The folk of Rhydin, both out of towner, local, and ancient heartbeats of magic alike, can often unroll a bit of mischief for the pushier passers by. Amboss must have very obviously fit the bill if he was stuck fighting the less animated natives of the area to keep his pristine wrappings... That or the witch was a more clever and powerful woman than he'd anticipated. Word of mouth in town might be ripe enough even with all his bullying and intimidation to garner a story or two of the gypsy witch since her recent arrival to the area.

Thorns would bite, brambles would scratch, but the paths would remain ever winding. A stroke of misfortune for those intensely displeased green hues, no doubt, but a lick of luck for the fire kissed orbs off in the distance. Lilliana, ever attentive and busy creature she was, was out harvesting late season nettles with a clean sickle and a burlap catch sack. The thickest patch grew a good wind from her caravan's wheels, but that didn't mean the witch lacked familiarity with her surroundings.

A flicker of movement and the distant rustle of birds disturbed from their treetop perches let the witch know someone or something was having quite the time dislodging themselves from the thicker edge of the woods. Curiosity grew heavier on the line of her pale shoulders as what distinctly sounded like a curse echoed down the line of the grass to her harvesting site. Dropping the burlap cache and sickle, Lilli struck an arm across her glistening brow before trudging up the field and towards the dark line of trees, lips turned up in a concerned smile.

"Be ya' friend'er foe there, ya' poor soul? No' many ou' this way stumblin' an' caugh' like ya'..." Quite, amused, and mildly concerned; her voice echoed less and less as she neared the trees.

"Shiana ya' say?... Tha's no' my par'ticular idol, bu' I know'er teachin's. Awful proper gree'in' ya' give though." The amusement in her voice was meant to be easily gleaned as she parted this branch and that, ambling ever closer. Her steps became a touch more sure as she saw the flickers of Amboss's pale wrappings through the thick.

Though she too, had eyes for a magic touch both active and come-to-pass, Lilliana held no name for it. She just merely saw. The glittering paths the man had been trudging along were not tricks from the witch, but from the wee winged ones. In truth, she knew the fair folk had been out playing games among the woodlands surrounding her stretch of land, but they never really bothered her. The scar glistening smooth and wicked above her heart was the mark to keep them at bay; the proof of her strength. It would shimmer curiously to those with a Seeking eye, as would her entire person. Lilliana's power was an earth drawn kind, and as such, being in her element gave her every inch an alluring under glow.

Emerging through the bramble with barely a thorny branch clinging, molten eyes spilt their warmth to the weaponry first, brows raising. Did he really think something with that much ill intent would come storming through the glen and bring on the need for such enchanted pieces?

"M'name's Lilliana McClae, I serve the Goddess in all'er forms. I don' have so fancy a ti'tle as ya', though..." The mother goddess, the one true deity and her Consort; origin of life and the holder of it's death. Fair folk and human alike worshipped this timeless figure, and if the shine that haloed her buxom form as it stepped into his lost little space was any indicator, she was quite true and empowered in her faith. Her expression was genial and open despite his bristled state. "Are ya' needin' some help?"

"Yer a strange one aren' ya'?... I'm young I s'pose, bu' I'm no' the lass I used'ta look." Though laugh lines hadn't quite set into the cherub's bulk of her face, nor a crow's lively stretch of foot marks to the corners of her eyes, Lilliana could boast a good twenty and a half summers to her person. It was her body type really; botticelli could not select ripe moon for his next painting than the witch's face before him.

After a moment, she added. "An' I do b'long t'man's kind... Born an' bred the ole' fashioned way." Lips screwed in a half cocked smile, the line of her pale brows alive with amusement as she moved to place her hands to either side of her wide hips. "Bu' why then would ya' be seekin' me if ya' don' know tha' much a'bou' me?"

Though her grin wasn't quite cheshire just yet, you know what they say; curiosity killed the cat.

