1. Verses le vin…

The anguished cries of poor Marianne Closnot as the mob dragged her from her home in the still morning were piercing the air with terror. She begged, she pleaded but alas the simple farming community were convinced they had found their culprit. Their cows were miscarrying and dead cats were found all over the neighborhood. With jeers, and cries of spite and malice they dragged her to the small watering pond below the hill of the church of St. Etienne. There she protested her innocence still further. To no avail. Three strong farm hands were instructed to hold her, and drag her beneath the surface bringing her up only so her tormentors could extract a confession of guilt from her. Marianne was accused of witchcraft. It had been the only possible explanation for the wrong doing and this fact was verified by Mme. Leauxtreaux who had seen a peculiar birthmark on the girl’s leg as she washed her families clothes in the adjoining village stream.

Confess your guilt. Confess brayed a villager, practically spitting in the girl’s face with bile. If you do, we promise to be quick. We’ll even send for Monsignor Dallexrand to hear your peace with God. Marianne’s cries of innocence were not the compliance the mob was looking for. Dip her again!

With gargled scream, Marianne plunged once more under the surface. By now the commotion had drawn a steady crowd. Here in Brioude, an important center for trade and livestock, there were many to witness the event. Amongst the crowd some were in terror. Some cheered with every splutter. Most held their tongues in shocked awe and uttered what prayers they might that they were right.

Raddieux the Fallen was an outsider herself, her elvish ancestry requiring her to wear her hair long to hide her ears, and long sleeves and leggings to hide the bruises and burn scars she had received all her life as an unwanted child -- her mother Marie Rose thought her the golden goose, bound to spontaneously generate wealth and prosperity from innate magic, and her stepfather Maurice was even more superstitious than she. It was his brands and belts that had left her skin a living historical map of his dismay at her inability to provide for them.

So when Marianne was plunged into the water, tortured for some perceived slight, Raddieux the Fallen pulled a cudgel, a length of firewood and nearly plunged into the water. A dozen years of torment, and she was near to breaking. A dozen years of hard work, of fighting and training, of preparing for the inevitable fiery explosion of her fraying temper.

It was her ofttimes co-conspirator Farfule, that snagged an arm and gave her pause for her reckless charge.

Slouched against the shadowed recesses of St. Etienne’s doors after yet another long night of unprofitable, back breaking work, Alderic StGeorge stared down at the crowd gathering round the pond.

He was not a particularly clever man, but he was smart enough to know the start of something dangerous when he saw it. The mood of a crowd could turn vicious when fear was present. Even when the supposed source of that fear had been your neighbor for as long as you could remember.

Still, dangerous things were often the most profitable, if you could only manage to stay out of them. Such was the great trick of life, part of which was knowing who to trust and who not to trust—a tricky business indeed. With that in mind he did his best to imprint the faces of each of the farmhands and ringleaders in his memory before uttering a prayer for the poor woman.

O Lord, Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us the sinners. He crossed himself reverently before mumbling And if she should die, let her at least die rich, so those of us left might share in her earthly good fortune.

"Don't do it, Raddiuex, just don't," Farfule whispers through clenched teeth, tightly clutching Raddieux's arm as soon as he sees her grab her cudgel. He squeezes it hard enough to get her full attention.

Raddiuex could be impetuous he knew. Smart as a whip she was but often too quick to act and not always in her best interests. This was one of those times when her fiery temper was about to get the best of her.

Sadly the poor girl in the water was lost. It wasn't that Farfule felt no sympathy. He was practical and this was a lost cause. Someone needed to take the blame for the misfortunes of late and this would at least quiet the witchhunt for now. Was she really a witch? It didn't matter. She was done for, and the masses had found their scapegoat.

"You can do nothing here but turn the angry masses upon you. You will not save her and you understand this, Raddiuex. I know you do."

Magdalena Beauséjour, a recent arrival in the village, watched the proceedings with a troubled look on her fair face. Her normally bright eyes were clouded, and her fists were clenched as the peasants manhandled Marianne, as they threatened and abused the poor woman, groping and drowning her. It was, of course, very unlikely that the wretch was responsible for any of the real or imagined magicks that afflicted the town, but what if she was? What if Closnot did indeed brew potions, cast curses, and fornicate with devils?

The dark-haired beauty's nails dug into her palms as she considered what it might mean to find a sister, to find another like her so quickly -- but she shrank back from the ugly mob when there were calls for the Monsignor to come. She knew how that would end. She knew the cruel hand of the church all too well.

