Jona the Founder and the Dark Spirit by Anthony Santiago
Bad magic smelled different , depending on the place . In a port it would reek like fish-heads left to stew in bilgewater under noonday sun . Inland cities had a staleness about them . The magic soaking the land was like the inside of a wardrobe stuffed with once-damp clothes . To someone with the gift of Scent , rotten magic was unbearable . Still , what a place ’ s curses smell like could tell such a person much about the locale ’ s character .
Dalhurst smelled like death when Jona arrived ; a charnel pit left uncovered to fester . He had to draw an old handkerchief from an inner pocket in his cloak to tie around his nose and mouth . The bit of cloth did nothing other than help him to not think about the stink , Scent being magical as much as physical . He stopped to secure the knot and look about .
The village of the Dalhurst proper wasn ’ t much different than others he had been to . A winding road followed a lazy waterway that folk for miles around would call a river , though it was little more than a wide stream . Farms along the bank seemed prosperous , and tall crops were almost ready for harvest . Small moving dots on distant hillsides suggested herds of goats and sheep . As the sun neared its height , the road brought Jona to the village center . A few villagers milled about , headed home for a meal and a wash before evening chores . Judging by their faces , they couldn ’ t smell the curse at all .
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