Bringing her blade down with full force, Tart cleaved into the flesh of the witch, magic flowing through her blade to add to the power of the swing. It let out a ghastly sound, which echoed in Tart’s head rather gratingly. Her sword seemed to stick in its target, trapping Tart nearby to it, a predicament made increasingly alarming by the sickly green glow emanating from the supposedly slain witch.
Before she could even react, both Tart and the witch were gone from where they had been.
A gentle breeze danced across her senses. Her cropped hair flowing in the gusts, along with the loose parts of her costume.
Her eyes opened, and she looked around. A nondescript field. Where exactly was she? The air felt... unfamiliar. She called for her blade from its magical storage, only to find... it was gone.
“Where has that witch taken me... and how do I get back to France?”