The Bewitching Hour

✧ chapter one: trouble is brewing

The village of Plaht has a major problem.

It's a pretty peaceful place most of the time. A large and bustling one, to be sure, so much so that it hardly feels appropriate these days to call it a "village" at all. It's smack-dab in the center of bright green hills and walled by dense forest on two sides. A lively river runs through it and the farmlands that stretch throughout are beautiful even if they're quaint, the vast expanses of golden wheat constantly moving in a warm, gentle breeze.

Cross the river over an old stone-brick bridge coated in moss and you'll reach the village square. You'll recognize it right away by the big fountain in the center. That fountain spouts an eternal stream of sparkling clean water, said to be the very place where the village was founded centuries ago, the spot forever blessed by a forest sprite so long as the surrounding nature is treated with respect.

There's a bakery near the fountain with sweets so delicious that people stop in during their travels to the capital just to try it. Those visitors may also stop by the market stalls and the grocers that sell fresh fruit and vegetables, or venture north towards the mountains to buy healthy and hardy livestock from the farmers. And many of these visitors might say that Plaht is the loveliest place in all of Aurita.

But it's not perfect. Because there is, as established, a major problem, and that problem has a name.

"It doesn't look like much if you don't know what's in there", most of the villagers will tell you. When they say this, they are almost always pointing at a twisty hill. Atop it is a sloping cottage surrounded by trees with spindling branches and dark, dangling leaves, nearly obscured from view. The home, when it can be seen through the foliage and only at very specific angles, has a tall chimney and what looks to be a greenhouse behind it. It seems like a nice place to live, even if it's a little lonely.

"What's so bad about that place?" The unsuspecting visitor will usually ask.

The locals will look over their shoulder to make sure that no one is eavesdropping. And they will often look up at the sky, as if they are suspicious of even the birds. They will lean in and whisper hoarsely into that newcomer's ear:

"The warlock," they'll hiss. "Yorak, the Great and Terrible."

Most of the younger villagers have never seen Yorak. Not in person. He almost never opens his doors to visitors, and this is in the rare case that someone is brave enough to venture too far in that direction, and in the even less likely case that someone ventures there and is not chased away by some manner of magick. Yorak is also not one to leave the safety of his refuge to go shopping for groceries, or to make small talk by the fountain. He is an enigma. A specter that haunts that hill.

The older folks— the elders and some of the adults— they HAVE seen him. So far, they have all lived to tell the tale, but no one is pushing their luck.

Without fail, the villagers have all taught their children to steer clear of the house on the hill. They tell the little ones that if they see Yorak peering out through his window or tending to his gardens, they must avert their eyes and tell no one. That they must avoid suspicious animals, because one can never be too careful with magick folk. Yorak could easily have summoned familiars. A wolf, or a crow, or a frog... any one of them could be an agent of Yorak in disguise, waiting to give its master a signal to cast a hex upon you and your household.

Lance McClain has heard these scary stories since his early childhood.

His parents place herbs above the farmhouse's door meant to repel the curses of witches and warlocks, and there are protective Laphamian runes on the backs of their scarecrows and some of their tools and on the inner walls of the barn. Lance is still scolded, even though he is now technically an adult, if he spends too much time in that part of town. Even if he's nowhere near that suspicious-looking cottage.