Now in a violet apron, the witch tends to the flowerbeds outside her isolated cottage. No road, path, or even track leads to the idyllic cottage. Surrounded by a circle of Rune marked stones, and deep forest; the cottage and its garden take moderate space. From afar, it would go completely unseen, hidden by the trees.

  A small pruning knife seeing to any undesirable stems, as she hums sweetly, enjoying the warm sunshine. A gentle breeze carrying pleasing woodland scents perfects the moment. She stops humming to close her eyes, breathing in the wonderful spring day.

  Crick!

  A twig snaps behind her. He's here. Without turning her back, without giving anything away, the witch uses her mind's eye to see. The witch hunter is lurking just within the trees, the tip of his polearm gleaming in the sun, is he even trying to hide? At least he has his helmet and the shadows hiding his ill-bred visage.

  She knew he would come. He'd taken so much already, her dog, her magic robe, and now he came for her head. She steadies herself. The potion is ready in the cauldron, a knife in hand, just one drop of his filthy blood... She smiles relishing the thought of the immense suffering he'll experience when the potion is activated.

  The delectable thought turns to a surge of pure hate, that powers her transformation into a superhuman blur.

  FOOM!

  The witch slashes, the pruning knife slicing clean through the helmet's chin strap. Crucially, she nicked his chin, drawing blood. Good, the fucker pulled his head back in time, it would've been too easy if her super speed delivered slash killed him.

  FOOM!

  The horrid hexer zooms to her cottage, stopping within her threshold. She sees, but does not acknowledge, the hunter throwing himself down against the ground. She paces over to her cauldron, knife ready to dip and stir.

  SNAP!

  The magically enhanced sound of a finger snap causes the wicked magic user to hesitate, knife just above the potion.

  BOOOM!

  The wiccan woman's cottage is saturated by fire. Her screams are drowned by the roar of the flames.

  Perhaps not having magic would have been kinder in these brief moments, keeping her alive as it does. Hair reduced to smoke, flesh being seared off, her nerves cease to register the overwhelming pain.

  CRASH!

  The cottage surrenders, collapsing onto the dark sorceress.

  The evil enchantress opens her eyes to darkness and agony. She can't move her right arm, her left barely and her legs... she can't feel them at all.

  "Wrah!" Shrieks the malicious magic user, telekinetically blasting away whatever's on top of her.

  Debris rains down as her eyes adjust. Still hazy, she sees clear enough the bane that is her undoing.

  Raising her burning left arm, she points at the approaching prick. Even in so much pain, she knows throwing out death spells wouldn't work. His magic, whatever charms he might have, even his metal armour would protect him.

  The witch knows she is dying, finger pointed at her killer, she accepts it. She can just about make out something interesting, his helmet has blown off. Had she still lips, they'd curl into a smile. Madness consuming her, she musters all her strength, uttering her final words... Then jabs her finger toward the witch hunter's face.

  * * *

  Jari dives to the ground as the witch zooms into her cottage. His buckler, a small shield, is positioned in front.

  Jari lets go his polehammer. Adding a little magic, he readies his fingers to—

  SNAP!

  BOOOM!

  The witches cottage erupts into a ball of fire. Closing his eyes to the blast of heat and light, Jari feels relief. This quest that required him to become a witch hunter, seemed finally over...

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  Helmet blown off, padded cowl still on, Jari furtively approaches the collapsed cottage. His weapon ready to strike.

  CRASH!

  He shields himself against the debris, as part of the roof violently flips over. Bitch couldn't just die!?

  Jari's steel grey eyes meet the jet black witch's, none of her pink hair is left, her burnt face is contorted by rage. Right arm and lower half still trapped, she lifts her burning left arm to point at him.

  . . .

  Heavy breathing, or rather... panting? And the beat of his heart are all Jari could hear as he lumbers forward. Every few steps he stops. Against the pounding in his head, he has to focus. Which trees look familiar? Can he see one of the inconspicuous markers he'd left?

  It would help if he could see right, the world seems bigger, his periphery more distracting. A crazy thought, could he see further around? He can also now see his nose further out in front of him, was it so swollen?

  The last thing he remembers is his cowl feeling tight, hearing the toggles snap before the deafening sound of bones breaking. The excruciating pain knocked him out.

  He dares not touch his head, he feels no pain but perhaps some skin around his eyes was missing. Or his eyes were damaged? Colours save for the blue sky, hues of yellow and shades of green were dulled to shades of grey. The rest of his body seems uninjured.

