The woman dropped from the sky like a stone, landing in the middle of the clearing right between the four of them; she stopped herself just short of a hard landing with nary a sound, and revealed herself to be, indeed, a woman. She wore bright red, loose pants and what looked like an old-timey silk dress shirt, and her hair was bound in placed using folded paper talismans. Her hands were in her pocket.

Before any of the four of them could get a word out, she turned her head to stare right into Jorfr’s blood-painted face: “...A Son of Hul. How curious. Have your forebears forgotten the path which circumvents these woods?”

She swept her gaze over the rest of them, stopping at each of them in turn, each feeling the burning sharpness of her gaze; from one person to the next, a faint smile formed on her face and curiosity twinkled in her eyes.

“We were-” Jorfr began, but the Smoke Witch shushed him, staring down at Victor. Her eyes were directed squarely at his chest, as if she could see his necklace through the fabric.

“There is no need. I understand who sent you and why. I shall take you to my abode; hold your breath.”

The Smoke Witch drew in a breath, and an all-consuming deluge of greyish smoke erupted from her entire being, enveloping the four of them and blinding them, even obscuring Zef’s sight.

Her raspy voice came from everywhere at once: “Spirits of smoke, obey my command…”

By the time any of them could see clearly they had already been lifted from the ground, and found themselves riding atop a mass of congealed smoke. Even their steeds had been picked up. Their host sat at its head as the forest passed by beneath them far faster than it had any right to, and a ward of translucent smoke enveloped the front half of the strange construct. A wake of strange lights could be observed behind them, briefly revealing the leyline upon which they were being carried before fading.

It was only a scant few minutes before the impossibly-fast smoke construct had carried them well into the surrounding mountains, and they were deposited right in the courtyard of a grand mansion built in a strange style; the whole structure was slightly elevated off of the ground atop wide wooden pillars, with the roof being the most striking part of the building. It was tiled and with slightly upward-curved eaves that extended a good bit outward, with every subsequent floor being narrower than the one below it, and sections of roof covering the resulting verandas. A smoldering pillar of charcoal pointed skyward from the mansion’s very top, its black surface contrasted by orange-glowing lichtenberg figures, as if it had been struck by lightning hundreds of times without being blown apart.

The courtyard itself offered a wealth of sights, a sprawling and multicoloured complex of gardens and greenhouses surrounding the place, but the Smoke Witch scarcely gave the four of them time to gawk. Once she had walked up the stairs towards the mansion’s front door, she spun around on a heel and stomped her foot, barking at them: “What are you waiting for, a welcome ceremony?! Get the hell inside before you get struck by lightning.”

Zel would have talked back had it been anyone else, but she was entirely ready to believe that the Smoke Witch would indeed turn her to charcoal where she stood if she made the woman angry. It felt like looking at a millennia-old and much more belligerent version of herself.

A seemingly endless hall of polished oak floors, white walls, and sliding doors sprawled out before them. It was warmly lit by lanterns that hung from the ceiling.

There was a step between the entryway and the hallway proper, with several pairs of shoes entirely unlike those the Smoke Witch was wearing lined up. A wooden sign with pastel-coloured, childish handwriting read:

NICE VISITORS PLEASE TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES!

NAUGHTY VISITORS PLEASE GO AWAY!

Not being willing to potentially anger the Smoke Witch, the four of them complied, and the Smoke Witch proceeded to lead them on a walk down the corridor.

“By the Dead Ones, this place built into the side of the mountain?” came a bewildered remark from Victor after a few minutes’ walking.

“I can’t see the end of the corridor, but there is no horizon. That has to be some sort of illusion…” Zefaris muttered, having opened her left eye to look, albeit briefly.

“Yeah, it’s an illusion. This place is a maze meant to fend off or kill unwelcome guests. Without me or one of the others who live here, you could walk forever and never reach the end, and you would always open a door to a trapped room,” she explained plainly.

After a few minutes, she stopped and opened one of the left-hand doors, the scent of incense smoke flooding out of the room. It was less like a chamber in a mansion and more like the inside of a hermit’s cottage, the room containing nearly all the necessities of daily life, cooking, arcane research, and alchemy. Everything was meticulously ordered, but what order it was escaped any scrutiny. She sat them down on pillows arrayed around a low-to-the-ground table, and began picking various herbs out of jars, tossing them into an ancient-looking kettle that had been broken and mended with gold at some point.

“You, vaguely effeminate redhead,” she spoke up, turning her head just enough to look at Victor “Are you a transmigrator? Do you have memories of another world, a previous life maybe? Any overly convenient life events?”

Victor seemed taken aback and ready to answer no on all accounts, until the last question, which gave him some pause. Despite this, he still said: “Er, no. No such memories.”

“Hm… Your soul looks a bit too much like that of another transmigrator I’ve met… Do you happen to be descended from one of the Three Kings, then? Maybe Tian Feng?”