Barefoot in the mud, Magdalena wore a plain and dark gray dress, peasant's garb that was laced tightly in the back, had full skirts that nearly swept the ground, and offered an attractive and lightly freckled décolletage. The young witch wore a leather satchel across her lean body, and its contents made her heart thump in her chest as she thought of what she might do if presented with a man of the cloth such as Monsignor Dallexrand.

"Will we do nothing?" Magdalena said lowly to those that could hear her, those who, like her, wondered if an innocent and terrified woman was about to be wrongly murdered before their eyes.

Gilles stood at the back of the angry mob, up the hill a bit so he -- unfortunately -- had a clear view of the proceedings. He found it distasteful, but he was unwilling to bring the attention of the mob on himself... and so he slunk away.

He quickly made his way behind a building to break line of sight with the gathered townsfolk, then hastened to the poor girl's home. Maybe... just maybe... there would be something there that no witch would have. Something that might stop this mob. With the people gathered by the pond, Gilles hoped no one would notice he was missing.

Raddieux looks at Magdalena, the newcomer clearly as torn as her. "We could grab her and run, but where? Allons, hut, these superstitious imbeciles would turn on their children to avoid the truth. That this village is not alone in its struggles."

She yanks her arm halfheartedly from Farfule, and looks around for other people who might object loudly. Too few.

The man, Alderic by the church. That one, leaving. "Farfule, where is Gilles going? Off to collect some valuables when everyone is focused on the lake?"

"Mais non! How close do you think you'll get before they decide to drown you ... or worse. Don't be a fool. Stay put."

It wasn't just because he didn't want Raddieux harmed, he also didn't need or want the attention. No one could be trusted in Briode, a wicked place full of miserable people out for blood all trying to make themselves feel better about their own wretched lives. He wasn't about to get involved in someone else's business. He specifically wore his brown hair long and unbound to cover his face and dark leggings and breeches with a threadbare dark tunic. He could blend effortlessly into the shadows and when opportunity knocked in the form of loot to be stolen he was always ready to seize the moment. Being noble didn't get anyone anywhere unless you believed in a higher power and heaven's gate, which he most definitely did not.

"It's possible that Gilles is using this commotion to do just that, Raddieux. And good for him if so. Maybe he will split it with us eh?" Farfule replies, his eyes sparkling at that idea, as he feels the village's lust for this woman's death whipping up into a frenzy with every passing minute.

He barely catches Magdalena's words through the din of the witch's cries as his searching eyes find her."What would you have us do, Magdalena? We are outnumbered, n'est pas? Do you want to join her too? Bah! You women, always wanting to save things."

The jeers grew louder as the poor spluttering girl brought her head and soaked hair, which streamed across her face, up another time. Clemence! Mon dieu, please no more. She coughed hard and choked a little at the water in her lungs. Marianne had decided that to hang was preferable to this water bound torture. At least she could pray for a quick death. I did it. I am the witch. The eruption from the crowds gasps were soon over turned by a harsh voice of a woman, Mme. Leauxtreaux. Henri! Fetch a rope and send for the monsignor. Confession! Marianne was dragged from the pond her arms visibly bruised, her clothes soaked and her skin blue with cold. She had lost all color. This morning she would die.

At her small hovel that she shared with her mother and father, a would be burglar had made his approach. As Gilles had reached the decrepit and crumbling wreck his mind wondered upon what he might bring. There would undoubtedly be a cross, maybe even a few devotional drawings, but no peasant would accept their existence as proof of her non-witch status. These were standard items. He would have to consider carefully anything he chose to bring. The door still ajar, and the place deserted even by her parents who had gone to witness the mob justice, entering the Closnot household would be child’s play.

Alderic shook is head as poor Marianne gasped her confession. He understood why she had done it, but it filled him with bitterness that she was giving the mob the satisfaction they were drooling over. If she were willing to accept her no-doubt unjust fate so quickly and meekly, perhaps he could give her one last chance at escape, if only he could find the Monsignor Dallexrand before he was pulled down by the mob to take confession.

Swift as a shadow Alderic darted into the church to find the man. It was common knowledge (common at least to him) that a witch could not utter the entirety of the Lord’s Prayer without gagging and spitting on the words. Perhaps the Monsignor could be persuaded to conduct one last test, one which would be more official than whatever this dubious woman Mme. Leauxtreaux had supposedly seen.

