It was the crack of dawn, the sky a slight blue, the sun still waiting to rise over the hill tops to beam down in the village of Scaybard. It was a cold winter early winter morning, the air frosty, the fields bare small puddles in the dirt track that lead into the village.

  Scaybard had a few houses and a small church lay atop a hill just beyond, made of stone bricks with a round tower atop it the mark of the Elder. The mud houses had thatched roofs which were falling to the elements rotting and Ill kept. The fences around the village had fallen to neglect, the wood rotten, posts lopsided and beams crooked fallen to the damp earth, turning to compost.

  Along the first track, a carriage drew closer, a man drove it holding the reins to a large black cart horse, strong and well-kept harness with a great leather collar and small chains clinking along with the sounds of the wooden joints of the cart wheels. It moved slowly but boldly, creating muddy tracks on the road. The mud squelched under the hooves of the horse as it heaved along.

  The cart was made from strong dark metal with iron rivets holding it together, it was a box with small cages hanging off it swaying with the carts movement all well known sounds of the Witch hunters arrival.

  The man who sat atop hung his head low, his large, round hat covering much of his face, his clean-shaven face only just visible to show his mouth that wore a grim scowl up his lip. His short, pointed nose stuck out from just under the brim of the hat. He held the reins in his thick leather gloves, which, though simple, had carefully crafted metal studs on the cuffs holding them in place. He wore a long cloak which hung limply by his side, signs of being abused by the weather showed as it was fraying its natural black color, going gray and frail, with signs of stitching from the many times it had torn. Bane was his name.

  The cart rolled to a stop just In Front of the local tavern the Golden field though not much about it was golden anymore. It took showed the signs of a building that was slowly falling to disrepair villages like this one had little time to maintain themselves after being built as too much time was spent on surviving the harsh winters, the local wildlife and keeping bellies fed with the harvests. Life for these outer settlements was tough.

  Bane pulled a lever on the side of his cart, applying a small joint to pin the wheel in place as he slid off his perch, his cloak gracefully flowing down with him. His boots hit the track, thick wet mud oozing to the sides. Bane's dark gray cotton trousers were speckled slightly with droplets of brown mud. He looked up at the sky, the sun's face was just coming over the wild hill, illuminating the sky with bloodshot orange. The village would awaken soon to start the chores of the day.

  “We were not expecting you so soon” the voice was cautious, it was however well spoken and smooth.

  Bane turned to see an old man dressed in gray robes walked from just round the corner of the tavern. He was tall balding and had a crooked nose he wore a necklace made from bronze chains with a spiral connecting them at the front hanging to his chest. The local priest.

  The witch hunter looked up, his face now visible, a twisted face, a face that had been changed by magic and chaos, a face created to hunt out the darker things of this world. His skin on his right side was smooth, pale, and clean. His left, however, was covered in tattoos made from scars made from burning iron. Symbols of the Elders' prayers and incantations. His eye was black, black as coal, deep as a cavern with a faint swirling mist within. Both eyes locked onto the priest, who could feel them burning into him as though seeing past his very flesh.

  “You are Herbert,” stated Bane as he pulled out a folded sheet of paper, a summons asking for Bane's help signed by the priest. Bane's voice was cold, lacking in warmth, gnarled like his face.

  The priest felt the hairs on his neck stand up as fear slowly crawled up from his gut. He looked at the parchment and nodded quickly. His voice is not so calm now

  “Yes, yes, that's right.” He felt uneasy. His eyes made him feel skittish. He had heard the stories all the priests had, as they were ordered to call on the witch hunter if anything supernatural challenged them beyond their abilities. But stories never matched the real thing, and here it was, a story now a reality.

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  “You understand the seriousness, I trust.” Herbert regretted saying that as soon as it had left his mouth. Of course, this man or thing understood he wasn't stupid like so many other people, the priest had to hear the sins of

  Bane was oblivious to the man's fear this afternoon all was what he was used to all his life people didn't like that of which did not work, look, act like them. He was here to do a job a job he was created to do being friendly or liked was of little importance to him. After all he had killed many people accused of activities related to the darker world.

