Mirelle and Harlau at last crested the final steep rise from the foothills west of Sausage Lake, looking down upon the massive firmwood forest in which lay hidden the village of Vadda.
"Magnificent!" exclaimed Harlau, an enraptured smile spreading across his face. But beside him, Mirelle sat rigid in the saddle, her gaze fixed on the dark canopy below. What had once been beautiful to her now whispered like death itself.
Harlau turned, expecting his delight to be mirrored in his companion, but the sight of her haunted, pale expression smothered his joy. Almost ashamed at his own excitement, he dropped his gaze, scolding himself for not considering what this place meant to her.
"You’ve never really told me what happened…" he said softly, glancing at her.
She sighed, shaking her head as if to clear it. Then, after a pause, she nodded. "We've come this far, and you are a brave and good friend, Harlau," she murmured. "You deserve to know. It started like this."
Mirelle began to recount how, long ago, she had been returning from the jungle where she had gathered rare herbs for her healing arts. Riding peacefully through the forest of Vadda, she had let herself bask in the scents and sounds of the towering firmwoods. Then, in the distance, she heard it—a strange snicking and snattering, interspersed with shouts and the clash of metal.
She had looked up through the trees and spotted three adventurers locked in battle with a monstrous spider. Steeling herself, she had ridden closer—only to realize, with a growing horror, that only two of them were fighting the beast. The third, a strikingly beautiful young woman, was fighting with it, not against it.
Then Mirelle saw the red glow of her name.
She shuddered. A killer. A beautiful killer, but a killer nonetheless. And the spider—her monstrous thrall. The two adventurers fought valiantly, but it was clear they were losing. Without hesitation, Mirelle had galloped into range, casting her healing magic on the more wounded of the two, barely snatching him from the jaws of death. Their desperation turned to renewed fury, and with her aid, they gained the upper hand. The red maiden and her eight-legged servant faltered.
And then, as the battle turned hopeless for her, the woman’s piercing blue eyes had locked onto Mirelle. With her final breath, she shrieked, "I’ll find you, and I’ll get you, you bitch!"
She collapsed, a wicked grin still twisting her once-lovely face. Then, in a hoarse whisper, she added, "Remember my name. Buttercup… will come for you."
The two adventurers, gasping with relief, had thanked Mirelle profusely. Overjoyed to be alive and with their belongings intact, they had urged her to take a share of the spoils. But she had shivered, unable to shake the lingering dread of Buttercup’s dying vow. She had refused and ridden on toward Morin Khur, trying to push the ominous words from her mind.
Mirelle paused, taking a deep breath. Harlau nodded solemnly. "That was a fine deed you did for them."
"No good deed goes unpunished," Mirelle said wryly.
Harlau chuckled. "Ain’t that the truth?" He shifted in his saddle, ready to descend into the forest, but then he noticed Mirelle hadn’t moved. She was staring ahead again, that same haunted look in her eyes.
"You don’t have to continue," Harlau said, uncertain if he meant the tale or their journey.
Mirelle swallowed hard, then shook her head. "This was before the days of the Lawbringer," she murmured, "when outlaws ruled the land."
"Aye, things are better now. But they could be better still," Harlau agreed.
Mirelle nodded. "After the Lawbringer brought order, I thought it was safe to travel again. I was heading back south to the jungle for more herbs…"
She had passed a guard patrol some miles back and had felt safe as she rode through the familiar firmwood groves. Then—just as before—she had heard something. A faint scampering, almost like chittering laughter. And suddenly, her horse had collapsed beneath her.
She had hit the ground hard, dazed, before realizing with a sinking horror that her beloved mount—the one she had raised from a foal—was dead.
A sibilant hiss had drifted from the shadows.
"Remember me, bitch?"
Then the poison had hit her.
Mirelle screamed, collapsing as agony coursed through her veins. And then, stepping from the gloom, had come Buttercup, her face twisted with cruel delight.
"Daisy, to me," she had commanded, and the monstrous spider had slithered into view.
