[center][hider=Witch Hunt Cast][center][img]http://i.imgur.com/M7SP0oU.png[/img][/center]
[center] [img]http://i.imgur.com/50eMiVQ.jpg?1[/img][/center][/hider][/center]
[center][i][h1]Augury[/h1][/i]
[i][h3]Part 5[/h3][/i][/center]

[center][b]Location: Smithy’s Grocery Store – Las Vegas, Nevada
Time: Late Evening, Present Day[/b][/center]
[hr]

	Phantom voices drowned out the screaming patrons of Smithy’s, the encroaching attack fading from vision. Smoke rose over their dimming visage, feint cries calling to Marie in a familiar fashion. The panic, the pain, the rage, all this and more come flooding back in an instant. Blind was she to her surroundings, deaf to the worried cries of Holt and the wolves, numb to the rumbling earth beneath. All that was ceased to be until there was nothing. 

	Marie closed her eyes, attempting to make sense of her fading world while riding a wave of dread and fear. This unknown, this illusion, it called to her minutes before, beckoning her ashore with invisible light and ethereal bells. It was like a dream, rather, the waking from one. The confusion, the longing, Marie felt them all intimately as she drifted on a silent sea.

	And then she awoke to truth; and then she awoke to the past.

[center][h3]*****[/h3][/center]

	Gwyneth sipped merrily her glass of wine, its floral bouquet and honeyed tang cutting through the bitterness she had come to expect. The savory scent of roasted game and sweet confectioneries filled the dining hall of her recent friends. Each platter was expertly presented on fine silver, the finest she had seen in her stay. The witches of London had become accustomed to finery. Truly they had spoiled her.
 
	They were four in number, Gwyneth included, all seated at one end of a long table stained a few shades darker than actual wood. The others were well mannered yet wild, as they were want to be, while Gwyneth held a definitive air of mystery her peers could never hope to attain. 

	“Shall we dance tonight?” one of the witches spoke, a fair haired girl of 17 with elegant curls and striking eyes. “The moon is right for it.”

	Gwyneth laughed along with the others, their jovial disposition an ironic betrayal of otherwise wicked and hedonic desires.

	“We have danced for three moons, Miss,” a young man responded, hair similarly fair but eyes more dull. “Is there nothing more for us to do this night? Perhaps we should away to the west, see the country by cover of night.”

	He turned to Gwyneth, taking a sip of his wine. “Would that be agreeable to you, Miss Owens? I would very much like to visit the home of our newest.”

	“Oh let’s!” the first witch exclaimed.

	Gwyneth shifted uncomfortably in her seat, sipping her wine for the duration of their conversation, sad at having reached the bottom of the glass. Her own flight to London was to escape the complications of home, if ever she had one. 

	[color=ffe4b5]“It is entirely uninteresting, I assure you. Perhaps a stroll through the back garden would be more fruitful?”[/color]

	“Oh come now,” their last companion interjected, a portly woman with dark hair, “modesty doesn’t become you, Gwyneth. Let us see the forests of your home, hear their whispers and dance among them.”

	Before Gwyneth had a chance to object, a loud crash sounded through the hall leading to the dining room. Two tall men in dark coats ominously lingered in the entryway, mouths covered by scarves, the rest of their faces obscured by the brims of their hats. They moved with purpose, brandishing swords with feint inscriptions at their waists. Their intent was clear.

	The witches stood in unison as if communicating their strategy through a mental link. Each cast out their arm, sending their assailants soaring into the wall behind, paintings and other decor shaking and clattering to the floor in response. Gwyneth gestured for her friends to flee. They were reluctant to leave, but the seething rage in her eyes made them aware of her motive.

	And darkness overcame her, world fading like a dream. 

[center][h3]*****[/h3][/center]

	Marie awoke from her memory, but her mind was set to one purpose. This world mirrored the other, this moment liken to another. The rage that filled her once before filled her now, the desire for freedom, to be rid of persecution, all pooled into Marie.

	Two figures stood out among the destruction, Hounds dressed all in black, faces obscured, weapons raised and aimed at her companions. She could hear their berating, feel the sting of their presence. She hated them more than before. It was a simple motion, a single wave that sent them back into the wall near the entrance. Marie inched forward, stepping over the mangled forms of freshly dead Hounds. 

	[color=ffe4b5]”You will torment me no more,”[/color] her voice was her own, yet held the sound of something older, the hint of an accent, the ripple of power and something unnatural. 

	A single spark fell from her fingertips, and in response the Hounds were set aflame, fire creeping up their legs, engulfing their bodies, drowning their cries. She held them there for a time, relishing in their agony, the sound of it a familiar song, a well loved tune.
 
	Her rage settled, her mind began to steady, and yet she was different. Not less herself, but more. And so the old became the new, a memory long lost returned in the heat of battle.
    
	It wouldn’t be the last.