Foreword: 

For those dear readers who might have already read or come across this series under my backup account - I sincerely beg your pardon. Like a prodigal daughter, torturesly I decided to get back here again and continue publishing. I hope to start new Bad Crow Mountain chapters soon. Thank you for your patience and understanding. Yours treepipit

“Old Crook’s cow croaked today.”

 “So what?” says a loud screaming voice.

 “The cow pegged out just right on Goddess’s patch, where the three roads meet. This is not good! Not good, I say...”

 “Pish, pish for thee, you old fool! You’d better go to the kitchen and peel the onions for dinner. The farmer's wife, blast her, asked for onion soup with sheep's cheese.”

 “One day she wants me to serve her onion soup as if she’s the queen who lives in the capital, then she wants an apple pie with cream - as if she has already forgotten about a terrible crop failure and drought last year. So many newborns died, oh goddess, good goddess, take them all to your gardens and fields. Did the wifey add at least one copper to my monthly salary? No! Do you know that I have been toiling at farmer’s house for ten years?“

 “Stop being annoying. Not your crops, cattle or newborns died. Be grateful that she lets you stay and work at her husband’s house. No one else will hire you, just mark my words. Only this year she got two young earthy farmerettes from the nearby villages. They are strong, hardy, and complain little. Guess whom she'll keep when the choice comes?"

 Whisper fighting, grumpy female voices begin to move away from the small stable where I spent the night.

 I slowly sit up, shaking the straw out of my long hair. I have no money for a bed in an inn. I had to hastily fled from a different village where I had a small job. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a chance to get my money, well, that kinda hurts actually, since I’ve been persuading the mermaids not to tear the fishing nets for at least one week until I got far enough out of the village. But who could have known that the blond girl has a jealous fiancé! It's good that I was able to get dressed before jumping out of her bedroom window.

 “Get up and sing, Crow!” I smile at the cow that nuzzles my cheek. I wish her good morning.

 I got the nickname Crow in my first year at the academy. I have coal black hair, black eyebrows, and black eyelashes. Some people think that I have dark eyes, but this is not true. They are actually dark blue, but the thick black lashes make them look black.

 There is so little space in the guest yard and the tavern adjacent to it, that not only the guests’ horses are kept in the stables, but also the tavern owner's cow and a huge dwarf’s sheep (she’s angrily chewing something) have to share their room with other quadrupeds.

 I look sadly at the good horses. My horse and the luggage were stolen a couple of weeks ago.

 “Maybe I should steal you too? What’s the big deal? Some Westlandians ride cows just like horses.” I pat the cow’s ginger head. “I’m sorry that your friend died on the Goddess’s patch. I’m sure she was a good cow too.”

 I put on my old basilisk skin jacket. It was given to me at the academy when I successfully finished it. All the teachers cried... with happiness that the most restless student finally left her dear alma mater.

 It's time to leave my 'bedroom' in search of food. I know exactly where the food is.  The stable is not far from the tavern that smells pleasantly of bacon, milk porridge with prunes and dried apricots.

 It is already about nine o'clock, but by the standards of the villagers it is quite late. As for me, it feels like the crack of the dawn. I’m sure other travelers who has ever spent the night in stables would feel the same.

 Leaving the stables, I pretend that I’ve just left my horse there. A boy in a torn, shapeless hat, that is too big for him, is waiting for me. He’s sure I’ll give him a couple of coppers so he could take care of my horse, but I proudly walk past him. I will not refuse a couple of coins in my pocket too. Maybe I can return to the capital and accept my teacher's help? No, to each his own. I am a practicing battle sorceress, not a sweet herbal-healer or a mysterious fortune-teller for capital nobility and their entertainment.