"Three years worth o'magic?..." Molten hues gave a long, steady blink, blink towards Amboss's sudden switch in gears. Misuse in magic? The very thought sent a set of her pale fingers up to the spot above her heart; the vicious evidence of a wound meant to be mortal. Though long healed, it was one of those old things that would ache with age and the cold.

Truly this man must have been sent by someone. Rhydin was a variable torrent of magics, how would anyone be pinpointing her own oddities in the ever streaming ether of power?

Eyes brilliant and proud as any phoenix poured out heavily to the inquisitor, hands readjusting on her hips as she breathed a curl of hair from her face. "I've done m'fair share o'helpin', bu' I'm only human... I've made m'mis'stakes an' se'ttled m'deb' w'the powers tha' be."

If not for the easy mask born of her gypsy life amongst folks more unsavory than savory, Lilliana might have fought to retain an even face at the man's initial reply. He was not a true child of his idol if he didn't believe in his goddess' forgiveness being absolute over the attempted order and rule of man's worldly words.

Her scar was not a thing to be hidden, but a badge worn with a pride born of family and blood. Fingers fell from their involuntary clasp to it's mottled flesh, revealing the mark in question as a rueful smile wilted across her face. "Tha's recen'... I go' i' figh'in' fer m'sis's soul. I stole her back from the matriarch o'the Eire Isles herself, the Sidhe Summer Queen." The quiet pride in her voice and the daring in her bright eyes was a bold invitation for his judgement.

"... I would spill tha' faerie woman's blue blood again w'tha' iron dagger if I had'ta'. Ya' don' whisk folk away tha' don' wan' t'be w'ya'. An' ya' don' cross me or m'brother." Darker memories always threatened to surface when that battle came in mind, but each time that threat was swallowed down and kept there. Daggers were too familiar and mundane a presence in her past, as was the warm spill of blood over her hands.

"Niamh was struck w'a mor'tal wound an' had her soul stolen t'the land o'Tir Na' Nog. M'family res'tored her body an' I brough' back her essence." The witch was beginning to lose her calm, and outrage was slowing taking it's place. Lilliana was susceptible to her temper at times, cliche as it might sound. Call her crazy, but Amboss was hitting all the right, on in this case wrong, buttons.

Each little gesture, each little prompt, proper inflection of his voice drove the witch just a little further towards that ire-imbued edge of her own honeyed dulcet. The inquisitor's magical presence was lapping at her senses as well, wearing her more; it wasn't often she felt the presence of an ether ocean floating about the very air. As much as she may not like him, and wish she'd never come to offer help to what she assumed was a lost traveler, Lilliana still kept fairly even.

"An' wha' is tha'?" She interrupted quietly with a small nudge of her chin towards that unfurled scroll.

"A copy o'yer laws... Hmph." Quiet with her agitation, Lilliana fell from her hands to hips posture, arms choosing to cross instead. The stance she bore was quite reminiscent of a matron growing tired with the impudent temper of a child. Or, perhaps, given the circumstances, a child whom had lost patience with their wheezing elder.

"I apprecia'e yer' considera'ion, Amboss, bu' I wan' one good reason why I should even keep en'ter'ainin' ya' a'all. This country is a motley man's free land, who're ya' t'ex'tend a hand over me whether m'magic be good or bad?" For all the man's steady aim and even tempered voice, the witch was no one to be lead along without question. Indeed, in her mind it took some nerve to step up to a complete, independent stranger and demand an account of their actions.

After a long, heavy silence and an equally heavy up and down of her shoulders, Lilliana gave her head a small, quick nod. "Af'er tha' kinda' explana'tion Amboss, I can a'leas' offer ya' a drink." Whether that fell under his belief's category of things he couldn't and wouldn't consume would remain to be seen, but she'd at least oblige his call on her hospitality. As a gypsy first and a witch second, she couldn't let that hit on her pride go unanswered.

