Anonberich Von Mussberg, Witch Hunter

Anonberich Von Musston

This blasted fog, heavy and wet, was impudent. Invasive. Oppressive. It's very presence made Anonberich's lip curl in disgust. No doubt, the defensive blanket that shields some vile action, performed unseen from prying eyes.

His thick leather boots crunch through the underbrush and the mud. This forest... he had heard whispers of a foul presence from the locals. Bordering one of the nearby villages, there had been rumors of hunters going missing. This was affirmed when he found their remains; and the culprit, only a few meters into its depths.

Hounds born of bark, with sap-like blood, and an all-consuming appetite for something that could never fill it's not-existent belly. It was promptly returned to the roots of the forest through boot-heel and silvered hatchet, but it's very presence disturbed Anonberich; as did the wisp of darkened smoke that uttered from its agape, deceased mouth, which promptly departed deeper into the woods. Deeper in the growing fog.

Ents, Leshen, Wendigos, Dryads -- all creatures borne of nature. Yet... knelt over this 'beasts' remains, there was little to show any relevance to previous encounters. The book told him nothing. This was new.

New was bad, Anonberich found to often be the case.

He ruminates on a course of action, as his shovel meets muddy ground; a proper burial for the deceased, guarded from further evils by a blessing from the Lord. Such was a common preventative against Undead measures.

Obviously, investigation was mandatory. Urgency, was necessary. Such a situation could not go tolerated.

A meaningful prayer, and a pair of sticks to serve as a cross to the fallen.

Nerves steeled and Righteous fury brimming, threatening to boil; Anonberich trudges deeper into the awaiting gloom, the twisting and curling gnarled branches of the grim canopy swallowing the light; so he offers his own, striking a torch alight and holding it aloft.

He isn't sure how long he travels for, but something is deeply amiss.

This forest feels... odd. Wrong. Incorrect. It prevails itself as normal, but its trees bear cruel faces; sproutings of far-too-colorful flowers sit tantalizingly to the side, as if to beckon. It's as if someone with a child's grasp of evil was tasked with planting a most vile woods.

At some point, it feels as if he has passed... through something. Anonberich checks himself, his gear -- nothing is amiss... mostly. He himself feels fine, but it was as if he walked through a vertical, invisible film of water, with none of the wetness; no matter how many steps back he takes, he cannot recreate the sensation. His gear... his most holy, most devout selection of weapons against the vile, the profane, the aberrantly abhorrent, appears... altered.

His crucifix, a solid hunk of the finest blessed gold, now bears a hollow sun-like symbolization.

Odd. Time to check the book.

...The book is changed. It now bears some... Equestrian Horse-Like symbol on its front, embossed on the cover. Some of these entries are altered. Not all of them, but a fair amount. There are new ones as well, scrawled upon some of the deeper, yet-to-be-written (or were yet to be written) parchments.

The newest texts were in a language he could not understand.

Or they were.

A dull pulse aches the back of his head, forcing him to squint, to reel. A hand roams to his skull, hissing loudly.

And then it is gone.

Anonberich's hand flies to his sheathed blade, staring through the fog for an aggressor.

...He finds none.

Scowl firmly beset on his face, cautiously, he looks to the book again, worrying it to be compromised by foul intent. Instead, he finds the passages... legible.

"Timber... Wolf." Anonberich mutters. Wolves were no more, it seemed, according to his newly altered book; the entry, originally pertaining to the Grey Wolves of his home and the details about them, their Dire-variants, behaviors... all the information was changed. Lead by a Timberwolf King, apparently, forged of nothing more than logs, sticks and branches, homed only to the Everfree Forest.

Perhaps some intrinsic Fey-work was at play. Druids? It was becoming clear enough this was no longer the same neck of woods he had entered previously; treading carefully would be paramount.

He wastes no further time, the book slamming shut, returned to its holding within the depths of his bag. Something was afoot, and he--

He pauses, glaring out the corner of his eye, peering from beneath the brim of his hat.

One of the nearby trees lurches slowly, its trunk groaning as its bark creaks, one of its branches looming towards him. A prompt wave of his torch in its direction has it thinking twice, and it leans away, emitting a low groan.

"...Haste wouldst suffice." Anonberich mutters.

Zecora

Zecora coughs, groaning softly, bedridden. Her sickness has a deep grasp on her, and there's little she can do for it but try to suffer quietly. The spots that speckled her fur overwrote her stripes, and even now, parts of her were slowly hardening; even a branch was beginning to grow from her head, to her displeasure.