Shaking her head, still balling her slim fists, Beauséjour could help herself. She strode towards the crowd, her heart racing and dress fluttering.

"Stop! Arrêt! Do not do that which you will regret!" she shouted at the noose-wielding serfs as she approached them. "Who, when being drowned so, would not admit to -- to whatever charge you level?! This woman will say anything to keep her head from the water!"

Marching right up to where the exhausted, gasping woman was still being restrained, she added, "You know it is true! Think on your own souls, and your own judgements. Are you so sure of her witchcraft that you'd risk murdering an innocent Christian who is so desperate for even a few minutes more of life that she will admit to the worse crimes you can all imagine?"

"What proof is there," the dark-haired woman continued, "of her guilt?"

Inside the house was little. A few scraps of food on the table and a pitiful looking fire. Delving deeper within, behind a modesty curtain in an alcove, Gilles found what he assumed was Marianne’s corner. Beneath the rags and the debris, under old musty clothes he found a leather bound book of profane drawings, a pentagram, and the eyes of what he assumed were some kind of human.

I saw her. She has cast spells over the men, she was a dairy hand at Old Renaud’s holding when it was found to be laid waste by a withering sickness. All this and more. She bears the devil’s mark! Mme. Leauxtreaux screeched over a silent crowd. Approaching the girl, she violently raised the hem of her skirt to reveal a large brown birthmark above the knee of Marianne’s leg. What further proof is needed?. The crowd, stunned by this revelation began to murmur in agreement.

"Mon dieu," Gilles utters under his breath. "Looks like she actually is a witch.

He tucks the book under his tunic, intent on disposing of the it. He isn't sure why he's protecting a witch, but... considering the trouble everyone has had since the war, Gilles can't bring himself to fault someone for trying to survive... by whatever means necessary.

Gilles will take a few more moments to paw around, looking for anything of value, but then -- whether he finds something or not -- he slinks back to the mob, standing in the back as if he had never left.

Raddieux shakes off Farfule and follows Magdalena. When she hears the testimony, she knows its a lost cause. Such words are damning.

"Give her the night, to fear her punishment with the sun. To prepare her soul for the fires of hell. Let us all pray for her evil to be lifted."

Much mischief occurs at night, and Raddieux's brain is churning with ideas.

Silly woman! Farfule thinks as Raddieux stupidly shakes him off. One day that foolishness will put an end to the fiery elf's life. As fond as he was of her, life would go on just fine without her.

The woman in the water had stupidly admitted to her crime of being a witch and would now take her punishment, not that he had anything against witches. It was the getting caught part that got stuck in his craw. Being a practical man he rarely allowed emotion to cloud his judgment. True he would miss the pretty Raddieux's companionship and her help in their nefarious endeavors should she be attacked and killed by the frenzied mob but such was life in this miserable place.

Ah, and there goes Magdalena too rushing into the fray. Such foolishness!

Shaking his head, Farfule gripped his rapier in case the bloodthirsty crowd got out of hand. He thought about making a hasty exit but with the mob focused on the water, who knew what opportunities would come knocking? The thought also occurred to him that with Mme. Leauxtreaux present, and actively calling for a hanging, he might pay a call to her empty abode and give it his own brand of justice.

Magadlena faltered when evidence was voiced -- and then shown -- to her. The young woman's heart raced harder. Has she just put herself at risk for this peasant she doesn't know? Thoughts of just turning and fleeing flitted through her mind, but then someone else was there, beside her. Raddieux the Fallen! The woman with the elven blood. Magdalena didn't know the other woman well, but was fascinated by her heritage. She nodded when the elven maid suggested waiting for darkness to mete out the witch's punishment, glad to not be the sole dissenter in the village.

The villagers began to turn with hot fury on the woman who had dared to interrupt their justice. One lone voice amongst them came forth, a small man dressed in black doublet and addressed them. This other woman, Madame, he offered a small bow to Raddieux, is quite correct. It is our duty as good Christians to offer the accused an opportunity of redemption. With this he crossed himself and the crowd followed suit. Let us take her to the church, there she can receive penance and absolution before she faces execution tomorrow. To the Monsignor. Allez!

Raddieux dips the slightest of curtseys (barely and shyly), and steps back. She says quietly to Magdalena, "Nights are long, come find me early" and then much longer, "Faith preserves!" and slips away back to Farfule.

Now, girl, you need to come up with a foolproof scheme to get her free, and there will be plenty of fools to fool.