  A low hanging branch snapped in two places, he's close. The wind shifted bringing a gust of smoke riddled air from behind him. He coughs... but it sounds... wrong. First he heaves, then he... barks?

  Why was the world now suddenly so full of smells? He can practically see smells around him. Deer droppings a couple paces away are radiating an odour that ripples and dances through the air. The dirt, fungus, bark, the woodlice and grubs beneath, it all seems to hum around him. Beyond his immediate vicinity a throng of odours, too many to list, too distracting; he has to keep moving.

  He reaches the memorable remains of a tree. The splintered top matches his height. A small, fresh, crudely carved notch sits just above the moss line. Positioning himself to the side of the engraving, Jari traces an invisible straight line from the notch to a tree standing well within those around; he remembers it was nine and a bit paces away. The tree didn't stand out at all, the pile of leaves beneath could have been anything, that had been the point.

  Jari drops his polehammer, before plunging his hands into the pile, wrenching at twigs and leaves, hurling them aside. He heaves out his prize, the leaves not hitting the ground before Jari staggers away with the bundle, over to clearer ground.

  Collapsing to his knees, Jari almost falls onto his stash. He prises apart the knot, flicking the fabric aside. He grabs at his waterskin, pops out the cork. Clutching with both hands, he rushes it up—

  Rowr!

  Having stabbed the mouthpiece of his waterskin into his upper lip and nose, he reaches for his face. The waterskin drops.

  "Fuck!" he thinks, grabbing it up to shove the cork back in. Looking at the splash lost, he sighs. He throws his water down against his bag. His thoughts awash with expletives . He wants a drink so fucking bad. What the hell is wrong with his face?

  He closes his eyes. A few moments pass. His breathing slows. The throbbing, the thirst, a wave of dizziness forces him to open his eyes for bearing...

  As the world steadies around him,he reaches again for his face. His hand stops before even getting above his neckline, his fingers feeling the air instead. He lowers his hand with a whimper. His heavy breathing cuts, an idea forms.

  He pulls his large tubular bag upright, fervently opening it. Plunging his arm in, it thankfully only takes a quick fumble to feel what he's looking for. He wriggles and yanks out a cloth pouch.

  Jari allows his sack to fall backward, then arranges his items to make a clearing atop his coat.

  As he fiddles with the knot on the pouch, he pauses, hearing himself... is he whimpering?! He shakes the thought away.

  He has to slow down, not throw everything about. With care, the contents are extracted from the pouch. He unfurls his towelling rag, revealing his meagre wash kit.

  Jari raises a pocket vanity mirror, pointing it straight up. He opens it just enough that the polished surface that serves as a mirror is fully exposed. Taking a deep breath, he points it toward himself.

  He has to grab his forearm, then even press his wrist and lower half of the back of his hand into his knee to steady the trembling image. Keeling over he stares down into his reflection.

  He sees fur. He sees a black, dry looking snout, a long tongue, rows of sharp teeth— Fangs! Moving his head about, the beast in the mirror moves too. He sees one big pointed furry ear, then the other... They are his furry ears, his fangs... in his muzzle.

  Jari has the head of a dog. In place of his human head, Jari has a human proportioned canine head.

  In another wave of dizziness, Jari scrunches closed his eyes, dropping the mirror as he does. The darkness seems to swirl like a stormy sea. He opens his eyes, fights back the urge to puke.

  He plucks up the mirror then reaches for the waterskin, fumbles with the cork. Too many things in his hands! He places the mirror down atop his bag, his hand hesitates. Seeing it stays put on the uneven surface, he carries on. He drops the cord attached cork the moment it's clear and snatches up the mirror. One eye on his reflection, he guides the mouthpiece to the end of his muzzle, and finally pours some water in.

  He savours, with eyes closed, the sweet relief.

  Quite a bit had spilled out from the sides of his mouth, so as he raises it again he closes his mouth more, curling his tongue to form a gutter down to his throat. He chugs down a third of his large waterskin. As the water goes down, a sense of calm washes over him.

  He lowers his water but keeps the mirror up, pulling his head back while stretching his arm out as far as it can go. It's a shitty little mirror, looted from a vain human or literal monster. Polished metal set in wood, not very clear; he gives up trying to see more.

  On his knees, in a forest, with the head of dog, Jari ponders what the fuck was going on. "Dog head" he thinks. A memory surfaces making him smile (though it doesn't look like much through the dog face). The witch's final words,

  "You dogged fool. Urgh [coughs up blood] ...Mongrel prick!".

  Jari snorts and arfs, chest heaving. An onlooker might mistake his laughter for suffering, then again, he's laughing through suffering.