Though it took another moment, she drug the fine, bright weight of her gaze up to the depthless glaze of his goggles, calling him silently to follow. Whether she found reassurance there or no, Lilliana turned, moving back through the thicket of bramble and thorns with little to no trouble. The rest test would be if Amboss too could sift through unscatched; he was in the witch's presence after all, and the local flora seemed to bow and weave away from her step. Not fearful, but respectful.

"Gardening?" Feeling much like a parrot, Lilliana promptly closed her mouth and just gave Amboss the little nod he needed to do what he desired. The glen was a springy place; if you cut it, it will grow back within the days after. If you burn it, new sprouts would be evident within the span of one week.

It wasn't magic so much that kept the burrs and pricks from ticking against her person so much as a natural born grace honed and toned by a lifetime on the road and knowing it's surroundings wherever one went. Making sure to stand off the the side and well out of potential harm's way, away she stepped, mindful of her own footing as she chuckle. In truth, the caravan was only a good two hours walk from the thick, unkind surroundings they currently waded through. Amusement did dare to peek out at the corner of her eyes, though, knowing that so self important and powerful a magician could be unfamiliar with such basic plant natures.

Tick. Off went another mark of dislike towards the inquisitor. While Lilliana had given her permission to Amboss to garden, she wouldn't have done so, so readily if she'd known he'd start hacking and thwacking his way through the offensive briars and brambles like a madman. Plum ripe lips twitched sideways, her nose wrinkling to follow suite; but that was all the witch would do or say on the man's manner of defeating his problematic flora opponents.

"I live down ou' of the fores' on a sprawl o'the glen's fields. No worries abou' tha' unless ya' don' like la'e au'umn danders." There came that patented cheshire grin; yes she was mocking him, but only slightly. It was nothing to take offense to.

Amboss wouldn't have to keep up with his blade brandishing for much longer, because the witch hadn't had to walk too far into the bush he'd gotten himself lost in. Though she wasn't too fond of his presence, Lilli was kindly enough to keep a branch back so the inquisitor could step out into the grass and out of the hungry maw of the forest. Those glazed, blank looking goggles would hold a quaint reflection in them; a serene, sprawling, high grassed roll of land. Down near the very bottom fat bellied creek gurgled, and there rested the the woman's caravan. The whole scene was a good mile long stretch before the next thick of trees began.

He'd been close, but not too close.

"Ne'er me' a man sensi'ive abou' his a'ttire b'fore... Bu' no worries. I jus' don' take t'easily t'folk w' the in'ten'ion o' dissec'tin' m'way o' life." As he turned and left her talking to the air, Lilliana swallowed back the urge to huff. Arms dropped as they walked; she'd originally came out here for a small harvest of nettles, and she wasn't going to leave without them. As they came to the site of her work before she'd stopped to investigate the disturbing sounds Amboss was making in the forest, the witch stooped to collect a thick burlapped swaddle of nettles and her little hand sickle.

"I'm guessin' ya' didn' ask nicely t'find ou' where I live, did ya'?" Though the inquisitor may not have wanted to talk, the same could not be said for the witch he meant to question, however.

"Help? Nah, n'thank ya'. I've go' i'..." Quietly, but not so much forcefully, Lilliana shook her head as she hefted the bundle's weight up with both arms and balanced it's bulk off to the side onto a shoulder. Though she wasn't exactly the frailest looking of damsel's, most women couldn't boast such an easy shift of weight, nor carry it for what looked like another four hundred yards. Thighs hidden beneath the varying tiers of her skirts denoted years spent roaming over hill and dale, bot by part and by pale. She didn't always ride in the caravans with her family when they'd traveled; oh no. The gypsy witch had been an active child, hence why her bulk was so ripe and firm. She was a lover of life and all it's bounty in every sense.

"Ya' ca'ch more flies w'honey than sugar... E'er hear tha' sayin'?" Given the man's less assertive demeanor at the moment, and Lilli's less defensive attitude, she was living proof of said saying. Off she started again, easily catching up and surprisingly, keeping stride. Then again, that subtle flavor of magic about her might be a hint as to why; the burlap bundle was a minor piece of enchantment, not only to lessen the weight of whatever it cradled, but to keep it from piercing the fabric and touching her.

