[Cursed Crone] Preparation

The Cursed Crone loomed in the distance like a brewing storm cloud on the horizon. It had long since turned its attention away from the small farming village on the east end of the river valley—Arianwyn felt a sudden pang of guilt realizing that she did not even know the name of the town which had fallen to ruin under the Crone's wretched claws. Generations had doubtlessly lived out their lives here, families watched their children grow to raise their own young, and here it was. Crushed to splinters, strewn across the mud under a sunless sky and an accursed monster. It was enough to twist the stomach of even the young often-selfish Arianwyn. These people had done nothing to deserve this. It simply was not fair.

It had come time for Arianwyn to resume her hunt. Her muscles ached at the very thought, yet she trod on, one hoof placed in front of the other. She had been passed out in the dirt long enough for her joints to stiffen and become sore, and she was finding the dried blood of her injury suddenly itchy and irritating, but she dared not pause to stretch or scratch. There was a monster; far now, but still contained to the valley. Slaying the beast would bring her glory with the Order, a praise she had longed for since her youth, a damned birthright after the loss of her parents. Moreover, the death of the Crone would bring vengeance for all the monster had wrought. It was a win-win, and Arianwyn found herself more determined than ever to end the monster's miserable life.

However, she was still in dire need of a plan. At the present, the extent her agenda involved running at the Cursed Crone with her daggers at the reader and, presumably, hoping the cursed mage didn't think the fight back. Sure, she had discovered a cool move to lob the orbiting meteors back towards the Crone, but as neat as that trick was, she had managed to pass out on her second toss, so it likely was not sustainable. No, she needed a plan, a scheme, something. Without it, she was just a young dumb mage with a blood disorder, a few knives, and a delusion of grandeur. Even she could see the error in her plans, and that was rare given her dogmatic stubbornness to never admit the failures of her own plans.

No, she needed a plan, though she didn't have much to plan with. While she began her brisk trot to reach the looming Crone on the horizon, she dug through her pack for any tools that might aid her in this fight. Rations were useless (unless the Crone was really, really hungry, in which case, these could be good bargaining tools), her coin purse was heavy enough to be tossed but it seemed doubtful that would make a huge difference in the fight, and she doubted the spare shawl she had packed in the case of cold weather would protect her from the Crone's deadly claws. No, all she really had was her silver ore, heavy in the bottom of her heavy pack. Her craft would have to be her greatest asset.

It was challenging to silverweave while jogging through a field but, by god, she was going to have to make it work. Deciding what to make was an entirely separate challenge to overcome, and one she didn't exactly have the time to overthink. She certainly didn't have enough silver to create a giant mousetrap from the raven-headed monster, so she'd have to settle for increasing her arsenal. With her magic, she shaped blades: daggers of silver, strong enough to withstand impact yet tough enough to be thrown. These, she strapped to her hips with argentum chain; giving her extra weaponry to attempt to land a killing blow. With the remaining ore, she crafted armor, durable and light, which she secured to her neck and ribs with more silver chain. She had never been one for defenses, preferring to avoid blows with her wit than slow herself down with heavy plating, but she doubted her agile senses would be enough this time. No, it was better to cover herself and hope her armor allowed her to endure a hit or two. Besides, with the quickening of her magic, the plates could be instinctively warped into shields to block incoming blows. It was far easier to craft protection when the silver was already in plates along her flank.

Now, she was ready. Outfitted in armor, she knew her daggers were ready to draw blood. Though she longed for the world of legend where the heroine crafted some seamless, perfect plan to destroy the enemy with wit alone, she knew reality was far grimmer than her books. There would be no foolproof plot to foil the monster, no impeccable scheme to stop the threat. No, there was only her silver, her blades, and her skill. She was approaching the Cursed Crone once again and, this time, she was ready.