Chapter 2. A Change and a Charge!
1105 Words
The first thing the old witchfinder saw when he opens his eyes was a group of evil blood cultist, surrounded by their innocent kills.
The second was that he was surrounded.
The third that they were not instantly attacking him and ripping at his still-living flesh.
AND forth, all in a split second of quick succession, was that they all looked as terrified and scared as he must have done!
He had never seen blood cultist be frightened before.
And as a Witchfinder had killed an awful lot of them.
He had seen them run through the naked fire, ignoring all pain as they died burning to attack victims.
He had read vast volumes and studied them for years.
Never once in all the histories and all the years of study had they every been described as anything but, “totally immune to both all fear and common sense”
Yet now, of one single unarmed person, who they have surrounded, they look terrified.
A thought crossed his mind,
What if they were not scared of him?
What if they had summoned some sort of chaos demon that was standing right behind him?
Slowly in abject terror, the ex-witchfinder looked around.
And saw…
Nothing…
Just plain blue sky and some fluffy clouds among some old familiar, ruined pagan, temple columns.
He turned his head back quickly.
And all the blood cultist scattered in all directions!
Some over the edge of a nearby ocean cliff and into the rocky sea below.
“Ok,” he thought allowed, “It was me they were scared of!”
“But why?”
But he did not hear his voice.
Instead, he heard a sultry young female voice.
He looked down on himself.
“Yep” he said allowed to himself again,
“t**s!”
And below that, past a toga of finest white linin. A large stone plinth, as would be used by a statue.
Obviously, the ex-witchfinder was confused.
He was flesh and blood.
But it was apparent that it was flesh and blood that had once been the statue of a pagan fertility goddess of seduction, Vilover.
He or She,
(He was not quite sure what to call himself/herself,)
Looked exactly like her in every previously imagined carved detail.
He/she had bright auburn red hair,
And she/he had highly idealised, idolised, body of how some master sculptor, had imagined the perfect women.
He/She was dressed in the finest linen because that was what some artist had imagined the stone folds to be a thousand years ago.
Which meant, the Ex-witchfinder thought, as he reached up.
“Yep”, he/she said in an unintentionally sexy female voice, allowed.
There was a pure golden crown on his/her head.
What had once been mere stone was now purest gold with fantastical huge priceless gems.
Etched and decked in vulgar fertility symbols.
He had personally destroyed such a statue once.
He had the stone head pounded dust to destroy the offensive erect p***s images on the carved stone crown.
That gross pagan carved stone crown on that statue had looked exactly like a version of the purest gold one he was now holding.
That destroyed statue had been on a cliff edge, pagan temple, that had been infested with blood cultist.
He had raided the place with a small team of fighters on horseback.
He had lost three of those five good men.
They had won the battle.
Then they set about destroying the profane ancient temple.
Just then the ex-witchfinder heard the beating of hooves.
The gold crown was worth more than the treasury of this entire kingdom.
So, He/Her quickly hid the tressure within the luxury linen of his/her robes.
And he stepped down from the plinth.
He had been an expert fighter in his youth.
With almost perfect swordsmanship and swashbuckling balance.
This new body had perfect fitness and muscle tone, far beyond what the level of health and flexibility he had enjoyed in his youth.
But despite this, he/she staggered and nearly fell as he/she got down now.
It would take a bit of time for the ex-witchfinder to get used to his/her slightly raised centre of gravity.
Five, no wait! Six horsemen were rounding out from behind some trees.
This new body also had perfect eyesight!
He/she could not see his/her own eyes But if his/her description followed the ancient text, then those eyes would be a startling green colour.
The lead horseman was a witchfinder just like he had been in his youth.
About three days after he had first met and fallen in love, with her.
Back when he and she were just twenty.
He suddenly felt the old familiar sting of sorrow and regret well up in him again.
Then he noticed that the approaching witchfinder was VERY much like him in his youth.
And this temple was VERY much like the one had destroyed after fighting blood cultist.
In fact, everything was VERY familiar but from a different angle.
That angle being, in a totally different, slightly taller body, with much better eyesight.
He/she had remembered dying.
But for some reason, he was not dead.
He was in a different from sixty years before his own death.
The Witchfinder riding towards him was his twenty-year-old self.
The twenty-year-old self that had regrettably been called to duty to hunt down blood cultist three days after falling in love.
That meant SHE was still alive!
He could see her again!
Even if it was just once before whatever magic this was, wore off and he died properly!
This must be some sort of divine reward for his honest faithful service for his devout holiness and the constant keeping to his duty!
The twenty-year-old witchfinder on horseback was not pleased.
The blood cultist he had been hunting had been scattered.
And there was what seemed like a perfect woman dressed in the purest white fabric in a pagan temple surrounded by the bloody piles of the innocent victims of that cultist.
That togas hem should have been dirty with that blood and all those bodies.
She could not have gotten to the centre of those ruins after all this blood a death without a filthy encrusted red hem.
Which means she must have been in the centre of it all, as it happened and not moved.
The blood cultist had not attacked her at all.
She, therefore, must obviously be some sort of summoned Demon.
Probably an evil Succubus.
The young demon fighter reached behind him to reach an ‘Old Bessy’!
A faithful arquebus (a type of black powdered shotgun) that was laden with a load of blessed silver shot.
The blood cultist may have escaped but one of their hell b***h spawn that they worshipped was here.
And IT was a far bigger prize in the fight against all demonic evil!
The young mounted witchfinder called for his men to commit to a charge.
He/She who was in the white robe saw the increased gallop and head-on approach of the demon fighters.
“What the hell was I doing?” thought the old ex-witchfinder, (in the young female body)
“HE IS BLOODY WELL CHARGING AT ME!”
“Me!”
“Himself!”
“He or Me is going to attempt to kill me, or himself!”
“s**t!”
- Writer