Mirelle, gasping through the pain, had barely managed to rasp, "What… do… you… want?"
Buttercup had laughed, loud and raucous, eyes gleaming with wicked mirth. "What do I want?" she had echoed mockingly. "Oh, you’ll see what I want, my pretty. Don’t you worry."
And then Daisy had spat again.
Each glob of caustic venom had burned away at her skin, her flesh, her very self. She couldn't remember how long it had gone on—only the pain, the shrieks of laughter, the hideous mockery. And then, finally… darkness.
But not oblivion.
Her spirit had awoken in Fabernum.
An odd quirk of the system, perhaps, but maybe more destiny than chance. Fabernum was home to the Glorious Dozen—the most ruthless bounty hunters in the Empire, respected even among the Khurite Tribes. The priest there had taken her imprint and offered to bring her back. But Mirelle, trembling with newfound purpose, had only shaken her head. She had thanked him and sped toward Morin Khur, there to be reincarnated by the familiar shaman of the Tribes.
Harlau let out a slow breath, shaken by the tale—and by the realization that they were about to descend into the same forest where Mirelle had met her fate.
He steeled himself and looked at her. Mirelle nodded, and together, they began their descent into the forests of Vadda.
As they approached the village gates, the sounds of bustling activity drifted toward them from within the wooden palisade. The neighing of horses, the creak of leather harnesses being strapped or loosened, the clank of weapons, and the confident voices of warriors filled the air.
They exchanged a glance and nodded.
"Seems we judged it right," Harlau murmured.
Inside, the village thrummed with life. The local inn was a hive of movement, and behind it stood the newly built town jail. Tethering their mounts, they stepped inside the inn, where the low hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter met them.
A swarthy, leather-clad warrior regarded them appraisingly. "You two look like you've seen a ghost," he remarked, his eyes keen with curiosity.
"I'm Malachai Ashburn, and these here are my hunters," he added, gesturing toward the twelve figures scattered throughout the tavern, some seated at tables, others hunched over bounty boards.
"We’ve heard of you," Harlau said. "Your name carries weight across the land."
Mirelle turned her dark, searching gaze on Malachai. "We’ve come to enlist your aid."
Malachai studied her for a moment, his fingers absently brushing the pouch at his belt—the one holding spirit-imprinted bounty sheets. Then, something flickered in his expression. Recognition.
"It’s you," he said simply.
Mirelle’s eyes dropped to the pouch. A whisper of memory stirred at the edge of her thoughts, an intangible link to whatever was inside.
"Yes," she murmured.
Malachai swallowed, then straightened, recovering himself. He turned to his men. "Alright, lads. We’ve got a job to do, and this lady here is the reason why."
The tavern fell silent. All eyes turned to the pair, their attention drawn not just by Malachai’s words but by the strange calm that radiated from the woman who had just stepped into their midst.
"This is Mirelle," Malachai announced, glancing to her for confirmation. She nodded.
"You lot remember the priest in Fabernum? That one bounty that came in?"
A murmur rippled through the room. They all remembered. Even without the priest’s gift, the emanations from that particular imprint had been impossible to ignore. Most were glad they lacked the ability to feel what the young priest had felt—for he had experienced exactly what the bounty's subject had endured.
"Don't worry, Mal. We'll get that bitch," Gideon proclaimed, slamming his meaty fist against the table with such force that the thick wood groaned under the impact.
Mirelle flinched at the insult, a shiver running down her spine. The last time she had heard that word, it had been hurled at her by the very woman they sought.
Gideon caught her reaction and immediately softened. "My pardons, my lady," he said, almost sheepishly.
Mirelle exhaled, steadying herself. "No pardon needed, good sir. It’s just… that was the last thing she called me before she—" She hesitated. "Before she killed me."
A grim silence settled over the room.
Gideon clenched his jaw. "Then I beg your pardon many times over. But we’ll make sure that word is put to proper use, you have my word." He turned, casting a look around the tavern.
Mugs were lifted. Fists raised.
"We’ll make her eat her own insults before the week is out," declared Reuben darkly.
