Once there was a great templar, shining and proud, righteous in his faith in the Maker’s will. So proud was he that, upon hearing legends of Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds, he embarked on a quest to find and slay her on his own, leaving his home in Redcliffe behind.
On his way to the Korcari Wilds, the templar came to the village of Rossleigh on the western roads. There he spoke to a young woman that had heard tales of the witch from the Chasind wilder folk. ‘She is a monster,’ said the woman, ‘terrible in her temper and wild in her beauty. She is the hand of the cold, the wet, and the dark. Above all these things she is a myth, and not worth any man’s pain to find.’ But the templar would not heed such hearsay, and so he pressed on.
The templar came to Lothering, where the world gathers at the edge of the Wilds. There he met a woman, a mother that had been telling her child of the dangers of the great forest. ‘Yes, I know of her,’ said the mother. ‘She is a creature of legend, a cautionary tale of the limits to where man should go. Not even a powerful templar can kill a warning, sir.’ But the templar was sure that the Witch was more than just a symbol, and so he continued his quest.
And then the templar entered the Korcari Wilds, home to the savage Chasind people, and he found a village elder, a cracked and bent old woman who was willing to speak in his language. ‘She steals men’s souls at the end of the green,’ said the crone, ‘where hearts turn to ice and blood runs blue. Even a templar dare not go after her, for the land bends to her will, and that templar’s life will be drawn before his sword.’ But the templar bristled against such doubt of his skill and the Maker’s glory and he charged off to find the witch.
And he reached the end of the green, where the Wilds touch snow and frost, and there he did indeed find a cabin huddled against the wind. And there he found a lovely young woman tending a garden that grew even through the frost, and he approached her to ask after the witch.
‘You have come far, good templar,’ purred the young woman, exotic and dark in her beauty. ‘And it is time that you should rest.’
‘I will rest only when the Witch of the Wild has been killed,’ said the templar, ‘Tell me where she is!’ The templar pointed his sword at the young woman, who smiled warmly as the templar felt a knife enter his back.
‘I am myth, and warning, and the thief of souls,’ whispered his killer. ‘I am all those things you heard of me, and I was all those people with whom you spoke.’ And the templar doubled over and fell to his knees, turning to face the voice and finding but a blur. ‘And I am the last thing you will never see.’
