Chapter Text
As cliche as it was, it in fact was a dark and stormy night when the Witch of the Wilds found herself captured. In all her mysterious power, even the element of surprise was no match, not helped by her captor’s own keen-albeit much more rugged and unrefined-eye for the mystic arts. Armed without the Witch’s eye for necromancy but a gun made of twisted black metal and a golem that seemed to be molded from the molten earth that was a good few heads taller than both of them could take any experienced sorceress off guard.
“You’re a mighty fine, prize.” The Warlock purred, a thick southern drawl telling the Witch all she needed to know about where the Warlock had come from. The land up south was practically rife with bounty hunters, all with varying degrees of mutations and magical powers to their disposal.
Most of which were still remotely human, or at least clinging to what little humanity they still had to offer. But the Warlock was long past that, making no effort to conceal a pair of piercing red eyes that stood stark against the white of her skin. Long horns protruding from a short curtain of ivory hair rested under the brim of her hat, the skull emblem atop her headpiece matching the amber hue of runes running down her leather and scale clad leotard.
Little was left to the imagination in such an ensemble with possibly the most beloved feature, the Warlock’s long and strong legs, concealed by form-fitting boots.
But none of that really tickled the Witch’s fancy. Instead, it was the most minor of details, the one thing that had nothing to do with the Warlock’s lips or eyes or thighs.
Right around her neck was the key to her freedom, and yet Angela never had the sense to sneak over and grab it herself. Maybe because Ashe’s golem didn’t sleep and would obviously catch her in the act, maybe because Angela knew a Warlock would have some sort of mystical defense on said key that would fry her skin on contact.
Even if she stood too close to her captor, she could sense a heat radiating off the metal that had nothing to do with their already above average body heat.
Angela had been alive long enough to know the telltale signs of defensive magic, even the amateur alchemy that made up her binds.
A Witch’s skin was many things-sweet smelling and great in soups-but durable wasn’t one of them.
“You know, giving me shackles seems just a bit pointless.”
“And why is that?”
“Where else would I go, dear Warlock? I can’t find a single member of my kin for miles, and it could be another week before my wings heal properly.”
“Keep runnin' your mouth and you won't have any wings to fly with."
Angela would always walk between Ashe and her summoned golem, the chain keeping her wrists together in the Warlock’s grip while the servant of magma and stone shambled closely behind her.
If Angela misbehaved or proved to be even a minor nuisance during the journey, over the golem's shoulder she went to pout disapprovingly at some passing foliage.
In some ways, she preferred it, putting the pressure off her already tired feet and being able to watch the night come to life around her. See how the forest’s creatures shifted from grasshoppers and foxes to fireflies and smaller, sneakier rodents. Watching the flowers close and the weaker beasts hide before the moonlight could guide predators to their doorstep-it was all so bittersweet.
Angela was a predator once, The Witch of The Wilds whose curses could strip lands and lifetimes of hope and happiness. Not that she personally sought out the suffering of others, just that her line of work often requested such dark services. For humanity was cold, cruel, and selfish, oftentimes more than her own kind was capable of.
In fact, Angela was drawn to such dark activity, to malevolence and madness and strife. It was Dr. Jamison Junkenstein’s insanity that proved to be her most successful and infamous project yet, no longer able to lurk in the shadows and watch things unfold around her. But now she could see her progress in person, the life gone and the people long abandoning it with nay a footprint in their memory.
The lands here were dangerous, less in their activity and more in the lack thereof. If anything grew here, it would soon die, and all signs of humanity were wiped out so long ago that they were nothing but a small glimmer in history.
“Finally here,” Ashe said, a small smile spreading over her red lips as they came to a stop. Angela felt the pit in her stomach become a crater and let out a small yelp as the golem gripped her by the waist and plopped her on the ground as though she were a sack of grain.
“Is this really necessary?” Angela said with a sneer, a single tug on her shackles forcing her back on her feet.
“Her instructions, not mine.” Ashe replied dully.
Angela stumbled slightly as her boots met the old, crunchy grass, gray dust kicking up into the air as she continued to struggle. “You can’t be serious? Here, of all places? I’d much rather be dead.”
“You will be if you don’t shut your trap,” Ashe replied. “What’s the matter? Big bad Witch scared of the dark?”
Angela pursed her lips. “It’s less the place and more the person, if you could call her that.”
The low clinking or chains cut Angela short, a shiver ripping through her as the slow pace of shackled feet loomed out of the distance.
“Talk about punctual,” Ashe mused, turning to send a condescending look over her shoulder. “Wipe that frown off your face, darling. You got company.”