 There is a tavern on the ground floor; there are guest rooms upstairs; there are many people of different origin around me. I gaze with displeasure at two swearing trolls. They are playing cards with a human man. Surprisingly, he is winning; surely, this situation doesn’t please the trolls much. It is impossible to make out what they are talking about, but it is clear to understand the general meaning of the conversation. The trolls intelligibly and in detail are explaining to the man in what positions they will love his mother. The man doesn’t succumb to provocations and generally looks bored. If it were not for his deep nasolabial folds and gray temples, I would have thought that a skinny teenager is playing cards with two big greenish skinned bullies: he is painfully asthenic, just like a dry grasshopper. If they offer to play, I'll definitely agree, that’s why it is better to move away from this company.

I notice her right away. A young black woman in a caramel butterfly sleeve dress is standing behind the bar. She differs from the pale rustic atmosphere. Her head is tied with a red shawl in the manner of a turban that doesn’t cover her pointy elf ears. Svartalf! A dark elf... It's amazing to see the dark elfia in this dull tavern. Usually, all dark elves are nobility with ancestry going back to Amixantra's first daughters, as our decrepit botanist professor used to say. Although, what is there to be surprised? She is clearly a bastard: a half-human, a half-dark elf. Elves do not like to accept half-breeds, and, for most humans, an elf, even the ugliest, mediocre (by elves’ standards), and mixed will always look spritely beautiful and wise. I don’t think anyone here can see her human roots.

 Unlike purebred elves, she looks amazingly real. Her face frowns by her memory of something, then smoothes into a thoughtful expression while she is wiping the beer mug with a snow-white cloth. Through the mug passes the morning sunbeams that play with iridescent highlights on her ebony skin. Svartalf notices that I am watching her. I quickly shift my gaze to the bulletin board as if that is all I am looking for in my humble life, and I don’t need anything more than this bulletin board.

 In big cities, taverns usually pin large advertisements with pictures where the faces of MISSING or WANTED people are more or less skillfully depicted, but the village is small, and, therefore, on the bulletin board one can see mostly advertisements or vacancies for farm laborers and earthy farmerettes, itinerant architects, sorcerers. 

 Well, well, well, what do we have here? Maybe I can find some useful information for me?

 Pig for sale in a good condition... what does it even mean 'in a good condition'?

 A mature woman is looking for a sorcerer to save her from the annoying ghost of her deceased husband... Three Birch Estate on the left side of the Old Stream... She won’t be happy to see me: I'm more than sure that there is no ghost in this lady's estate, the widow just needs a man.

 The head of the village is looking for a specialist in vile creatures who can drive out the damned little things that are spoiling the grain. The payment - two silver coins.

 And here is the job for me. Barn imps are frequent visitors and dwellers of barns, stables, pig pens, especially if the buildings are located near the forest or resting hay fields. These creatures are easier to get rid of than rats. Usually, devout peasants are afraid of them, that’s why they hire witches. I'm tearing down the ad.

 I am terribly hungry. Probably I'll find a copper in my jacket pocket and order at least some scrambled eggs before I go to work, but I think I can strip down to my underwear and find nothing. Wearily, I sit down at the vacant table. No one will risk booting off a battle witch, even the one who does not order anything. Fine, I'll sniff some nice smells and go to the imps. 

 Suddenly, a tray of hot goat cheese sandwiches, a couple of bacons slices, and a recently popular bitter southern drink with milk is under my nose.

 “I didn't order anything, babe,” I smirk, confidently looking into her hazel eyes.

 “Of course you didn’t order anything, witch! Judging by your worn pants, you only eat porridge and dry crackers once a week,” Swartalf says irritably but quietly. “Pretend that you paid for it, the tavern owner and his nauseating-looking wife are hanging around somewhere nearby.” She is as slender as the image of the goddess Amixantra on the icons in temples and churches: strong and fragile at the same time. 

 “Why such generosity, Svartalf?”

 “You’ll owe me,” she replies shortly and resolutely. The young elfia moves away towards the bar with her hips slightly twirling. I am looking at them a little bit fascinated by the view. I don't mind being indebted to her; I have nothing to lose.

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