Her tree-home is quiet, cauldron still and unused, her shelves awkwardly bare. She dare not put on any lights, darkness thick in her home, lest she draw the corrupted beasts that lurk in the woods. It had never been this bad; and it was the Everfree. It got pretty bad, sometimes.

She planned to remain quiet, and stay hidden. Hopefully, this would come to pass; the Ponies were eager to tackle the problems that loomed in these lands. Yet, the Eclipse refused to fade, day and night locked in an unnatural state.

Zecora hadn't been able to make her usual harvests in weeks. Eventually, she was forced to risk trekking outside of her abode for supplies. Her usual route was rife with misery, beasts with shadowy eyes and sharp-toothed snarls. In an attempt to escape them, she took an unusual shortcut, a path she had not taken in a while. She slipped on unsure footing, and plunged into the swamp; while she evaded her pursuers, it seems she settled for a long-term end, rather than a short one.

She was thirsty, but the strength to rise from her bed had long left her. She was hungry, but she had eaten what little she had days ago. Silently, tearfully, Zecora had pleaded, cried for help, but none of the Ponies ever came.

Now, she was tired, waiting for the end.

The quiet of her home was disturbed by crunching. Hoofsteps? Something was walking around her Tree-House, circling it. For a moment, she worried it was a curious beast... but the worry faded, perhaps the grim blessing of a quicker end.

That too, faded, when she realized that whatever it was, was holding a torch. Braving the Everfree, displaying itself with a beacon of light, and undeterred by the threats that lurked in these darkened times.

The flickering flame pauses outside her window, as it lowers, reaching the same level; she squints, as the orange glow illuminates its holder.

She has never seen a creature like such, but... it wears clothes. Thick, sturdy clothes, likely meant for protection, embellished with metal. This was not a creature of the wilds.

Anonberich

Anonberich was surprised, to have found some form of an abode nestled in this seedy, grim woods. Though judging by the outsides lack of care, overgrown grass and general dismay, it was not one well maintained. No lights; no flames, nothing. It was quiet.

A witches den, perhaps? Or a local druids hideaway. A bandit hole. No, unlikely to host vagrants; hopefully, it either currently held the resident responsible for the ailing woes that seeped through this region, or would soon. He could lay a trap in waiting for it.

Circling it, there seemed little he directly recognized; but the merit, he did. Numerous jars, some filled, some empty, hung from branches. Letterings and well-made minor crafts; wards. Witchcraft, of a sort, but the presence of tonics foretold either Witch, or Alchemist. The lack of any minor gardens or attempts to meticulously grow specific plants foretold of one more in tune with nature. Likely, a Witch; of the Natural, or the Voodoo kind, if the masks were anything to go by.

He pauses beside one, hung on the trunk. A very... elongated face. Equine, almost, like a horse. There was the Horse-Based imagery again, like what now emblazoned his Witch-Hunting Book.

Anonberich leans down, peering through the window. No curtains, no no blinds, just sticks to support it. Torch held close, he peers inside to the equal darkness.

A quiet cough alerts him that the home isn't as empty as he had presumed, his other hand quietly resting on the grip of ones of his pistols, under his coat. He is tense; but, Anonberich is equally curious. That cough sounded... ill. Sick.

"Wouldst thou be responsible for the ailments of those who reside beside these woods?" He calls out.

There's another quiet cough, as the occupant tries to clear their throat. They're tucked away in an alcove, in what looks to be a bed. The angle of it hampers the light, making it hard to see.

"...No, the fault lies not with... me." It rasps out.

Anonberich's hand falls from the pistol. This individual was likely on their deathbed.

"Thou art but another victim?" He calls out again; a little softer, with less accusation.

"I -" It tries to speak, but hacks heavily. Did... bubbles, just float from it? " -- Apologies, I am... deeply ill. I recommend you steer clear, lest you..." It trails off, running out of breath.

"Plague is not a foreign concept to me." Anonberich retorts, reaching into his bag. He produces a thick rag, tying it around his mouth, covering his nose before rising to his feet.

Zecora

Zecora can only watch as the creature rises, leaving the view from her window; and rattles the door. She didn't want them to enter; it was far too late, and the Swamp Fever still bore no known cure, evading her knowledge. But any words of warning are met with ears that do not listen, Zecora cursing its foolishness, and her lacking strength to do anything about it.

