He awakens on top of the tower.

“CAW!” a crow screeches in Domic’s ear. He gasps awake, still on the roof of the tower. “Gods, we really are fucking stupid, falling asleep up here,” he thinks as he shivers. Cerni is nowhere to be seen. “Maybe I’ll see her tonight – now how do I get down?” He climbs down to the second level, and carefully opens the trapdoor to the first. He hears a soft snoring coming from below. He carefully tiptoes down the ladder, past the guard in his bed, and unlatches the door – opening it to the flabbergasted face of a woman, hand raised to knock. “Morning,” he mumbles quickly as he brushes past her, turns a corner, and sprints away.

“When was the last time I jerked off?” he thinks, nearing home. “I don’t even remember, with everything that’s been happening,” he opens the door to his house, “and my fucked up blueballs relationship with Cerni isn’t helping and,” he walks to the kitchen{if Izabel ****=1}, and into a painting.

Izabel reads at their pine table, book in one hand, goblet half raised to her succulent lips with the other. Her lovely, dark, lustrous hair hangs about her shoulders. One of her long legs, the further, is folded up, the closer stretched out. The hem of her white linen shift droops between her legs, obscuring her vulva, and nothing else. He follows the curves of her folded leg from ankle to the highest part of her thick inner thigh. The string at the neckline of her shift is undone: a gate unbarred to the curves of her gorgeous, full, and proud breasts; two mountain matriarchs compared to Cerni’s sisters. He runs up to her lakes, her eyes, widening in surprise, yet so deep, so blue, all he wants to do is stare at them, do anything they tell him to, even drown himself in them.

“And I’m sure it’s affecting my thoughts,” some small part of his mind finishes. The rest of his mind is preoccupied with staring at this beautiful woman before him and pumping as much blood as it possibly can into his dick.

“Domic?” Izabel says, surprised, cheeks blushing. She puts down her goblet, leg, book over legs, and hand over cleavage, all far too quickly for his taste.

“Oh, gods, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he stammers, focusing with all his willpower on a tiny point in the middle of her forehead.

“Nono, it’s alright. Thought you were out, not back for a bit,” she says.

“Yes, uh, went for walk.”

“Oh. Did you go to the market?”

“No.”

“Will you go with me?”

“Sure,” he says. She walks quicker than normal past him, stamping up the stairs. He glances, he can't help it. He glances at the ravine between her breasts when she passes him. He glances at her ass, just barely covered by the fluttering shift as she hurries up the stairs. “Holy fucking gods,” he thinks, as he mindlessly descends into their cellar for some breakfast. “What the fuck’s wrong with me?” as his erection dissipates with his appetite.{else} and down into the food cellar for some much needed breakfast. "I shouldn't think of it, I'll just take care of it tonight, or something," he thinks.

His mind turns to other things as he happily munches on some bread and dried fruit for a few minutes. He hears Izabel coming down the stairs. "Oh, good morning," she says, entering into the kitchen. "Thought you were out on duty or something like that she says," rummaging in their cabinets.

"Uh, no no," he mutters, "just out for a walk."

"Did you go to the market?" she asks.

"No, sorry, I didn't."

"Will you go with me, once you're done eating?"

"Of course," he says, finishing up a piece of bread.{endif}

…

“Can you think of anything more we need?” Izabel says, handing Domic a small purse filled with silver coins. They stand in the market of Pael – it hasn’t been great for many years. Whereas in much of town, houses are intermixed with a few dedicated establishments, or have a ground-level storefront, with homes above, it is different in the market proper. Here, a long stone rectangle of uninterrupted shops surround a broad courtyard. The rectangle has shops on the ground level, shops above reached by a wooden mezzanine, and stalls packed inside. Some particularly rich merchants have even constructed third levels to house more of their goods. In the area surrounding the market, only some of the richest Paelish live, in the few houses that haven't been converted to shops.

In the center of the courtyard stands a towering, cylindrical column of granite, faced with marble. It is large enough to contain a spiraling staircase inside, with a balcony on top, but the door to it is locked, only opened on festival days. Carved into its sides, painted now only with specks, is the history of some ancient war in the region. Not many townsfolk pay the carvings much attention now, due to the difficulty of squinting up at some tiny image, but that’s not the only reason. It also contains many unpleasant reminders that once man and orc marched side-by-side.