  “The missing children. Yes,” the witch hunter turned away from the priest as he opened a large storage compartment, revealing an assortment of chain hand braces, daggers made from silver, wooden stakes, herve pouches, and simple hemp dolls nearly packed into the compartment.

  The priest nodded quickly. He was frightened now after seeing the contraptions in the chest. He remembered being told by a Worshipper in the city about how the witch hunter once stabbed a corrupted priest through the heart, having fallen to the darker powers. Turning to that of Darkness falling to the servitude of the Witch King's corruption. He was an honest man, a man of the Elder gods, but what if the Witch hunter made mistakes, what if he distrusted the messengers of the gods after that ordeal? The priest was not used to being the one who was also under scrutiny; normally, he would be the only one who was safe from the work of finding evil. He now likes the commoners at the edge of the stake.

  Bane took out a thin golden chain, a talisman with a blue, rough crystal at the end. He attached this to his brown belt, which had a brass buckle. A pouch of something he attached to, which hung loosely by his side. He turned to the priest, closing the chest

  “You know how I work, I shall go as I please, I shall do as I wish. You will tell everyone here that they are to go about their business as usual, which includes yourself. I work alone and uninterrupted,” he said this with a more stern tone. He wanted to be sure the priest understood that these are the rules he was in charge now, and everyone was a suspect to the witch hunter; no one was granted immunity until he decided they were safe.

  “One more thing, where is it Martha Gray reside?” This was a direct question. The priest suddenly felt a wave of relief wash over him. Of course, the local woman who worked with the herbs, a so-called miracle worker she was to blame. All the villagers felt uneasy around her, but would go to her when they fell ill.

  “She lives just out of the village, past the church. You are right to suspect her, she is a strange one. I, too, think she is to blame.” The priest almost smiled as he spoke, the sudden feeling of calm making him lose his place

  Bane took hold of the priest's eyes suddenly with a cold, harsh stare. “You are quick to blame her,” his tone was colder now

  The priest suddenly felt a burning panic he was also confused why did he now feel he had angered the man with his helpful comment. He wish he hadn't spoken wishes he had just accepted banes demands and left him to it. He quickly tried to appease the witch hunter.

  “I shall make sure the people are informed. We shall stay out of your way,” the priest broke away from Bane's cold look and, after speaking, bowed slightly and moved as quickly as he could, heading now towards his church away from the Witch hunter.

  Bane watched as the priest stumbled away, being caught in the mud. He had deduced already that the man was innocent in the events; his dark, seeing eye saw that the man was just as scared and afraid as any unknowing victim to the supernatural world would be. However, he disliked many of the priests; after all, it was their order that made him what he is today. He was a servant not to them, though now but to the Elders, the old gods, the gods of Light.

  The first villagers were leaving their houses, and they headed to the large barn in which food supplies were kept and foraging equipment. Some looked quickly towards and away again at the witch hunter's carriage and the man himself. They were all afraid they had been told at the last gathering that he had been summoned. They were hopeful that the sooner life returned to normal, the better, but fearful they would witness the burning of a close friend or family member if they should be found out to have been corrupted by the other world.

  Usually, the witch hunter would look around the village, observe the people, and go to the places where extraordinary events took place, but this case was different. He took out a second piece of paper from the inside pocket of his long wax coat. Here, too, was a letter in rushed handwriting; it read as follows.

  “The village of Scaybard is in need of your help. I felt a darkness over us. I heard whispers in the shadows, and I saw movements from the corners of my eyes. Children have been taken, more every week

  Marther”

  The note had arrived at Bane a week before that of the priest's summons, and he wanted to start with the local witch, as it was uncommon for him to receive a letter from a resident of a job, even more so that a witch would summon him, given his name and reputation