The Witches’ Curse

You are an adventurer. Have been since about 18 or so, meaning you’ve been on the road for about 18 years as well. With the fine silver armor in which you rode atop your horse, most would probably assume you to be a knight. In truth, you had earned a fine living being a sellsword, a bounty man.

Most of your targets were witches, both male and female. You see, superstitious people are all over, and they are convinced that every time a crop fails or a loved one falls ill that it’s the work of a magic practicioner. You, on the other hand, knew that powerful witches were few and far between. The majority had simple abilities or could cast basic spells nowhere near capable of doing what people accused these witches of.

So how do you sleep at night? Easy, you’ve never killed a target. Most witches could be reasoned with and turned in alive. Others might bribe you to let them go, which was quite as good as getting the reward in your opinion. And the truly powerful ones, they would never get caught by the likes of your muscle head ass. You knew that much.

The only killing you had done had been of the occasional monster of the wilds, and of course hunting animals for leather and meat. Even though you were plenty strong, you didn’t want to rob anyone of their chance at life. You even avoided taking quests were the captives punishments would be harsh once turned in. Most of the time, people just wanted the witches put in the stocks to throw soft tomatoes at them and the like. It would be rare for a witch to have a sentence.

On your trip to town, there was a bounty posting. 20 gold pieces was a big reward to bring someone in over an alleged over-watering hex. You excitedly grabbed the posting and got a meal of steak, potatoes, and lots of mead from a local tavern before heading back out to where the bounty said the witch was hiding out.

You were a little drunk from all the mead, but you were confident that you could bring this witch in. After all, your targets usually took one good look at your huge muscles and high class armor before just plan giving up.

You reached a meadow clearing and saw the target’s fire. With a huddled old woman at it. Piece of cake. You dismounted your horse and drew near.

Mysteriously, the woman vanished. That was already too high level for your league. Atop her fire was a cauldron with potion a-bubble. A recipe lay on the floor:

“Strength’s Amplifier: Minotaur horn, powdered. Wolfsbane, masticated and regurgitated. Water from the sea, made pure.

This elixir will improve anyone’s muscle mass, speed, reflexes and energy level.”

This sounded to drunk-you, like a potion worth stealing a bit of. Especially considering the witch had already fled and this was going to go to waste. Using the ladle and cup nearby you scoop out a serving and drink it.

Your head spun. Mot likely the mead. Or the potion prepared by a powerful unknown. You discarded some of your armor, laid down on the grass and fell asleep. You were so drunk that you didn’t even feel your body transforming in your sleep.

In the morning you felt strange. You saw a creek nearby and stumbled to it. In the water,