Meinir

The Imperial struggled to free himself, but the vines wound tightly around his limbs, binding him to the marshy ground. His snout remained unrestrained, however. As he had been doing for the past ten minutes, he bellowed, “Help! Is anyone there?!”

There had been no answer, and he wasn’t expecting one now. But the response, when it finally came, didn’t reassure him.

It was a laugh: a soft, sly titter that told him whoever it was was up to no good. His heart sank as she appeared, slipping out from among the trees as smoothly and silently as a shadow.

A Skydancer—drably clothed, her skin and feathers mottled purple against purple. A blindfold had been tied over her eyes.

Still, the Imperial tried: “Hello? Can you help me?” And then he gasped as a fluffy ball of light zipped out from behind the Skydancer. It bounced mockingly in front of his face.

“You!” He felt a new chill as he realized—he had followed the Gloomwillow Guide across the marsh, mistaking it for his companion’s lantern. Following it to...

“Meinir! Foul witch of the marsh, witch of illusion and trickery! What do you want with me?”

He had to twist around to speak, for the Skydancer was flitting around him. Her cackle bounced weirdly off the trees, echoing, echoing....Soon the air was filled with phantom snatches of laughter. They scratched the Imperial’s eardrums like nails on steel, and he shut his eyes.

~ ~ ~
Hatchlings eager to go adventuring were warned of Meinir. Older clanmates told them, “The marsh is no place for younglings like you. It’s too easy to get lost in the darkness....”

“But, Clan Elder,” some hatchlings protested, “look—I can see a light. Someone’s out there!”

The elders looked long and hard, and then a shiver rippled across their scales. “That’s no dragonmade light. That’s a Gloomwillow Guide.”

“But aren’t the Guides our friends?”

“Not this one, tyke. Meinir’s Guide seeks out unwary travelers, only to lead them into her clutches. And that’s no place you want to be. The things she does to poor, lost dragons...They are terrible to behold.”

The Imperial had heard all these warnings, had even repeated them to other dragons. But he’d gotten tired during the trip and had lagged behind....Looking up and seeing his comrades’ lanterns so far away had jolted him into blundering after them. Somewhere in there he must’ve gotten turned around, and the Gloomwillow Guide had beckoned. He hadn’t stopped to wonder why there was now one light instead of two. He had hurried towards it—

He’d followed it for several minutes, and then it had suddenly vanished. That was when his foot had refused to move. Perhaps he'd gotten stuck in the mud again...No. A chill slithered up his spine as he’d seen the vines wrapping around his limbs. He’d tried to jump away, but they’d steadily pulled his feet out from underneath him until he’d lain flat upon the soggy ground.

He’d then resorted to screaming for help. But nobody helpful had come, and now he was wishing he’d kept his mouth shut instead.

~ ~ ~
Meinir unhooked a great tome from her belt. She flipped through it lackadaisically. “Let me see, let me see...” A wide, Cheshire-cat smile spread across her face, and from beneath her blindfold, ichor ran in dark, syrupy trails. It dripped onto the pages; the book was already marked with many such stains. With a thrill of horror, the Imperial realized she’d opened that book many times before. Reading...to other captives, perhaps, just like him?

“Witch Meinir,” he ventured, “please, just let me go—”

Her head snapped up. “Oh, so now you’re saying ‘please’? But earlier you said such horrid things about me in such a hard, loud voice!” She pouted, pressing a paw against her cheek.

“Still, I’m gratified you know my name. And about my darling tricks, too!” The tome clapped shut. She snapped her claws. “You know what I’m going to do to you?”

“Please...please don’t! My clan, they’ll...!”

“Too late.” She leered at him, extending her claws, and the Imperial began to scream...

~ ~ ~
“And that is how I got a new hairdo from the dreaded Witch of the Marsh,” he finished. He looked at his companions, hoping they would understand.

They remained somber—for about two seconds. And then they fell over themselves, roaring with laughter.

The Imperial had not escaped from Meinir unscathed. Like many unfortunate captives before him, she had taken offense at his “plain” appearance and “prettied him up a bit”. His mane had been overgrown to cartoonish lengths and dragged on the ground like a petticoat. And the witch, not liking its pale color, had turned it glowing orange instead. “Now you’ll shine in the darkness like those lanterns you chased,” she’d hissed, showing his new visage in a mirror. He’d howled like an injured banshee and hightailed it out of there as soon as he was free.

The Clan Elder had taken it upon herself to give the mane a good cutting. “I told you that the things she did to captives were terrible to behold,” she sighed. The Imperial’s companions were less sympathetic: “You look like a guinea pig!”

After the Elder chivvied them away, the Imperial allowed himself a moment of sadness. “Can I get my old hair back?” he asked petulantly.

The Elder shrugged. “Of course. Meinir’s harmless, and so’s this spell. Once your mane grows out, it’ll have its original color again. It’ll take a while, but you’ll get there.”

He sighed in relief. The Elder frowned down at him. “And you’d better take those warnings to heart now, hm?”

Indeed he would—and ever after he regaled hatchlings about that time he had encountered the Witch of the Marsh....

“Wow, really? What did she do to you?”

“I do not wish to speak of it,” he declared, shaking his now-restored mane, “for the things she does to her captives are truly terrible to behold....”

~ written by Disillusionist (254672)
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