The Brooch

	A single wagon, drenched in the arcane, stands in colorful defiance of the withering, aged heart of the forest. Beautiful bits and baubles hang from its every inch, a void filled with bright stars painted skillfully onto its every side. A little awning draped with colorful beads shades its side, a cold blue lamplight dancing between them and a window concealed behind them, in the dark of which waits a stranger under a large, pointy dark purple hat dotted with stars, not unlike that of a stereotypical witch. A quiet tune fills the forest, the warm strum of a worn guitar contending with the shivering cold of the night, pitch clouds beginning to roll in overhead.

	A rattling iron cage lantern tied to their back, wrapped snugly in heavy golden and black robes, approaches an individual as ebon drops begin to roll over the dense canopy and spill in steady streams between their leaves, appearing more like tar than rain. The individual looks anxiously to each side before slipping between the beads and into a warm and protected presence, looking up and into the window at the concealed figure. They peer at the sign beside the window, “VASHAU’S VARIETY” it reads.

	“Hail… do you mind if I stay here for a bit? My ward can only last so long, and the rains are coming,” says Willoh, sounding a bit dejected to have to seek safety here, wringing their hands.

	“Oh, haha. Sure… go ahead,” returns a low, drowsy feminine voice, a single purple eye peering from the black mass under the hat. “Wanna' buy something?” they ask casually. The pluck of the guitar marches on irrespective of their conversation. Though the tune is kind, there is something unsettling about the way it echos off the trees and seems to dance with the percussive patter of the rain against the metal awning near perfectly.

	“Do you always shake people down for money when they come looking for shelter? Is that your racket?” asks Willoh, playfully. They dig through their robes, finding a small coinpurse, fat with gold coins. "Perhaps I can. What do you have?”

	“Hmm… you are a Lantern-Bearer, right? Look-look-look, right here…” the voice picks up, sounding a bit less dreary at the prospect of a sale. A long, slender and dripping black limb extends from the dark of the window, the little stars on the hat lighting up in excitement… in unison with the stars all along the outside of the cart. In her palm is a little book of matches, each one a different color.

	“These are magical matches! I made them myself… each color represents a different kind of ward. If you use them to light that little lantern of yours, it can keep the creepy-crawlies away, haha…” Without waiting for a confirmation of desire, she thrusts them into Willoh's hands, arm extending much further than it should be able to. "That'll be ten gold pieces, thank you thank you.”

	“Er…” they begin, quickly deciding, though, that it isn't worth the trouble. They take the matchbook, noting the glowing golden star on the front, and reluctantly fork over ten gold pieces, stuffing the matches into one of their robe pockets. “Pleasure doing business with you… Vashau?”

	“Yes, Vashau, curator of many magical curiosities. Now, tell me what you are doing aaaaall the way out here, Willoh. This forest is very dangerous!"

	“I—” they pause, seeming unprepared for the question and concerned by Vashau's knowledge of their name, “—was investigating a town a few miles south of here, when the rains showed up. I got out between storms, but it seems another is already coming… and what are you doing out here?”

	“The rains, they've been been heavy lately… haven’t they?” says Vashau, sounding quite sure of herself.

	“Yes… we are all concerned about it. I can’t seem to figure out why. There’s no way to attribute all of this disturbance to magical interference, nothing that strong surely exists…”

	Vashau titters, the tune of her guitar becoming a bit more loud and fervent. “The rains have been picking up for years. Each year, one or two extra storms. But this year… five? Five more storms than usual for the season. Isn't that odd?”

	“… It's more than odd,” Willoh speaks somberly. “The town I just fled was… full of interstitials. I'm not sure what happened, they've seen a hundred storms like that I'm sure, but when the storm passed and I got out of shelter, everyone else…”

	“Tsk-tsk-tsk. How awful. And it becomes more common each year! Why do you think this is happening, hmm? Surely, an Inquisitor like you has that kind of information… or at least some sort of theory.” A heavy pause settles over the two of them, the calming ambiance of the guitar becoming startlingly absent and leaving Willoh struggling to find an answer.

	“I don't know. Nobody knows,” they eventually say, meekly.

	“Now I don't know about that, Willoh,” Vashau says, Willoh narrowing their eyes in return. “Maybe you don't. But I do. It's just like a Lantern-Bearer, to assume that because their little divine cabal can't figure something out, nobody else has!” Vashau cackles, shaking her head in disapproval.

	“Fine… what do you know, then? And… how do you know my name?” Willoh restrains their aggravation at the condescension, though their masked gaze is not especially kind.

	“Hmmm! I knew there was something different about you, that you would have the humility to ask at all! We’ll get to the name thing in a little bit here, but let’s start with the important part, hmm? I have seen strange things, in these days, Willoh. I was by the ocean a few days ago, and the black tides were engulfing the whole beach. Isn’t that strange? I got into the waters, I melded with them for a bit and I felt, for a moment, what it was like before I was. I saw something down there, and it didn’t look happy, Lantern-Bearer. I felt something within me, and it was a strange, primordial anger.”

	“What does any of this mean?” asks Willoh.

	“So impatient… the moral of my little story, Willoh, is that you should be looking somewhere else. I know what you would like to think, that if you hunt long enough you will uncover some dark and damp den of witches, or some awful cult chanting horrible things into the jungle sky, but you won’t. Or, maybe you will, but they won’t be chanting the words you’re looking for! The answer to your little hunt lies under the waves, my dear. The rains come from there, from the shifting of something.”

	“You don’t know anything about me, witch. I tire of this nonsense," Willoh grumbled.

	“I know you will walk away and keep my advice at hand, little Lantern-Bearer, so I am not bothered by your impatience. And I have your gold, if nothing else! But I know there is something about you, other than the stench of ichor,” she says, cackling. Willoh seems taken aback by the comment, tightening their robes around themselves. “I would advise thicker robes, Willoh, I can smell the tar that holds you together. I don’t know how you ended up in this sorry little state, but I do know that your order isn’t fond of your ilk.”

	“Now, as for why I know your name…” she starts, a hand once again snaking out of the window and dripping fingers unfurling to reveal a strange piece of jewelry: a brooch,  gold filigree woven in to an elegant wheel shape and studded with four pristine, tear-drop shaped obsidian crystals.

	Gingerly, Willoh plucks it from her hand, golden eyes scanning it over from behind their mask. They seem skeptical. “What is this?”

	“I don’t know. I don’t know everything, you know. All I know is, it’s for you. For a Lantern-Bearer named Willoh. That’s you, right? I found it by the road today, and it called to me, and it said your name! Isn’t that strange? I foresaw that you would come here, and so I parked myself right here and waited for the prophesied visitor, and here you are. Have fun figuring that one out, I’ve done my part and now I have work to do. Thanks for the business!” Vashau proclaims, two dark arms reaching out to slam shut wooden shutters, muffled cackling echoing from within the cart.

	Willoh sighs, plucking their own lantern off of the rod on their back and cradling it in their lap as they sit down against the cart, left alone with the baleful tapping of the rain against the awning. They look over the jewelry, and they can feel it almost burning their fingers through their gloves… why must witches be so damned cryptic?