“Uh, more wine?” he jokes{if Izabel ****=1} anxiously, looking anywhere than at her. They hadn’t said a word to each other since they had left the house.{else}.{endif}

“Hmm, do I have to worry about that becoming a problem?” she says, with a serious tone in her voice.

“Oh no no, what, uh will we drink if the, uh well freezes again?” he smiles anxiously.

“Ice. Now um, go get some um, dried fish, and maybe some more uh, blankets as well, alright? Meet me by the column in uh, an hour or so?” she says, as a bell tolls from a temple nearby.

"Sounds good,” he nods quickly, and they go their separate ways. He walks in a long aisle, stopping by a fishmonger’s stall to buy some salted trout, and then he continues, searching for a way to one of the generalist shops. Something glinting catches the corner his eye, and he turns to a stall selling…metal tubes? “Hello – what are these?” he asks in Norword as he walks over.

“Ah, hullo. They’s spouyglaazes yung suh,” the merchant, a southerner by his dress and accent, answers in a grating imitation of Domic’s mother tongue. “Seeez faa tings cloze!”

“Uh, I speak Norword just fine sir,” he says.

“Sooz do I, yung suh – cannot lern yer mouth if I dun’t praktize!” the man smiles.

“Alright then,” he says, simultaneously flattered and intensely horrified. The merchant hands him a brass tube and mimics holding it to his eye. It's about half a foot long, with glass lenses encased on either end. As he holds it up, the tiny figures of the column, a fair distance away, appear right in front of him. “Magic!” he exclaims, amazed.

“Nuh nuh yung suh. Optiks,” the man grins.

“O-optiks?” the word is too southern.

“Yes, optiks. Scienze suh - seez faa tings cloze.”

“Fascinating, fascinating,” he says. “Izabel would love this, and it’d be great for hunting,” he thinks. “How much for two?” he asks.

“Two? Ten prostitutes, yung suh.”

“Prostitutes? What?” Domic sputters at the merchant incredulously.

“Oh oh, apologizes, yung suh. Ten silvers,” the man says sheepishly.

“Oh yes, of course,” he says, handing the man some coins from his personal pouch. “I suppose the words do sound pretty similar – I can only guess why that might be,” he thinks mischievously. He and the merchant thank each other, then Domic walks to a small shop where he purchases a pair of green woolen blankets. He browses aimlessly until the bell finally tolls again, then he walks through the market to find Izabel sitting on a stone bench beneath the column, flipping through a small book. {if Izabel ****=1}He tries to ignore the memories of her similar pose from this morning, and how that made him feel. "She's probably thought nothing more of what happened," he thinks. "And I shouldn't either...it's not like I walked in on her naked," he gulps.{endif}

“Hey, I um, got you something,” he says.

“Oh? What is it?” she asks, looking up from her book. “Not just more blankets,” she says, eyebrow tweaked.

“No no, take a look through this, it’s a spyglass,” he says, handing it to her. She holds it to her eye, jaw opening a bit in surprise. She spins around, looking at things in the marketplace, before resting straight at his face.

“You need to trim your nose hairs,” she teases as she set the spyglass down. “How does it work?”

“Optics - some southern science,” he says, flushing self-consciously.{if Izabel ****=1} "My nosehairs? Oh gods, I thought they weren't that long," he thinks.{endif}

“Those southerners and their sciences,” she rolls her eyes before smiling sweetly at him. “Uhm, thank you Domic, it’s very nice – I won’t ask the price,” she smirks.

“It was my own money, don’t worry. Uh, is this everything we needed? he says.{if Izabel ****=1} "Good, everything's alright with her...I think."{endif}

“I think so – do um, do you want to go eat?” she inquires. He nods, and they head to a small tavern nearby. As they leave the market, they stand aside for a group of armored southerners that saunter past, swords at their hips. “Caravan escorts? Or mercenaries?” Izabel whispers to him, as they and every other townsfolk nearby watch them suspiciously.

He shrugs as they continue to the tavern, where they order a quick meal and drinks. Then they chat politely about the party, the expedition tomorrow, and nothing in particular. As they finish up, they hear a sudden commotion outside. “What’s going on? Where’s everyone going?” he asks a townsman as they step outside, a crowd of people bustling past.

“Didn’t you hear? They’re executing that witch the guard found last week! They’re going to chop her head off!” he cackles.