A low rumble of agreement passed through the hunters.
The hunt for Buttercup had begun.
"Magnificent!" exclaimed Harlau, an enraptured smile spreading across his face. But beside him, Mirelle sat rigid in the saddle, her gaze fixed on the dark canopy below. What had once been beautiful to her now whispered like death itself.
Harlau turned, expecting his delight to be mirrored in his companion, but the sight of her haunted, pale expression smothered his joy. Almost ashamed at his own excitement, he dropped his gaze, scolding himself for not considering what this place meant to her.
"You’ve never really told me what happened…" he said softly, glancing at her.
She sighed, shaking her head as if to clear it. Then, after a pause, she nodded. "We've come this far, and you are a brave and good friend, Harlau," she murmured. "You deserve to know. It started like this."
Mirelle began to recount how, long ago, she had been returning from the jungle where she had gathered rare herbs for her healing arts. Riding peacefully through the forest of Vadda, she had let herself bask in the scents and sounds of the towering firmwoods. Then, in the distance, she heard it—a strange snicking and snattering, interspersed with shouts and the clash of metal.
She had looked up through the trees and spotted three adventurers locked in battle with a monstrous spider. Steeling herself, she had ridden closer—only to realize, with a growing horror, that only two of them were fighting the beast. The third, a strikingly beautiful young woman, was fighting with it, not against it.
Then Mirelle saw the red glow of her name.
She shuddered. A killer. A beautiful killer, but a killer nonetheless. And the spider—her monstrous thrall. The two adventurers fought valiantly, but it was clear they were losing. Without hesitation, Mirelle had galloped into range, casting her healing magic on the more wounded of the two, barely snatching him from the jaws of death. Their desperation turned to renewed fury, and with her aid, they gained the upper hand. The red maiden and her eight-legged servant faltered.
And then, as the battle turned hopeless for her, the woman’s piercing blue eyes had locked onto Mirelle. With her final breath, she shrieked, "I’ll find you, and I’ll get you, you bitch!"
She collapsed, a wicked grin still twisting her once-lovely face. Then, in a hoarse whisper, she added, "Remember my name. Buttercup… will come for you."
The two adventurers, gasping with relief, had thanked Mirelle profusely. Overjoyed to be alive and with their belongings intact, they had urged her to take a share of the spoils. But she had shivered, unable to shake the lingering dread of Buttercup’s dying vow. She had refused and ridden on toward Morin Khur, trying to push the ominous words from her mind.
Mirelle paused, taking a deep breath. Harlau nodded solemnly. "That was a fine deed you did for them."
"No good deed goes unpunished," Mirelle said wryly.
Harlau chuckled. "Ain’t that the truth?" He shifted in his saddle, ready to descend into the forest, but then he noticed Mirelle hadn’t moved. She was staring ahead again, that same haunted look in her eyes.
"You don’t have to continue," Harlau said, uncertain if he meant the tale or their journey.
Mirelle swallowed hard, then shook her head. "This was before the days of the Lawbringer," she murmured, "when outlaws ruled the land."
"Aye, things are better now. But they could be better still," Harlau agreed.
Mirelle nodded. "After the Lawbringer brought order, I thought it was safe to travel again. I was heading back south to the jungle for more herbs…"
She had passed a guard patrol some miles back and had felt safe as she rode through the familiar firmwood groves. Then—just as before—she had heard something. A faint scampering, almost like chittering laughter. And suddenly, her horse had collapsed beneath her.
She had hit the ground hard, dazed, before realizing with a sinking horror that her beloved mount—the one she had raised from a foal—was dead.
A sibilant hiss had drifted from the shadows.
"Remember me, bitch?"
Then the poison had hit her.
Mirelle screamed, collapsing as agony coursed through her veins. And then, stepping from the gloom, had come Buttercup, her face twisted with cruel delight.
"Daisy, to me," she had commanded, and the monstrous spider had slithered into view.
Mirelle, gasping through the pain, had barely managed to rasp, "What… do… you… want?"