Or, she would; her opinion changes drastically as the creature enters, ducking through her doorway.

It's massive, easily taller than two Zebras with one stood on the other. It isn't just dressed, either. It's heavily armed, and prepared, numerous weapons and tools quietly rustling beneath its coat. Multiple tonics and pouches speckle the belt across its waist, and the belt that runs across its chest, over its shoulder. A wide-brim hat sits atop its head, and a thick coat surrounds it. Every part of it, minus the eyes, is covered. She's curious how it can even be comfortable.

Once inside, it shuts the door behind itself. It has to take a hunched position to move through her hut, but it places the torch it bore carefully on a sconce by the door, glancing around.

"Be you Alchemist, or Witch?" It asks, running a hoof over the lip of her cauldron... no, she isn't sure what that is. It's like Spikes claw, but encased in a glove, and appears far more dexterous.

"...Shaman." She answers simply; it's all she can muster. Speaking, even so little, has taken much of her dwindling energy. She is tired, and her rhymes... she can hardly manage speaking at all.

Eventually, it reaches the side of her bed. Even hunched, it towers over her, staring down with piercing eyes, far smaller than any Ponies; but seemingly so much deeper. It's scanning her, looking her over; even with the rest of its face covered, she can see the confusion twist its eyes.

Zecora watches as it produces a book from its bag, flipping it open.

"...What, and who, art thou?" It asks. Slightly amused even amidst the pain, Zecora finds it speaks oddly similarly to a very blue, very melancholic pony, who holds her own local holiday.

Or, did.

Zecora holds a weak chuckle, reminded of the Ponies of Ponyville when they first laid eye on her, the distrust. She glances up, searching his eyes.

They're piercing, and stare back at her. She feels... judged. This is a creature of conviction.

"A Zebra. I am... Zecora." She manages.

It waits a moment, before it flips through several pages, holding the book closer to itself.

"...So thou ist. Strange. A... striped horse. But, bereft of thou usual scale." It mumbles to itself. She isn't sure what a horse is, but it's clear this stranger, is also strange.

"What ails thou?" It asks after a pause, glancing from the book again. It leans down slightly, inspecting her. It seems particularly interested in the stick-like protrusion currently growing from her; the first branch of many.

"Swamp... fever. No... pony knows the cure. My end... I am sure." She wheezes, slightly surprised with herself. She managed a rhyme. Though, it may very well be her last.

"...Pony?" It mumbles, flipping through more pages, though he expected to find little. The Book pertained primarily to entities of the unholy matter, not diseases or their ilk. "The Book speaks little of thy illness. Very well; let us begin." It states, slamming the book shut, and tucking it away.

"Hmm...? What are..." Zecora starts to mumble; she watches as the creature produces a small vial, pouring it onto its gloves, and rubbing it in. Then, it promptly leans down, and carefully grasps her face. She is long past having the energy to resist, forced to relent to its touch.

Anonberich

A Zebra. Anonberich had never heard of such, but it displayed some similarity to horses... if the hooves were anything to go by. But, it was no breed of horse he knew of. Nor, did he ever hear of horses that could talk; nor had he met one.

But, seemingly, now he had. As odd a creature as it was... it was ill. Sick. And Anonberich had found nary a single connection from this abode, or this creature, to the troubles that drew him here. Which, as duty beheld him; meant he was to assist.

Plague and Illness were hardly new topics for him, familiar with the sicknesses that would sweep villages, used to tracking their causes, easing their symptoms.

First, identification. The creature groans in displeasure as he handles it, but it's hardly in a situation to argue. It seems to recognize fairly quickly his intent.

"Swamp... fever." He mutters to himself, as his thumbs and fingers slowly work over the creatures fur, ensuring he keep his face a safe distance -- especially from the odd bubbles it seemed to cough. He opens its mouth, holding open its lips, checking its teeth. They were taking a bark-like appearance, as well. Hrm.

Spots speckled its fur, likely irritations of the skin, considering how they interacted with the stripes. Far along, he assumed, by the... tree branch, growing from its skull. Dryadic or Druidic curses or magics to form one to a 'Natural' state were uncommon... but, didn't seem to be the case here.

So, likely an illness. Something contracted through interaction, introduced to the bodily systems. An infection that slowly turned one into a tree... and without a cure. Well, the creature clearly didn't have time to lay about as a test subject. He'd need a brute force option, instead.