Izabel scoffs and frowns. “Come on Domic, I don’t want to see that. Let’s go home,” she says, stepping into the street, and he follows. But the push of the crowd in the narrow streets is too much, and so they inevitably find themselves in the commandery courtyard, hemmed in like wall stones. The grey stone bulk of the building looms ahead of them, and the packed crowd shouts and yells and coughs in a terrible noise.

As they get closer, Domic looks up to see Cerni, standing behind her father on a balcony, looking unhappy. An armored Halle, wearing a sparkling, plumed helm with the visor turned up, is talking with city councilors and other dignitaries. Just in front of the commandery doors, behind a line of interlinked guards, a tall platform with chopping block has been erected. Domic and Izabel spend a few fruitless minutes trying to leave through the wall of people, before resigning themselves to the grotesque spectacle. The crowd begins to curse and shout as a wild-eyed, wild-haired woman is lead onto the platform.

She is chained in heavy irons, coated with silver, and she gnashes her teeth on a leather strap. The executioner, a large black robed figure, ax in hand, faces her towards the balcony as the first councilor begins to read through her crimes and the order of execution. “And thus, for the aforementioned crimes, we, the people and council of the Grand Free City of Pael, do condemn to **** by beheading, the witch Rima, may the gods damn her,” he finally finishes after a few minutes. Then he motions the executioner, who turns the witch around.

Domic and Izabel watch, flabbergasted, as suddenly the executioner is lifted up into the air and hurled, screaming, into the crowd. Then the crowd is screaming, Halle rushes back into the commandery, the guards in the line have all fallen down, and Rima’s terrible voice rises above the commotion.

“YOU THOUGHT TO KILL ME! RIMA THE TERRIBLE! RIMA THE HORRIBLE! RIMA, um, THE DESTROYER! YOU SHITHEAD TOWNIES HAD FUN BEHEADING INNOCENTS HUH? MAYBE YOU GOT LUCKY AND MANAGED TO KILL A REAL WITCH EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE! NO MORE! YOU WON’T BE LAUGHING WHEN YOUR HEADS ARE ROLLING!” Rima closes her eyes and begins to chant in a fell, harsh tongue, as a wind begins to rush into the courtyard.

“Domic! Hold me!” Izabel sobs, turning and burying her face into his chest, arms shielding her head. He grasps her tightly, tighter than he ever has, heart banging against her head, frantically looking for a weapon, anything, as Rima chants. The wind continues rushing towards her, as the townsfolk hysterically push and punch each other in a rush to escape.

Then, just as suddenly, everything is quiet.

“Eh?” Rima mouths. She starts to chant again, but nothing happens. She frowns.

“WHO STANDS AGAINST ME? A COVEN?” she spins around, bug eyed. “NO. ONLY ONE. I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME, YOU STUPID LITTLE BITCH! YOU CAN HIDE FROM ME, BUT YOU CAN’T HIDE FROM YOUR NEIGHBORS! FROM YOUR FAMILY! YOU’LL BE UP HERE NEXT! IF YOU SURVIVE, COME FIND ME, AND WE’LL OBLITERATE THIS SHITTY LITTLE TOWN!” she screeches before throwing herself off the platform and vanishing in a flash of light.

Just as quickly as Rima vanished, Halle appears back on the balcony, jumps over the cowering councilors, shoves a massive gun into a frazzled Cerni’s arms, and takes aim with another equally massive one as he bellow out to the crowd: “Where is she?! Where is the witch?”

…

“Do you still want to come with me to Halle’s party?” Domic asks Izabel, as they walk up to their home. There are two notes stuck to their door: one for him, and one for her.

“Uh, yes, yes, I do,” she mutters, yanking her note off and reading it.

“You’re not worried about the witch?” he asks her. They had hurried out of the courtyard along with everyone else, shaken, but with better composure than some folk, who screamed as if it were the end of days. Then they'd rested a bit to let the crowd disperse before walking home.

“Oh, no, I’m sure the guard’s searching for her right now, and I don’t expect she’ll uh, be in a packed tavern with half the town. Now take these,” she says, pushing her purchases into his arms. “Herut needs me at the apothecary," she waves the note. "I’ll see you at the gathering tonight if not sooner,” she says as she walks off, waving goodbye. He waves back, then heads inside to deposit what they bought from the market.