Zantaric had been, and in itself was a mistake, a huge mistake; and even now, with many days and countless miles between her and the township, Freya still regretted ever having travelled there.
The stories she had been told as a child about Zantaric were nowhere near the truth. It wasn't just a place of "sin"; it was a morbidly fascinating place of "sin" where one could easily lose their life or find themselves in hot water for asking the wrong questions, or for simply staring for too long at someone.
Freya had, like others before her, found out the hard way about candidly asking strangers too many questions, and had barely escaped the town with only a badly slashed arm, a ripped cloak, and a sore and very bruised side.
Moreover, the young witch had not stopped walking since she left town, making her way slowly up the mountains until she was sure she was a good distance away from Zantaric, and then, suddenly, when she figured she was at a safe distance, had simply collapsed from pure exhaustion.
Now, days later, with her arm bandaged as best she could, Freya, still sore and weary, continued through the mountains, walking only during the day and making camp at night, careful to stay away from the main roads until she was better.
In fact, the strange yet familiar pull she felt and had been feeling during the last few hours of the day had Freya wary about what she might find when she found it, to the point that she had a firm grip on her walking stick and was ready to use it to defend herself if she had to.
@Max!!
