A Cloaked Deception

The dice fall, and fate is decided. A roll of nineteen—enough. The air is tense, thick with the weight of expectation. The guards, clad in their arrogance, take the bait. The cry rings out, sharp and desperate—"Guards!"—a phantom wail in the night. Two figures break away, their boots clattering against stone, leaving one behind.

And so, the game begins.

She is small, bent like time has pressed its hand upon her, a fragile thing draped in years. A man looms over her, the last of the watchful eyes. He does not raise a weapon, but the violence is there, a coil in his stance.

A halfling steps forward, voice warm as summer rain. “Oh, Grandma, I wondered where you’d wandered off to.” A lie, wrapped in a smile. A whisper of magic slips between them, unseen, unfelt—until it is too late.

The guard blinks. The tension unspools, his grip loosens, and something in his face softens, like wax under a flame. "Hi, friend."

It is too easy. The halfling smiles. "Can I borrow that?" A hand extends, expectant. Without hesitation, the guard unfastens the mace from his belt, places it gently into waiting fingers.

“Thank you so much, buddy.”

The next request is more brazen. The armor. A pause. “Oh, this is my friend,” the halfling coaxes, gesturing toward another. The charm stretches, bends, holds. Buckles unclasp. Metal clatters to the ground. Soon, the man stands in nothing but tunic and trousers, defenseless.

He blinks again. His friends—he should find them. A suggestion, a nod. He obeys, disappearing into the dark, the spell steering him away. The players breathe. The scene shifts.

And then—

The old woman straightens. Too much. Bones do not creak like that. Flesh should not unfold. She unfurls, lengthening, growing, a shadowed form that should not be. Her arms slip free from the folds of her cloak—too long. Too many joints. Too much.

She smiles, teeth catching the moonlight.

“Granddaughter,” she croons.

The halfling swallows. The others stand still.

The witch is watching. And she is pleased.