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After the fires had burnt themselves out the remaining trees shuddered fearfully, dislodging a few brittle, autumn leaves in the process. But the Dark Witch had long since passed having spared the chaos she had created little more than a single backwards glance. Conspiratorial whispers passed through the forest and for a long while no other tree dared torment the Witch as she passed on her journey. At last the trees were beginning to sense the true danger in the creature that passed through their midst, wrapped in the robes a black as death.

She moved for hours, undisturbed and wrapped in her thoughts until she came upon a small group of the Munshee. The small party was armed with a few makeshift weapons though none among the group wielded them with any certainty. They wore a few ancient pieces of armour from an age so long past that almost no memory of it remained. Standing at the head of the ragtag band stood a figure that the Witch was more than familiar with.

Firgit's armour was the most polished and well maintained and looked almost as if it had been manufactured in the last thousand years. He wore a short sword at his side and a faded red cape billowed out behind him every time the wind stirred. The Witch's breath caught, half way between a gasp of horror and a laugh of utter delight.

He thought he was a Redcape! The Witch tasted bile at the back of her throat. Such a foolish creature! The Redcapes were gone, along with their magic and any strength they may once have possessed. But if anyone would dare put on the mantle of the ancient Wizard-warriors, it would be Firgit. The Witch almost felt sympathy for the poor misguided creature but it soon faded. Firgit, for all his stupidity, could have donned that ridiculous cape for only one reason. To stand against her.

The Witch chuckled at the pathetic army he had raised to stand against her. Perhaps five, possibly as many as six scantily armoured companions accompanied the foolish Firgit. Fools, one and all.

Without delay the Witch crossed the small mound that separated her from the small band. The short figures turned, baring their weapons at her with shaking hands and tear filled eyes. Only Firgit himself moved without fear and showed any degree of bravery upon his face. In a single fluid motion he unsheathed his short sword and bore it proudly before him.

“Firgit, you show more courage than I've come to expect from your kind,” declared the Witch in a voice of tortured lightning.

“And you've shown less than I would expect even from you, Witch .”

Firgit took a cautious step closer to the Witch. Like most of his people he was smaller than the Witch, perhaps as tall as a young adolescent. In spite of this his face was cold and wizened and told the story of many long years. His short sword did not waver in his grip.

“You wear the mantle of the Redcapes,” the Witch observed coolly, “How foolish.”

“Do not try your word tricks on me, Witch. I know of your plans. And we brothers stand against you.” At this the few other members of Firgit's army passed nervous glances among one another, their motley collection of spears, lances and clubs shaking in their hands.