Nettles were infamous for their spiny venom, after all.

As the sickle bounces harmlessly at her lip, Lilliana just shook her head, laughing. "Yer' mama was close, bu' bein' a rambler o'the road since b'fore m'fee' could even touch the ground, ya' grow up hearin' odd spins on ol' classics like tha'..." Clearly amused with Amboss's assumption, back spread that easy going grin. It was almost as if the witch could forget the man was here to query and pick apart her life; that thought was kept aside for the moment, it'd keep her from tossing the nettles at his fat, wrapped head.

Clearly an old, mundane saying was true here though; red heads to hold a quicker temper.

Sweet as a late autumn wind, she picked up once more as their feet kept the pace towards her distant wagon. "Sugar isn' qui'e wha' ya' would use, as ya' said, t'ca'tch flies. Unconven'ional an' no' as good as vinegar. Honey however... Why. Flies cove' honey! I's somethin' they can' make; one more reason fer them t'ha'e an' envy the bees. Those withou' are a'ttrac'ed t'those with. Words can be jus' as powerful as the ma'terial a person holds, ya' can a'ttrac' or repel, bu' i's no' plain sugar tha'll do so, nor vinegar... Go'tta be smooth wha'ever the flavor." Shifting the cache on her shoulder for a moment, she chuckled.

As the inquisitor began his line of questioning anew, Lilliana just continued on by, dropping the weight on her shoulders to lay against one of her wagon's grounded wheels. Her hands moving to unlatch the door as she ambled up the short, free hanging stair. Since Amboss' technique had softened to an almost friendly level, the witch would indulge him freely enough. "I haven' been here a year, which doesn' sound like much, bu' fer a gypsy like m'self tha' can seem like eigh'."

Presenting him her back readily enough, she spoke over her shoulder as she moved inside. The interior was as clever and practical as the burlap cache she'd deposited. Inside the caravan was perhaps twice the size of what it appeared from the outside, warm, inviting, and a variable mirror of Lilliana's personality in the form of inanimate objects. Small shelves of books lined here or there, maps and other cartography projects tacked like posters of far off places to color her sunset hued walls. Candles in various stages of life lined short tables and those bookshelves alike to create a welcoming ambiance.

Settling herself into one of two comely looking chairs not too far off from the curtained hovel of her bed, the gypsy regarded him carefully. "As fer m'family... I've none save m'brother in the area. He lives w' m'sis'ter Niamh, they're qui'e happy." From the way it sounded, this 'sister' Niamh wasn't of blood, but of marriage; a lover to her brother. Then again, a friendly inquiry around town might have given Amboss that information. She would not even begin to breech the subject of Niamh's newly awakened Sidhe nature; that was none of his business.

Moan and groan as that chair might, Amboss would find it quiet soon enough; nothing in Lilliana's home was truly breakable. Being a creature of the rambling road as she was, the witch was used to her wagon jostling and jumping, shaking things as well as breaking them; no more. Fingers rose to cradle her cheek and chin as she regarded him quietly for a long moment, her smile a slight thing for his friendly compliment.

"Magic spills through m'e'ery pore a' times... Can' be helped. Prac'tical applica'ions can draw a'tten'ion an' worm me ou' t'play bigger games." Deciding to beat him to a few punches, she explained. "I help w' the wardin' for folk's weddings agains' unwan'ted forces an' dangers. I weave charms t'aid w' e'ery day worries an' troubles. I use m'talen's t'fire an' kiln m'po'ttery an warm m'bath water..." Fingers motioned about the caravan he'd admired her touch to.

"All this an' more. I'm no mage or sorcerer, I'm a wi'tch... M'touch is be'tter help than hinderance." Lips pursed as she studied his odd appearance further, as though he were a puzzled to be figured out.

