Morgan stood in front of the elm tree in the middle of the encampnt that morning and began counting its branches, her pose akimbo, head tilted up. Landevale approached her from behind and said, “Miss Morgan, we’re sorry, but we can’t find any broomsticks.”
“As expected. What about vacuum cleaners?” Morgan inquired.
“S-sorry?” Landevale blinked. “I’m not sure... Should I get soone to find one for you?”
Turning towards her with a laugh, Morgan replied, “No, haha. I’m just kidding. I thought you’d get the reference, and I’d get to say, ‘I’m a modern witch after all, I ride vacuum cleaners now,’ or you might say, ‘What are you? A modern witch who rides a vacuum cleaner instead of a broomstick?’”
The female knight stood there, mouth wide open in confusion.
Morgan awkwardly brushed it off, “It’s fine, forget it. I rember why I was gloomy before—my jokes are weird; no one laughs at them.”
Landevale finally understood what Morgan was saying and subtly nodded. She simply hadn’t expected such an illustrious person as the legend herself, Morgan Le Fay, to make a witty joke.
"Well, it’s true that I still need a broom to ride,” Morgan remarked dryly.
With a flick of her wrist, she conjured a transparent platform and confidently stepped onto the air. Crafting an invisible staircase, she ascended to a sturdy tree branch.
“This one is just begging to be used,” she muttered, striking a dramatic pose before leaping—
“Miss Morgan?!”
Landevale's incredulous tone filled the air as she witnessed Morgan hanging precariously from the branch, apparently attempting to break it with her re presence and gravity.
“W-what are you trying to do, Miss?!”
Unsurprisingly, her antics drew a crowd, their mundane tasks montarily forgotten as they watched the enchanting sight of a goddess engaging in so rather unorthodox acrobatics.
CRACK! CRACKLE—CRACKLE—
“Miss!”
“Yah!” Morgan landed gracefully, defying all expectations.
Landevale hurried over, her concern palpable. “If you needed a branch, why not just ask? I could have fetched it for you, you know.”
"It will ruin the magic, you know? Huff!" Morgan wiped her sweat. "There are two traditional ways of making a ‘witch’s broomstick’. One, we buy a completely normal broom from a craftsman who specializes in household items, then give it an enchantnt, and two..."
"...we make it ourselves, without magic, without anyone’s help," Morgan explained.
She turned to the elm, slowly approaching it, and touched its trunk. Her palm started to glow, and the broken branch began to heal, though not regrow. She smiled and said, "Thank you."
Brooms were cleaning tools, symbolizing purification. They were not initially a witch’s signature, but Morgan's. As a holy woman, using purification tools beca her trademark.
Initially, she didn’t use a broom at all. It was rely a funny joke and a replacent. She used to sit atop the broken-off branch of the world tree, flying around and purifying corruptions.
Perhaps the broom stuck more than the branch did, and people began associating witches with brooms. Morgan went along with it, referring to it as the witch's broom, even though it was just an enchanted broomstick.
Now, as she held the branch, she comnced her spell. The branch's surface began to shed and smoothen, elongating as the leaves widened and transford into a glowing golden-white color.
There was a hint of nostalgia in Morgan's eyes. It was unclear whether the broomstick replaced the world tree branch as a symbol of purification or whether, to her, the world tree branch was rely a glorified broomstick.
“With this, I’ll finally be able to go—”
SCREEEEEEEEEECH!!!
As the weary soldiers of the Soulnaught army rubbed their eyes in disbelief, the air crackled with tension. Two colossal tal griffins descended upon their war encampnt like a scene from a twisted fairy tale.
One bore Gawain, one of the mbers of the Round Table, his stoic deanor seemingly at odds with the fantastical steed beneath him. All the while, a stranger perched atop the other, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes, a stark contrast to the chanical beast he controlled.
The griffins' design made onlookers wonder if the creator had been imbibing questionable potions during their design process. These marvels of engineering sported energy conduits that emitted a fierce glow, enough power to reignite a dead planet—quite overkill for a re battlefield, one might think.
The soldiers exchanged incredulous glances, unsure whether to be terrified or amused by this unexpected turn of events.