Buttercup had laughed, loud and raucous, eyes gleaming with wicked mirth. "What do I want?" she had echoed mockingly. "Oh, you’ll see what I want, my pretty. Don’t you worry."
And then Daisy had spat again.
Each glob of caustic venom had burned away at her skin, her flesh, her very self. She couldn't remember how long it had gone on—only the pain, the shrieks of laughter, the hideous mockery. And then, finally… darkness.
But not oblivion.
Her spirit had awoken in Fabernum.
An odd quirk of the system, perhaps, but maybe more destiny than chance. Fabernum was home to the Glorious Dozen—the most ruthless bounty hunters in the Empire, respected even among the Khurite Tribes. The priest there had taken her imprint and offered to bring her back. But Mirelle, trembling with newfound purpose, had only shaken her head. She had thanked him and sped toward Morin Khur, there to be reincarnated by the familiar shaman of the Tribes.
Harlau let out a slow breath, shaken by the tale—and by the realization that they were about to descend into the same forest where Mirelle had met her fate.
He steeled himself and looked at her. Mirelle nodded, and together, they began their descent into the forests of Vadda.
As they approached the village gates, the sounds of bustling activity drifted toward them from within the wooden palisade. The neighing of horses, the creak of leather harnesses being strapped or loosened, the clank of weapons, and the confident voices of warriors filled the air.
They exchanged a glance and nodded.
"Seems we judged it right," Harlau murmured.
Inside, the village thrummed with life. The local inn was a hive of movement, and behind it stood the newly built town jail. Tethering their mounts, they stepped inside the inn, where the low hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter met them.
A swarthy, leather-clad warrior regarded them appraisingly. "You two look like you've seen a ghost," he remarked, his eyes keen with curiosity.
"I'm Malachai Ashburn, and these here are my hunters," he added, gesturing toward the twelve figures scattered throughout the tavern, some seated at tables, others hunched over bounty boards.
"We’ve heard of you," Harlau said. "Your name carries weight across the land."
Mirelle turned her dark, searching gaze on Malachai. "We’ve come to enlist your aid."
Malachai studied her for a moment, his fingers absently brushing the pouch at his belt—the one holding spirit-imprinted bounty sheets. Then, something flickered in his expression. Recognition.
"It’s you," he said simply.
Mirelle’s eyes dropped to the pouch. A whisper of memory stirred at the edge of her thoughts, an intangible link to whatever was inside.
"Yes," she murmured.
Malachai swallowed, then straightened, recovering himself. He turned to his men. "Alright, lads. We’ve got a job to do, and this lady here is the reason why."
The tavern fell silent. All eyes turned to the pair, their attention drawn not just by Malachai’s words but by the strange calm that radiated from the woman who had just stepped into their midst.
"This is Mirelle," Malachai announced, glancing to her for confirmation. She nodded.
"You lot remember the priest in Fabernum? That one bounty that came in?"
A murmur rippled through the room. They all remembered. Even without the priest’s gift, the emanations from that particular imprint had been impossible to ignore. Most were glad they lacked the ability to feel what the young priest had felt—for he had experienced exactly what the bounty's subject had endured.
"Don't worry, Mal. We'll get that bitch," Gideon proclaimed, slamming his meaty fist against the table with such force that the thick wood groaned under the impact.
Mirelle flinched at the insult, a shiver running down her spine. The last time she had heard that word, it had been hurled at her by the very woman they sought.
Gideon caught her reaction and immediately softened. "My pardons, my lady," he said, almost sheepishly.
Mirelle exhaled, steadying herself. "No pardon needed, good sir. It’s just… that was the last thing she called me before she—" She hesitated. "Before she killed me."
A grim silence settled over the room.
Gideon clenched his jaw. "Then I beg your pardon many times over. But we’ll make sure that word is put to proper use, you have my word." He turned, casting a look around the tavern.
Mugs were lifted. Fists raised.
"We’ll make her eat her own insults before the week is out," declared Reuben darkly.
A low rumble of agreement passed through the hunters.
The hunt for Buttercup had begun.
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