The Owl

The wind whipped her hair around, and it flirted endlessly with the wild flames of the open fire. The soot on her blackened fingers stained the edges of the spell book in her hand.

“Ut sint oculi tui oculos meos. Ut sint oculi tui oculos meos. SCANDIUM fiet unum.” Her voice was raw and deep, echoing through the quiet woods surrounding her. She could feel the magic taking over as her eyes rolled unnaturally far back into her mind’s eye.

She could see the treetops pointing up towards the sky. The light reflects with blinding shimmers off the small river through the forest. Up ahead was the encampment of outsiders. The foreigners are coming too close for comfort.

Using the connection magic, she guided her familiar down, down towards the rising smoke. The white barn owl swooped down inconspicuously through the trees, listening intently for human chatter. It settled carefully on the branches of a spruce tree.

The fire belonging to the group of men sitting around crackled loudly in the brisk evening air. The beer sloshed around in their unsteady hands as their laughter bellowed thunderously through the air. It sent shivers through the otherwise silent forest.

Through the owl’s eyes, she saw what she feared: the dark barrel of a gun hoisted ever so carefully up next to one of the men. Hunters. The owl and the witch shivered together in the haunting, nightmarish thoughts of what the hunters could do.

“Dimitte,” she whispered, and her natural sight returned to her. This wouldn’t do at all. She would not let her forest, her friends, and her lands mutilated and raped by the likes of these men. She needed a greater spell to help them understand they would not be welcome here.

The owl kept watch over the men and murmured their every movement back to the witch. The witch started with different ingredients in her cauldron. Soon, the mixture inside glowed with a strange purple that matched the deep color of her eyes. She smiled, revealing her sharp teeth. Soon, there was a widespread spread of animals at her feet.

“Vade. Deprime dentes, donec minuant,” she demanded of the creatures. They nodded and slipped back into the forest. The witch once again took over the owl’s sight and watched as the animals meant to be the sport for the men attacked.

The screams of the men were higher-pitched than the witch had anticipated. Their bones cracked, and blood spilled over the land. The fire started to slip out of control, catching onto one of their tents. The witch sent a spell, entrapping the danger in the clearing, and ordered her animals out.

By morning, the circle would be nothing but ash - a reminder to all those who dared cross into her lands to tread with caution.