Ambush

The bell above the shop’s door gave a faint clink as Morgana stepped outside, the late-morning sun forcing her to squint. A new, better-fitting hooded cloak draped over her shoulders, shadowing her horns. The old, torn one was discarded in that 'changing room' along with her old shirt and trousers.

Her satchel was filled with rations, rope, flint, and a few other essentials she’d managed to wring out of the shopkeeper in exchange for a mere handful of the gold coins she’d looted.

Her new boots creaked faintly as she started to move. They were sturdy enough for travel, though she’d already noticed they pinched a little at the toes. 

“Figures,” she muttered, flicking open the folded map in her hands. “I finally get out of the ruins, survive a wolf, sneak into a village, and now I’m about to wander into the great unknown… in medieval knock-off shoes.”

The map was hand-drawn, ink already fading at the edges. She turned it sideways, frowned, turned it back. “Closest city…” she traced the roads with her claw like nail, “...south. Of course it’s south. Which means I get to walk into the blinding sun. Perfect.” She sighed, tucking the map under her arm before pulling it back out almost immediately.

The road ahead was lined with uneven cobblestones that soon gave way to dirt. She glanced over her shoulder once, seeing the village slowly disappear behind her.

“Alright, Morgana. Step one," she started, counting with her fingers as she spoke, "figure out what counts as ‘making a living’ in this demon body without getting skewered by some holy knight. Step two, find out how the hell the war between humans and demons is going and whether it’s worth pretending to be on either side. Step three, don’t die. Step four, maybe find coffee. Gods, I’d kill for coffee.”

She thought for a moment and then mumbled "Hmm, maybe step three should become step one..."

She shook her head, muttering to herself as she walked. “If this was a game, I’d have a quest log, at least. But no. Just me, a murder stick, a creepy magical ID book, and the worst medieval fashion imaginable.”

The dirt path wound between sparse patches of forest. Birds called distantly, and the sound of wind through the leaves was almost peaceful—until shouts pierced the air.

Morgana froze, her ears twitching instinctively beneath the hood. Her eyes narrowed as she made out the noise of steel clashing, panicked cries, and guttural roars. She edged forward and soon spotted the source. 

A small carriage under siege. 

A dozen goblins and orcs circled it like vultures, weapons flashing as they pressed against a ragged defensive line of four adventurers.

"What am I witnessing here? The classic 'Save the important person in the carriage for brownie points'? I thought this was not a game..." She mumbled behind a tree's shadow.

From her vantage point, she sized them up: a magician in a blue robe, staff spinning defensively; a bow-user perched awkwardly on the carriage’s step, loosing arrows into the fray; a spear-wielding fighter keeping the flank clear with wide, sweeping thrusts; and a sword-and-tower-shield fighter holding the front, their armor already dented.

Morgana leaned against the tree, arms crossed. “Well, that’s a whole lot of ugly in one place.” Her gaze swept the scene again. The adventurers were holding, but just barely. The magician was bleeding from one arm, and the bow user’s quiver looked dangerously empty.

She tilted her head. “Could leave them. Wouldn’t be my problem. Could even wait until everyone’s dead and loot the leftovers…” She trailed off, sighing through her nose. “Yeah, that’d be the smart thing to do. Which means I’m not going to do it.”

She stepped forward, her scythe already materializing from a swirl of black mist into her grasp. It felt heavier than she remembered—whether from lack of practice or the sheer awkwardness of swinging something taller than she was.

"After all, killing those orcs and goblins means gaining new skills, right?" She said with an evil grin.

Her boots crunched on gravel as she broke into a jog, cloak flaring behind her. The first goblin to notice her turned just in time for the scythe’s blade to hook into its chest, flinging it aside like a ragdoll.

The sudden intrusion drew the attention of two more goblins, who screeched and charged. Morgana braced, pivoting the scythe in a clean arc—only to overcompensate. The blade slammed into the dirt after slicing the first goblin’s head clean off, forcing her to yank it free with a grunt.

“Smooth, Morgana. Real smooth.”

As its body hit the ground, a faint, silver orb of light rose from the corpse, and drifted lazily toward her chest before vanishing inside. She shivered at the strange sensation but didn’t have time to dwell on it.

She darted forward again, catching an orc’s axe mid-swing with the shaft of her weapon before twisting and slashing upward. The cut was deep, but in dodging its falling body she misjudged her step, stumbling sideways. She caught herself with a curse. “Still counts!”

As the orc fell, an orb, larger than the previous one, spiraled upward, entering her with a heavier pull that made her breath catch.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed the spear user staring at her in open-mouthed surprise before refocusing on his own opponents. The magician glanced her way too, but her expression was more calculating, measuring Morgana, perhaps, as much as the enemy.

A goblin lunged at her from behind. She turned sharply, blade cutting low, but her cloak snagged under her boot mid-spin. She half-tripped, still managing to gut the goblin but landing in an awkward crouch. 

“Oh yeah,” she muttered, straightening, “totally did that on purpose.”

The shield fighter barked something she didn’t catch, driving their tower shield into a charging orc. The magician shouted a chant, sending a fireball into the densest cluster of enemies. 

Morgana took the opening to sweep her scythe in a wide arc, cleaving through the last two goblins in her immediate reach.

Two more glowing orbs for her to collect.

When the final orc fell thanks to the spear user’s precise thrust, the field went abruptly quiet save for heavy breathing and the groans of the injured.

Morgana grinned faintly, wiping the scythe’s edge on the grass before turning to face the rest of the battlefield. She rested the scythe against her shoulder, looking at the carnage around her. Adjusting her hood, pulling it lower, she glanced toward the adventurers.

The spear user stepped forward first, offering her a bright, almost boyish smile. “That was incredible! I’ve never seen anyone use a weapon like that before.”

The language he spoke was not English, but her brain, for some reason, translating it on the spot.

Morgana smirked faintly. “Neither have I, apparently. Still working out the choreography.”

The bow user had slung their weapon over their shoulder, eyes narrowed. “You showed up out of nowhere, cut through them like it was nothing, and you… trip on your own cloak?”

Morgana tilted her head. “I like to keep people guessing. It’s a strategy.” She chuckled at the end to soften the air.

The magician was watching her in silence, leaning on her staff. Her gaze lingered a moment too long on her hooded face, and she felt the faintest prickle of unease.

The shield fighter, still catching their breath, finally spoke. “We’re… grateful for the help. But I’d like to know the name of the person who just saved our skins.”

Morgana gave a short bow, more mocking than formal. “Morgana. Passing through. And you’re welcome.”

The spear user grinned wider, but the others exchanged brief, wary glances.

She caught it immediately. “Relax,” she drawled. “If I wanted to rob you, I’d have waited until the goblins softened you up first.”

That earned a faint chuckle from the spear user, but the magician’s eyes only narrowed slightly.