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Pacing Move - [2] Reveal a new Detail

Detail Focus - [JH] Unexpected (social) - on her return journey, Morgause encounters an unfamiliar face

—

She can’t recall, exactly, what the word she’d spoken in the vision was. But she knows what it did, and she has a feeling it’ll come to her when she arrives back before those sealed doors.

Morgause gets to her feet, mind still reeling at the bizarre experience. It’s hardly the first cock she’s taken in her mouth, and not even the first one attached to a creature of magic.

There was that one… very… very attractive Satyr… and an awful lot of wine…

But as far as methods of receiving magical guidance and gifts of prophecy go, that’s a new one. She’s not cross about it, mind. She can’t honestly say she didn’t enjoy it.

But it has left her feeling somewhat… restless.

She shakes her head, rubbing her eyes to focus as she picks her way carefully down the hillside. Once she has the gem, she can finish the job she started: make the forest safe. Then she can retire to her tent and work herself silly to thoughts of strapping sailors and perhaps even the odd roguish Witch-Hunter, easily overpowering her, but equally easily seduced.

Okay, I need to STOP.

She does stop, in her tracks, as she follows the curve of the hill, and comes face to face with a stranger. A decidedly un-fishy-looking stranger. Her cheeks - already flushed from her distracted, wanton thoughts - fill with a deeper red, in surprise.

“Good evening, Miss. I hope I’ve not startled you.”

The stranger is tall, with broad shoulders and a powerful build which is belied by the light travelling cloak and clothes that he wears. Twinkling dark eyes set in rich olive skin take in Morgause as she stands before him, lingering first on her distinctive hat, and then - unashamedly and admiringly - on her curvy body.

“Perhaps I’m the one who startled you. My cleavage seems to have you quite petrified.” She places her hands on her hips, regaining a little composure with the arch comment, but not at all offended, if she’s honest. Her interest in the handsome strange only fades when she registers the scrolls held readily in a bandolier, and the royal seal affixed to his own stove-pipe hat.

“You’re a Witch-Hunter.” She observes, her tone immediately turning sour.

“I prefer Warden. Or Caius. And you’re a Witch.” His smile is not threatening, and rather, he seems to be enjoying the sharpness of her tongue.

“Everyone’s so terribly observant around here. Yes I am. Is that going to be a problem, or can I carry on my way down to the spooky village?”

Caius laughs, a deep and rumbling sound accented with the tones of the Seltian heartlands. It’s quite the more engaging laugh she’s ever heard. She wonders what other sounds he makes…

What is WRONG with me? Did the Priest do something to me to get me feeling this way?

She covers her mouth with a flowing sleeve - as though pondering - to hide her renewed blush.

“With respect, you do dress as though you’ve stepped out of a child’s book of tales. Though it rather suits you, Miss…?”

“Morgause. Morg.” She replies, a smirk returning to her lips. Trading barbs with this one is a far more pleasant way of conversing with a Witch Hunter, especially as it doesn’t involve her being tied to a stake. It’s almost enough to distract her from her mission. Somewhat reluctantly, she begins to side step him.

Caius doesn’t stop her, but take a few steps in time with her, making his desires plain - that she stay for a moment. “If indeed you are headed into the ah, spooky village, might I ask a favour?” He looks her up and down again, this time a little more appraising. “I very nearly found myself run out with pitchforks and fishing nets. And I’ve no wish to harm the people here, even if they are a… curious lot. Would you agree to check in on a small matter for me, while you’re down there?”

She frowns, genuinely confused. Here is a royal Witch Hunter - sorry, Warden - not only eyeing her up and (she thinks) flirting with her, but also essentially deputising her to act in his behalf.

This day - this place - is getting far curiouser by the moment.

“What exactly do you expect I’ll achieve that you can’t? You certainly seem able to take care of yourself.” She lets her eyes drag over Caius’ body, on the hint of a muscular chest under his open-necked shirt, and the fit of his leather britches, “besides, how do you know the locals won’t try to pitchfork me? I am a Witch, after all.”

His smile turns sheepish, a boyish quality to his face that does nothing to lessen her growing interest in him. “It’s my experience that rural communities like this one respond better to a less… shall we say official touch. And besides, unless I miss my guess, you’ve already passed through there once, and are none the worse for wear.”

“How do you figure that?” She asks, uncertain.

“I overheard a particularly unpleasant looking Halfling outside the tavern murmuring about a Witchy Elf with legs to make a man stiffen. It seems you have a fan.”

She wrinkles her nose in distaste, mentally making a note to avoid any Halflings in the village. “So what is it you want?”

“There’s a barn - well it looks like a barn, which itself is an oddity as this isn’t a farming settlement - down across the way from the tavern. It’s kept under lock and key. I came here following up on a spate of disappearances outside of Corringate. Since this is the closest village, I suspect there may be a connection. And I suspect that barn is hiding something.” She can’t fault his logic, and actually admires it, relieved to find a sensible through-line rather than knee-jerk suspicion that any disappearances are the fault of Satyrs, Centaurs, or Witches.

“And if I do? What’s in it for me?” She can’t resist answering. The barn is on her way after all, and a simple lock won’t be much trouble for her.

“Well, depending on what you find, you’d be doing your Kingdom a great service.” He winks at her, and she feels her legs momentarily turn to jelly. “And I’d be able to report to my superiors that the immediate danger in this region is resolved - no need to go rooting around any further.”

“I’ll think about it.” She replies airily, picking her way past him, her skirts whispering against his hand as she goes, moving further down the hill.

Feeling him staring after her, she glances back, with a sly grin. “So are they?”

“Are what?” He asks, looking uncertain for the first time.

“My legs. Are they legs to make a man stiffen?”

He regains his confident smile, but she’s gratified to see a faint blush on his cheeks. “I’ll tell you once you’ve checked the barn.”