Until…
"Yer Majestee!" the stranger in one of the steeds called cheerfully. The stranger Burn recognized as the space rcenary and the skillful White Dwarf user, Dirk.
Burn, standing there with his greatsword on his back, narrowed his eyes.
These two tal griffins were…
“...parts of that cursed chariot?!” Morgan gasped, exclaiming as she finished Burn’s thoughts.
Burn turned toward the source of the voice that seed to float high in the air. Just then, he saw Morgan sitting atop a floating, long, and sturdy white tree branch.
He had two questions.
***
"I saw you attempting to ditch these two beauties just because you despised the chariot, so I rescued them!" Dirk remarked, his accent vanishing after activating his translation device.
The griffins were designed to be linked to the chariot. Figuring out how to unattach them required complex commands that Burn couldn't wrap his head around in the given tifra. No chanic on speed dial or the tech savvy he could pay to reprogram them either. Classic predicant, right?
Dirk and his crew, looking for entertainnt amidst their task, which required a lot of waiting, took on side missions like repairing Burn's gadgets and tinkering with outsider tech he bought.
"These two are straight out of a fairy tale, right? Marketed for a high fantasy realm," Dirk quipped, a sly grin on his face. "In my world, they marketed steampunk styled products. But this one is much more sophisticated, if you ask ."
"It’s not for efficiency purposes, just like I suspected then,” Burn said as he tapped the beak of one of the tal griffins. “But you’re right. They’re beauties.”
“Keheheheh,” Dirk cackled—then turned to the beautiful lady sitting sideways atop a floating branch. “Speaking of high fantasy… as expected, you had a bombshell of a goddess here too.”
“That’s my wife,” Burn said as he mounted one of the griffins.
Dirk widened his mouth, “WHAT?!”
“Soon to be,” Burn corrected, and continued, “You ca to tell about the result of your task, right? Have you secured contact with your family?”
Dirk was still recovering from his shock when he heard the question. “Y-yes. They will soon contact again after they secure a ans of transportation to enter this realm. The nearest terminal is 4 million light-years away from here, you know? Not to ntion they had to smuggle in.”
“Take your ti,” Burn said. “The faster you can do it, the better for yourself anyway. And if you dare betray …”
“I know, I know,” Dirk sighed. “I wouldn’t even imagine betraying a man who tanked 3% of the raw heat of a collapsing sun right in front of my eyes.”
Nothing on land could harm or kill Burn.
And Dirk knew the Alliance better than anyone anyway. His chance of survival was lower if he betrayed Burn and sided with the Alliance. Not to ntion this man… he actually treated his slaves like humans.
Well, in a sense that he also treated other humans the sa way.
As long as they had a use for him, he would treat them well. In this case, Dirk had more use to him than to the Alliance.
With that, Burn turned toward Morgan. Only with his gaze, he questioned where she got that floating branch from.
"I just made it. Pretty, right?" Morgan twirled with the branch, floating midair. All eyes turned toward her, and the phrase, cursed by the witch, beca a hundred tis more attractive, now positively connotated. But no more explanation?
"I’m sure even the shit you make is glittery and slls like roses. Are you departing now, straight to the elves?" Burn asked, as the others started to accept Morgan’s explanation without further clarification too.
"I guess I shouldn’t go there yelling and spouting things without reliable proof, but we don’t have much ti, do we?" Morgan sighed as she led the branch to float near Burn. "Are you sure you’re going alone?"
Burn nodded. "That’s why you have to co to as soon as you’re done, right?"
Morgan looked a bit regretful, while Burn smiled helplessly at her.
"Alright. Let’s go," Burn stopped himself from lingering around Morgan and turned himself away. "Yvain, Galahad, I leave this place to you. Gawain, bring Dirk Marshall back to Edensor with you."
"Yes, sir!"
But Dirk suddenly yelled, “Ah, wait! There’s sothing I almost forgot to tell you!”
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Is it just but these days I can't sleep without watching ASMR of pretty girls poking my face? Before you think of anything weird, they're poking the cara with their fingers.
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