The Iron Witch
Winged Tiefling
AC: 18 HP: 38/38 THP-/-
PP: 14 PIv: 15 PIs: 11
Conditions:
Concentrating on:
5 / 5 d8 HD
Spell Slots- 4/4 1st, 2/2 2nd
Misty Step 1/1 Bless 1/1 /LR
Cannon: 1/1 Fireball wand 7/7

Witchling
AC13 HP: 18/18
16PP

During the travel the tinkerer began to carve again. The whittling knife made smooth movements under her fingers; she occasionally glanced Under her ministrations, a figure emerged from the knob of wood of a familiar-looking shifter, the smooth face of it marked with furrows representing scars. It was frozen in movement, leaping back on the base eternally as if dodging, perhaps. The Witchling made herself useful by gathering up the shavings, then less useful by offering them up to Aanash like it was snuff, tiny hands full of wood curls as it thrust them triumphantly towards the other tiefling.

When they had arrived and alighted from the wagon, the Iron Witch pushed the little figure into Surge's hands.

"Here," was all she said, without particular interest, and stepped towards the mists.

---

The mists bubbled in front of her, a boiling kettle of souls upended over the land. Infinite faces stretched and screamed, wordless, relentless, without possibility of succour or salvation.

Were those the actual souls of the dead, the Witch had long wondered. Had there truly been so many in old Cyre that they could cover from earth to sky?

With a rustle of wings the Witchling alighted on her shoulder and hugged the side of her head. The little construct knew how maudlin the sight - understandably - could make her.

"...Thank you," she said quietly, smiling faintly, and felt the Witchling nod against her temple.

She stepped with the others into the fog, keeping contact with the person in front. Normally she'd fly in the mournland, but passing through the fog was no place to seperate yourself from companions.