Rictallius the Bone Collector watched the hexbloods and their companions disappear from view. The gangling nothic was the first to be obscured by the fall of the path. Twitching and distracted, it seemed from moment to moment to shift from childlike to hauntingly observant.
The hexbloods had tried to hide their nature, but Rictallius was fey too. Like knows like. Their semblances had been those of their origins – a genasi and a dragonborn, but their thorned crowns were obvious to him. The flame haired one had the smell of myth and purpose. Perhaps the other was there as a balance? He wondered whether they would find a third to make a coven of their own. Something to watch for on the trails, he felt.
The shambling half-ogre hagspawn with them, was last to be lost to view. He stank of a true hag, not the potential hags he guarded. Rictallius wondered if the ogre child even thought about where his alliances truly were. He took a bite out of the jawbone they had left him in payment for the key. Then he paused and watched as the trollbone began to try and repair itself. That was going to play havoc with his comfort eating.
The doors being slammed on the Winter’s Knight was a wonderful boon. So many opportunities and fallen to harvest – the old hag of the fields hadn’t been lying after all. A year, she had promised.