The world just seemed to lose all it's weight for a moment. Every inch of her held afloat, and then... Then it all sank into the base of her stomach. The feeling was breath stealing and sickening. Memories of burnt flesh, the image of fire corrupting flesh and rending a body so much raw meat.

This was a moment Lilliana hoped she'd never have to face again.


"I... I don' know where t'begin really." Surely, if the man had done his homework well enough, he'd have known about a very infamous slaver lord, named Travanix. Though there would be no outstanding trail to link between them, it was no mystery to a keener public eye that the slaver rubbed her the wrong way. He'd thwarted her wards in the presence of countless at a wedding, sent her mocking tokens, and smiled to it all as though her dismay was his greatest pleasure; and it was. Travanix was an ever hungry black hole who's tongue had a taste for the fiery buxom on a few ill met occasions.

There wasn't so much a fight in her voice as a weary kind of give; remorse was thick there, and it settled to renew the weight already churning her body. Amboss's sudden shift in his presence only unsettled her further, making her sense of guilt flare. "T'say i' wasn' preven'table would be wrong. I was weak af'er facin' the Sidhe's Queen, i' brough' up memories o' old wounds t'make the new ones heal slower."

"His name... The vic'im's name isn' so impor'tan' as the man whom brough' abou' this whole mess." Her tongue felt too thick, and it caused her to pause. Why was this so hard for her? She'd long laid her soul bare for the Goddess and found the forgiveness she needed, but somehow speaking it aloud, confessing to a live party... It made it far too real.

"When I se'ttled here las' spring, I a'ttrac'ed unwan'ed a'tten'ion from a man known as Lord Travanix." She began again, slowly, but gaining a steady momentum as she continued. "... His world wasn' somethin' I wan'ed t'be a par' of, an' he quickly deligh'ed in bein' the bane t'my exis'tance. A' every t'urn he undid m'work, unravelin' m'magic as if i' were nothin'. He has no such power o' his own t'comba' mine, bu' he found ways t' corrup' others t'lend him charms t' dis'turb m' hard work."

Molten eyes turned, spilling their tired gaze to Amboss. "Travanix disappeared fer a while, an' i' wasn' un'il recen'ly tha' I even knew why. He'd ba'ttled an' old mas'ter o' the craf' he wields an' his body didn' survive. Bu' he's a mas'ter in his own righ' t' the power he wields... an' though his body died, his spiri', his evil essence s'till lived. Bu' i' was caugh' in some dark ether an' was unable t're'turn like i' normally did. Somethin' t'do w' the old man he ba'ttled..." The witch's head was abuzz with a fine, filmy fuzz of sorts that made calling every aspect of the details near impossible thanks to the slaver's invasion, but so far she found herself on track.

"Callin' ou' from tha' ether, i' was me who heard him while I slep'... An' in m'weakness, I though' i' was m'own conscience haun'ing me t'save wha' was lef' o' the broken pieces." Her throat was thick again, but this time it wasn't from the swarm of emotions assaulting her; she'd been talking a lot, so up she moved from her chair to go about the motions of fixing herself a cup of tea. The silent glance in her eyes was enough a question for her unlikely houseguest if he would like some as well.

The easy, methodical motions of fixing that tea was short lived for the witch though, and all too soon she found herself back beside her seat with a pair of mugs; though both were cold. Reeling her thoughts back in from the faraway place they'd been haunting, Lilliana extended one cup to her guest. He'd no doubt feel a pulse of power echo softly from the witch's fingers before they gave up the tea, and as well he should. She'd just heated it.

Moving her own mug up to the lush, tired press of her lips, she finally found her voice again. "I blindly gave shel'er t'tha' voice when I dream', even when I no'ticed m' moods were shif'in' an' changin'. By the t'ime I realized wha' an' who was screamin' ou' fer help I'd been comple'ely rolled." Admitting one's mistakes was always hard, but doubly so when you realize your folly cost someone their life.

