The Weather Witch

The Weather Witch

"What are you reading, Mother?" whispered Lyryk as the old woman's eyes glazed over.



"I see ..." she hesitated. "I see white. Snow. Blinding snow." The old woman stopped, her eyes refocused on the journeyman bard. "Use caution when traveling west, young one. This storm has teeth. Ye could find yerself in peril."



Lyryk sat back in the chair. The tune that ran through her head hit a discordant note on the word "teeth."



"Is the storm natural, Mother?" she asked. "My own intuition talks to me, I think," the half-elf cocked her head to one side and stared with an unfocused gaze into a web-covered corner of the weather witch's hut.



Helga, the old woman, looked at the bard. "Trust yerself, young one. Listen to ..." she hesitated once again, tipping her head, staring at the girl. "... music?" The witch grinned at Lyryk. "Useful, that," she said.



"Aye," said the bard. "It's saved my life a time or two," the half-elf looked down at the dog and scratched the head lying on her lap, smiling. "'Tis a reason I'm a bard, lady. It's been with me as long as I can remember."



The witch looked out at the sky.



"Ye better get started if ye want to get into the hills before the storm rolls. Don't forget, find shelter early. Listen to yer music," with that, the old woman hugged the bard and sent her on her way.



Lyryk hugged the woman back. "Thank you, Mother. Keep safe."



"Always," the woman patted the girl's arm and gave Biscuit a good ear scratch as the pair walked up the path toward the mountain pass. Helga watched as they hiked out of sight. "You stay safe, youngster," the old woman sent a spell of protection after the girl.