"This place is haunted, so the warlocks say. Pookas and Boggarts abound in these woods."
Kroot stepped over the gnarled roots of an ancient oak, his broadsword ready by his side. His limping servant Drackle wimpered behind him.
"Silence, Drackle, or I'll throw you to the Elflings."
They rounded a corner to see a long-abandonded ruin, overgrown with moss and litchen.
"Master, magic is near. I can feels it."
Kroot stepped forward and was about to admonish Drackle for his twittering when he heard a groan from the ruin. He leapt forward, his sword raised.
The figure he found in the broken stone house was old and wrinkled, crippled by arthritis and slumped in a heap.
"Do not strike, young Kroot. I have not long on this earth as it is..."
"You...you know me?" he said, frowning.
"I was once like you...noble and brave, but blind to the dangers of life and the woods. You should listen to young Drackle, although it is not the boggarts you should fear."
"Master? Is it time?" came a voice from behind them. It shocked Kroot, who span around and extended his sword hand. The limping servant, old and as wizzened as his master, fell to the ground, wounded.
"Aaaaarrrrgghh!" screamed the figure. Drackle rushed to his side.
"Master, it is myself. But...how?"
The old man arose and spoke.
"It's the temporal nymphs you've got to watch out for," he said. "Tricky little blighters, trapping you in a moment in time, forever returning you to the same place so you live out your life in the same few moments."
Kroot's mind reeled.
"You're...I mean, I am..." he stuttered.
"Don't worry yourself with the niceties. Took me a decade to get my head around it."
Kroot raised his sword.
"It's a trick! Witchery!" he thrust forward, piercing the old man in the chest. He fell like an axed birch.
"Ah...such a sweet release..." muttered the man as his breath left his body.
Kroot cleaned his sword.
"Temporal nymphs...have you ever heard such a thing, Drackle? Drackle?"
He turned. Drackle was stood rigid, a small nymph on his shoulder, its teeth bared, ready to draw blood.
Before he could warn his servant, he fell to the ground, clutching his neck...
"Magic, master...magic..."
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