An army stands reluctantly a ways across the marsh. Morag, in her axeless hand, snatches a bottle of sap from one of her company. She takes in a mouthful, swallows a half, and spits the rest to carry forth flames from her belly. The blaze of fire that plumes from her lips strikes fear into their cavalry, and embers into hoarse, very guttural roars.
“Come ahead, ye timid wee men! Down tae the water, wi’ yer horses and yer knightly prince of schemes and murder! Bogleuch has tae offer w’ir guests a wealth of welcomes – prithee, come hither, and take them as men!”
Only petite, she wears nothing but a nightshirt and the bog up to her shins to protect against their steel. Yet she beckons them regardless, and beats on her chest, screaming to rally her men for the fight. They’ve all heard the tales of her witching and evil. Only when she’s wide eyed, and foaming at the teeth for their blood do they recognize the threat.