"His voice drown ou' everythin' an' everyone I cared abou'... all I could do was act. I knew wha' he needed, i' was suddenly wha' I needed. One mind, one will, one need, like a possession, bu' no'. I... I can' describe i' more than tha'." The tea was long forgotten after her first sip, everything, for the most part, had been spilt. Amboss had tales enough to cover what else had happened. She'd killed someone to bring a great, evil man back into the world. Though she'd not done so knowingly or intentionally, the witch had been an instrument in destruction and felt every dark, glorious moment of it.

It was a beautiful, terrifying nightmare she never hoped to revisit after this day.

For one with such a mouth to her credit, Lilliana couldn't muster the energy to bid him another syllable nor a breath. Molten eyes blazed after the trail of his steps, half lit and dying fast. Upon the door's closing, a wilt took her shoulders as the mug of tea she had disappeared. The mundane desire to lock the bolt upon her door, her fingers half shaking and paler than usual.

The call of her bed was very sudden and overwhelming, as if Amboss's quiet biddance held some magic quality to it. In truth it didn't, but the gravity of his presence and now... lack there of, was enough to make her heed. In she slid to the cool bulk of her bed, pushing and smoothing between the folds of the blankets more than peeling them back; bodice, skirts, boots, and all. Even the few of dead grass caught in her unruly curls from her afternoon's work still held sway in the fiery bulk of her hair.

She ignored them all and drown herself in sleep, dreading the morning in a way she hadn't in quite some time. Absently, her mind drifted over names she missed the faces to.

Morning light... It streamed through her windows without invitation, making her groan quietly as she fought herself from the burrow of her bed. Limbs seemed to ache, though she'd no reason for them to be so. Wait. Yes she did; she'd been harvesting yesterday.

It all came flooding back into her like a queer dream; surreal and unwanted. Teeth moved against her bottom lip as the witch climbed from her bed and began a years grown morning routine. From outside, Amboss would see smoke trickle from the darling chimney stack off to the side of her wagon's roof. Breakfast consisted, or so it smelt, of strong coffee and butter grilled bread. Moments later, Lilliana opened one set of small windows nearer the half of her wagon that faced the inquisitor's direction; she hadn't sensed him, oh no, she wasn't so awake as that yet. Breakfast didn't agree with her and it's contents dropped onto the dead autumn ground.

As appreciative birds swooped down to carry off the half chewed toast, there the buxom emerged from the doors with a strong, almost defiant posture. She was a good person, her magic, though lead astray, was and always had been meant for good on the whole. Molten eyes no longer tired and half dead alighted upon him as her feet touched the ground.

Spurred on by the earth beneath her feet and it's calming voice, the witch called quietly, ready as if they'd not missed a beat since their last talk. "Wha' was tha' ques'ion, Amboss?"

"Make love, no' war... Amboss. As much as I aspire t'the ideals o' jus'tice, I canno' t'ake up arms w' ya'." One might think such an answer to be attempted carefully, but Lilli held the utmost confidence; her Goddess did no condone the active seeking of battle, nor the laying of a hand to the guilty, including, and especially, those that've wronged you.

"Tha' is a hand o' the Goddess, inquisi'or, tha' I canno' o'verride. She will lay the peace t' the wrongdoers, no' her diciples." Devout, the witch gave a sad shake of her head. True, she had fought to keep herself alive on many occasion, but that did not mean she sought dogs while they slept, no matter how rabid and potentially dangerous to the world. Those enigmatic eyes flickered though, still alive with fire with the hurt they bore.

"I can, however, help ya' w' any informa'ion I can t'help ya' find him... He's a very illus'trious man, his pa'tterns are no' hard t'follow." A hand came up to touch her own temple, biting back the urge to wince.

"E'er since his possession, I've go' a good bulk o' his memories an' mind lingerin' in m'own." None of which were pleasant, nor all helpful; but a fair, good few things were. Though initially she'd wished to be rid of the blackness his touch had left behind; they were things she could only grow from when viewed carefully.

His memories could not hurt her; she was too strong now. She wouldn't let them. She would use them.