping his body, Trevor passes for just another normal traveler.
He nearly says here here! out loud when the complaints turn to the noble families and their petty squabbles that always seem to end with dead peasants.
“... like the Belmonts!” the farmer continues. Ah, fuck. “Thinking they’re all high and mighty with their witchcraft!”
“If you really believed that, you wouldn't be saying it where anyone might hear,” Trevor says before he can stop himself.
“And why not?” the man asks, challenge in his voice.
“Because you never know when a witch might be listening in. They can be awfully spiteful, you know. Might curse your crops.”
“That a threat?” The farmers come closer, ready for a fight.
“Not at all,” Trevor lies, “I’m just speaking from experience.” He honestly isn’t sure if he wants to start a fight or not anymore. He should just sweet talk them into buying some of his more questionable wares and leave it at that, but he can feel the influence of his fiery patron’s echo seething for violence. Wouldn’t it be satisfying, to strike fear in their hearts? To leave them cowering?
Deep Breaths, he needs to take deep breaths before he sets something on fire.
“Who are you, to have experience with witches? Did you work for the Belmonts? That why you’re so pissy?”
Trevor almost laughs because technically, the farmer is right. “Naw, I’m just a traveler with bad luck. Believe me, I resent the nobles' violent power trips just as much as you do."
The men look him up and down. He wonders what he looks like to them. They aren’t close enough to notice that the whites of his eyes are actually pale green. The blue glow to his teeth is too faint to see even in this dim light. Can they see the scars on his neck? Can they tell that his vest is really a corset?
“The fuck is up with those boots?” as if that’s the most suspicious thing about his appearance. Bless drunk men's observational skills.
Trevor looks down at his footwear that would be perfectly average if they didn’t come up to his thighs. “My line of work requires a lot of time spent on my knees.”
Across the room the bartender makes a choking noise. The ridiculously tall farmer whistles. It’s pretty easy to lead them to the conclusion that they came to; Trevor’s clothing doesn’t show a lot of skin but it certainly isn’t modest either. (His customers want their food to look “appetizing” after all.)
"By which I mean gardening, of course," Trevor says with the best innocent doe eyes he can muster. He pulls a bundle of fresh herbs from his bag to show them.
The farmer who was ranting squints at the herbs like they're going to spill secrets, then back up at Trevor's face. "You're a strange one," he muses. At least he's less hostile now.
"Thanks, I try," Trevor says, raising his mug as though making a toast. He's considering making a peaceful getaway before these men change their minds about what level of violence he deserves to have inflicted upon his person. There aren't many other people for him to eavesdrop on anyway.
"You look familiar too, now that I think about it," the man continues as he invades Trevor's personal space to inspect his face.
And Trevor definitely doesn't recognize any of them, which is never a good sign. "I get that a lot," (bullshit), "eye scars are more common than you think," (more bullshit). He forces his body language to stay relaxed instead of pulling away.
“Wasn’t Father Fredrick saying something about someone like that?” The bartender is being purposely vague, like he doesn’t want Trevor to clue in on what he means. He’s holding a sheet of parchment that must be a wanted poster. It wouldn’t be the first time.
The farmers clue in though. In an instant they’re aggressive again, shifting to block Trevor’s way.
“Yeah, he was saying a heretic dealing in dark magic has been spreading Devil’s lies and curses.”
There’s no way he’s getting out peacefully now. “That’s such a mouthful,” Trevor says, “why not just call me a witch and be done with it?”
The closer farmer pauses, confused. “But you’re a man.”
“Are you sure about that?” Trevor leans forward as though flashing cleavage, though there’s not much to show, and feels slimy even as he says, “you can find out, for a price-”
He should have seen the slap coming. His cheekbone smarts from the impact, but the farmer is much worse off.
The men stumble back as the one who’d struck him clutches his hand and yells in pain. The skin there is an angry red and blistering. “You BURNT me! How the fuck did you-”
“More like you burnt yourself on my face.” Trevor finally has room to shove his chair back and stand. At this point he can only just hold his fire inside his skin and the bandages on his forearms are becoming wet with plant sap oozing from his shallow injuries. “I don’t know what you expected, backhanding someone you think practices so-called “dark” magic.”
“We should take the heretic to the chapel, Father Fredrick will know what to do with him.”
“We’ll be rewarded too, no doubt.”
Trevor throws his bag strap over his shoulder. “And how do you plan to drag me there if you can’t touch me, eh?” Deep breaths, deep breaths.
The bartender just looks exasperated. “I’m used to rowdy customers.” He pulls rope out from under the counter and tosses it to the farmers.
Not bothering to even reply to that (seriously, just how “rowdy” do the local drunks get to warrant rope? ), Trevor makes a move to just shove past them. It’s not exactly difficult. Until he feels a tug on his cloak and nearly chokes before the clasp gives way. He whirls in a panic, unwilling to leave without that fluffy "pelt".
Before he can snatch it back, he’s been lassoed twice from different directions so that his arms are pinned and he can’t reach anyone. Maybe later he will be impressed that they are so practiced at this that they can aim decently even when drunk, but for now he writhes and snarls like a wild thing. How dare they grab her like that how DARE they-
Tongues of flame burst from his skin and catch on the rope. It’s good quality though, the heavy kind meant for holding horses, and is slow to burn through.
The fur starts to writhe like a wild animal as well, dead pelt coming alive and taking a feline form. His familiar claws at her captor until dropped. She detaches from the rest of his cloak and bounds across the room to hiss and swipe at the taller farmer until he drops his rope to defend himself.
Trevor charges at the other one, arms still bound but body still very much on fire. He only needs to headbutt the farmer to leave another burn mark on his forehead and send him sprawling to the floor.
“Get back! Get back, monster!” he screams in open fear as he scrambles backwards away from Trevor. Trevor can barely hear him over the raging fire in his own ears.
The rope has finally burnt enough that Trevor can tear his way out of it. He kneels and leans over the man, ready to grip his throat and burn through his windpipe.
His reach is halted by his sleeve being pulled back. He turns his head to see his familiar clinging to it with her teeth, her Belmont-blue eyes wide and begging. She cannot communicate in words, but he can feel her urgency to escape and strong belief that he would regret an unnecessary killing later. He makes a half-hearted attempt to jerk out of her grasp before conceding. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Trevor doesn’t think that he would regret it, but he knows that it would upset her.
He turns back to the man cowering under him. “If you follow us, I will know, and I will bury you alive under your fields before setting them ablaze. Do you understand?” He (probably) wouldn’t do that, but this bastard would believe Trevor if he told him he eats babies at this point.
After a moment of hesitation the man nods.
“Good.” Exhaustion is slowly overriding Trevor’s anger and his fire shrinks to a subtly flickering glow on his skin. When he shuffles back and readjusts his bag he checks the contents, sighing in relief when he finds the re-purposed wine bottles and other goods intact. Were he in a generous mood he might have offered the man Aloe Vora salve for his burns. He is the farthest thing from a generous mood right now.
By the time he stands, the white cat has retrieved his now fur-less cloak and offers it to him. He manages to give her a weak smile. Thank you, he thinks at her.
She purrs.
With the men all either unconscious or cowering, the Witch and his cat make their way out of the tavern and into the forest. They’ll find a tree to rest under for the night before hitting the road again in the morning.
They’ve got deliveries to make, priests to hunt, and a fledgling to feed.