Sanitizing his hands again from his trusty vial, which contained a concoction of disinfectants, he muses over his tonics. The ones he kept readily available, were those orientated to combat, or requiring quick application. Instead, he dives into the pouches of his bag, rummaging. He had some general cures and salves, speckled between different forms of invasive illness, and a few specific remedies, like resisting petrification. Something more general would likely, at least, ease the creatures suffering.

...This would suffice, Anonberich muses, producing a small vial. A deep, orange-red viscous liquid swirls inside of it. Hardly known for its taste, this was a rather potent curative that heavily swept the system, purging it of most foreign objects. Good for hard-to-diagnose situations or general uses, though a touch pricy, brewed with a mixture of ogre blood, Teep-Weed, and Spin-Cap mushrooms. Ogre blood was the key ingredient; incredibly unpleasant, but the Ogres natural resilience made for a potent ingredient that would often override other additions effects. Troll Blood, or Flesh, was even better for curative properties, but required heavy downsides to combat it, lest the Trolls regeneration become a poison to the ingested. Bad for Potions, great for Curatives, once the impurities were counteracted by the Teep-Weed and Spin-Caps, both minor medical herbs.

Zecora

Zecora, finally released from the creatures grasp, watches quietly as it shuts its book, and rummages through its bag. She doesn't recognize the cover... but her attention is torn to the vial held close to her, the cork promptly removed.

It's a thick, honey-like liquid, the way it moves in the vial. A mixture of orange, swirled in red, and rich in color.

"Drink." It commands.

...Zecora hesitates. How would this creature hold the cure to an illness that held no cure, when it didn't even know what a Zebra was? Or... perhaps that is exactly why it knew.

The energy and will to argue had long left her, the corners of her vision dark. She had only two options. Give in, and... become a tree, inside her own treehome.

Or, hold to that sliver of hope, that this... happenstance of a stranger upon her home, and unto her, would truly help her. It didn't seem ill-meaning... if a little forceful.

The vial is held closer.
"Art thou too weak to hold such?" It asks surprisingly softly.

Zecora tries to lift her hooves, to take the vial -- but a bout of coughing, bubbles included, racks her core. The creature flinches back with surprising speed.

It doesn't wait this time. Zecora finds her mouth grasped by its limb, its 'claws' (for lack of a better term, as they're surprisingly blunt) holding her mouth open. Before she can so much as protest a noise, the liquid is forced into her mouth, and her lips held shut.

"Its taste will be trying. Resist the temptation to upend your innards." It warns. "Steel thyself for the pain. It will cure thy body, by force."

Her eyes bulge as it hits her throat -- it's vile. It burns. It hurts. She wants to scream, but he has her mouth firmly latched shut in a scarily tight grip, and refuses to let go.

Anonberich

With his other hand, Anonberich holds the 'Zebra' down, pinned against the bed as it twists and contorts, its cries of pain muffled by the hand that holds its snout firmly shut.

This type of tonic never went down well. But, if the reaction was this bad, then his assessment was correct, and it was a significantly deadly illness, or very far along. Which meant it had much of the body to work through, and much to quell. It would be excruciating.

Over several minutes, a firm grit held to his expression, Anonberich holds the writhing creature down as tears pour down its face, flailing. Slowly, the spots begin to fade, the bark-like spots on its skin, and the branch growing on its head, dries out and falls to the floor.

Finally, it ceases, panting heavily, sweating. It looks upward, distantly.

Only then does Anonberich remove his hands from its maw and its chest, reaching to his belt.

Zecora

Zecora's body was numb, soaked in sweat. Over her lifetime, she had used and brewed innumerable concoctions, potions, tonics, brews -- and nothing she had tasted before was this potent. This... foul. The idea of just what was used to make it worried her. Or, it would, if she could form a proper thought.

That was agony. The pain brought a spur of energy, and now, she was drained, pinned to her own bed by a stranger.

That had offered her a cure.

She tenses, watching out of the corner of her eye as it reaches for something else, holding it out to her. She flinches back instinctively.

It's...

"Water." It states simply, as if aware of her dubiousness to whatever else he might try to shove into her. A waterskin.

Her grip is poor, but eventually, she gets a grasp on it, eager to drink -- it's cool, it's refreshing, a vital liquid she had been sorely missing.

Anonberich

Anonberich watches as the creature downs most of his waterskin. Well, that was its purpose, after all. He would boil more, later. Surely this creature knew where an untainted body of water may lie, if it survived long enough to make itself a home here.

