The Breath -Sixth Whale Book 1

*1*

Somewhere near the centre of The Halves, a door to a particularly old dwelling (It wasn't something that could be accurately described as a house) slammed open. The Witchfather looked up at his intruder. It was a young man who looked to be in his twenties with curly silver hair. If the Witchfather was paying particular attention he would have noticed that the younger man's hair shifted between light shades of pink, blue and purple. However, The Witchfather had stopped looking at all the details a long time ago. He did notice the frantic look on the man's face as he waved a piece of paper wildly. The Witchfather just looked at him expectantly. The lad was out of breath like he'd sprinted. The Witchfather observed the mans clothes they were rich in colour and looked like a quality fabric. Not something made in the halves. The young ones had been going into the main city.

" The temple..." The young man started, but the Witchfather raised his hand. He could already guess where this was going. It'd happen now and then, he'd been feeling different the past few days. High levels of worship had been bothering him for days, if they kept it up he might start getting younger. That would be difficult to explain.

" Ignore them, stay in the Halves. If you're worried leave the Halves it's getting too crowded with wild magic anyways. I've been saying for years that there are too many witches and warlocks here." The Witchfather grumbled. He was a strange sight to those unused to him. A tall slender man who looked barely in his 30's dressed in brown robes so old they were more patches than the original fabric. He spoke like someone much older and walked with a permanent stoop from living so long under such a low roof. It was rumoured that the man was using magic to stay young, that the title for Witchfather of the Halves hadn't changed owner in over 300 years. This was safe to say wholly inaccurate. From the Witchfather's calculations, he'd been here around 2000 years. At least 500 before the city has built. The Witchfather had long, matted chestnut brown hair and an equally unkempt beard, the colour deeply unusual for anyone touched by magic. If it weren't for his silver eyes and obvious madness he could have passed for normal. They weren't just grey, lilac or pale blue. They had a terrifying sheen to them. They were an unusual feature even among the magic folk.

The young man was trembling with furry. " They want to kill us. They're calling for a cull!" He shook the piece of paper at the Witchfather. The Witchfather just nodded. " They do that, tell the others not to leave the Halves. It will blow over." The young man started to protest again. " We must fight them!" The Witchfather shook his head and gestured for the younger man to take a seat in the wonky three-legged stool by the table. The Witchfather himself sat in a formerly padded armchair that looked as if it had in another life seen better days. " How old are you lad?" The Witchfather asked. It wasn't uncommon for the magic folk to age slowly sometimes to 200 years. Often they might at least appear young but still pass at what would be considered the average human lifespan. " Twenty-four Sir." The young man replied his chest swelling up. Oh to be young and full of pride, he had once been like that? He had certainly once rebelled. The Witchfather smiled in understanding. " Then this will be your first witch hunt. Don't engage with them and it will all blow over by winter when they need us to fight their sickness and protect their grain. The young man glared at him. " We do nothing and hide like cowards then!" He spat. The older man shrugged " If that's what you want to call it. You and the others are safe here, within my protection. There is no need to fight and in time they shall forget. Too many magic folks with wild magic in one place. Once the hostility passes I expect more than a few will want to move away. Did they mention wizards on that sheet of yours?" The young man was still glaring at the Witchfather as if he were the one plastering the town with calls for death.

" No, it didn't. How can you protect all the Halves? You are just a nameless titleless witch father. Any warlock can become one." The silver-haired man was virtually growling at him. He stood up. Silver eyes stared him down, and suddenly it was like all the light was being sucked away. It was just him, those eyes and the dark. " I'm not a witch father I'm THE Witchfather. I'm am the first, I am the last." he smiled and the light reappeared. The young warlock looked dazed but calm.