Darkness. At first, then it was the taste of blood. She could get used to the acrid smoke, the overpowering stench of sulphur, even the heightened sensations of pain and pleasure. But the taste of blood was something she could never quite get used to, no matter how many times she partook in it. It was, for better or for worse, a reminder of what she was. A human.
Blinking, she wiped away the grogginess that threatened to pull her back into slumber. The smell of sulphur lingered in her nostrils, a constant reminder of the bargains she dared to take - and of the consequences should she back down from her part.
Looking around the room, modest in size and construction, a casual observer could never guess what she truly was. Even those closest to her had no idea, for she played her part in this desolate speck of society well. Indeed, the Witch was just like everyone else; she ate the food and drank the mead they did, worshiped the same gods, garbed herself in the same cloth and leather as anyone else here. Even the spells she weaved looked akin to something a wizard might cast.
She was, by all accounts, a simple adventurer, stranded here, like most of this island's intelligent population.
The reality could not be further from the truth.
A knock upon her door pulled her back from her thoughts. Judging by the rare rays of sunlight that filtered through the wooden walls of her room, it was early in the morning. She wanted to call out, ask why he would disturb her at such an ungodly early hour but found it hard to utter a word, her throat very dry. Her nearby waterskin sat on the table, dripping last few precious drops onto the wet rug, and she was certain it hadn't been a coincidence nor an accident on her part.
She cursed hoarsely under her breath, swearing destruction upon a certain imp, though perhaps she was more frustrated than anything with having been played by his tricks again.
Lifting a corner of the wet rug, she found a small assortment of weapons underneath. This time she would go with the dagger, as she had so many times in the past. Once more she regretted not having bought a shield. Perhaps there was yet time to stop by the Trading Post.
The impatient knock came a second time. Who was she kidding, there was work to do. As if on queue, the male voice from the other side of the door spoke.
"Goblin's ain' gonna kill themselves."
She sighed. The anger she held against the treacherous imp would be wasted on some worthless greenskins. At least she would get paid.
"I'm coming," she murmured as she draped herself in a cloak that promised to keep her warm. With a long exhale she put on her most inconspicuous smile as she opened the door.
Taming a Devil
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