It's gasping for breath after chugging. He takes the waterskin back, sealing the cap.

"Wouldst I be correct in thee assumption thou hath not eaten?" He follows up.

Slowly, the Zebra nods.

Turning to sit, he leans his back against the frame of the bed, setting his bag beside himself, and producing one of his dried, road-ready rations, unwrapping the string that keeps the parchment closed.

Inside, was a mixture of foods meant to supply him with the necessities to keep him travelling comfortably on the road. Salted pork, a jar of pottage, a few slices of cheese, half a loaf, grilled leeks and carrots, and a helping of beans.

...From what he remembers, most of this should be edible to a horse. He, unfortunately, preferred traveling by foot. In his line of work, Horses were more akin to... a meal, for the evils he hunted. Well, not the pork.

Shifting in his seating, he helps position the Zebra into a... he isn't sure they should quite be able to sit like this, but 'Zecora' assures him it is comfortable, before laying most of the ration out in front of her. He sinks back down to the floor, unwrapping the rag from around himself, tucking it away, and taking a bite of the pork.

Zecora, understandably, is quick to eat. She carefully inspects each thing placed in front of her, often taking a testing nibble before promptly devouring it. Bedridden for some time, he assumed... and with none to care for her.

Eventually, roughly halfway through the meal, she slows, looking towards what Anonberich is eating.

"...If it would not be rude of me to inquire, what is it that your mouth seems to desire?" Zecora asks. It's tone is quiet and voice raspy, but seemingly already sounding much better -- but now speaking in rhyme. He hadn't seen anything about that in the Zebra section... but, she said she was a Shaman. Perhaps it's related to that, since that tonic is bereft of side-effects.

"This? Pork." He answers simply.

He can see her tilt her head slightly, confused.

"The salted remains of swine. Pig. Butchered, and processed." Anonberich clarifies.

A pensive look seems to take the Zebra, looking him over again with more cautious eyes.

"Ist that statement beheld to strangeness here?" He asks, watching himself be... observed.

Eventually the Zebra seems to settle; his choice of food had hardly been an issue before. Usually, it was the creatures that he sought whose choice of meals were the problem.
"...To most, but... your diet is not a marker of your attitude; your kindness has already revealed to me your aptitude. Though, while I find it harder for you to be any more kind, a softer touch, I would not mind."

"...Hmph. As thou say. I will assure thee, I've no interest in tasting thou, if that is thy worry." Anonberich retorts. "Is thy rhyming a... Shamanistic aspect?"

"One could say it is quite so, though you are hardly one to judge, no?" Zecora turns it back to him, working at one of the carrots.

"I fail to follow." Anonberich chews, noting Zecora's gaze leaving him as he does.

"Never mind; perhaps in the future, the reasoning, you will find." Zecora relents, turning back to the meal.

He had numerous questions of course, but they could wait until the creature had regained some of its strength. There was no language barrier, thankfully - Anonberich was curious if that skull-pulsing sensation was the reason behind it - but he didn't want to push her just yet.

Instead, he rests, gathering his own thoughts for the moment.

Eventually, the Zebra has finished most of the meal, Anonberich bundles the remains of it back up, storing it away. Waste not, want not.

And already, its eyelids begin to droop, its breathing getting heavy. Actual, proper rest that was not at the expense of its health was sorely needed.

"Find rest, Zecora. I shalt purvey the surroundings in the meantime." Anonberich assures, patting the bed.

The Zebra seems torn, but, eventually relents, sinking into its bedding -- with what little energy that had returned to it, likely spent suffering through the tonic.

In moments, its chest rises and falls in peaceful slumber, likely the first in a while. It likely had little choice in the matter, dragged to sleep by the simple fact of how draining surviving such that had occured.

An odd creature. This land forebode oddity. This would be unlike most of his hunts, if the few entries he skimmed would prove true.

Quietly, Anonberich rises, slinking his pack over his shoulder again, plucking the flickering torch from its sconce.

The zebra snores softly, tucked under its blankets.

Anonberich huffs to himself, shutting the door as he leaves. That was not a cheap brew he offered... when it woke, he hoped it would provide an ample summary of the local flora and fauna. He would need to discover substitutions to his likely to dwindle stock.

His boots crunch forward, intent on purveying his surroundings while the zebra, this Zecora, rested.