Thatched roof and fieldstone walls, barn nuzzled up against the south end. Nailed to the door is the farmer. Flies languidly buzz around his head.
You feel as if you are watched.
Inside, motes of dust hang in shafts of light. A dim impression of rafters, hanging bunches of garlic, stacked cookpots, the pervasive smell of spoiled milk.
The witchfinder and his two lackeys hide behind an overturned table. They have heavy wheellock pistols and basket-hilted blades. The farmer's wife and his two twelve-year old sons lie gagged and bound on the floor. They have long since cried their throats raw.
Lurking in the tall grain, a seventeen year old girl. There is a fat black rat perched on her shoulder. It has terrifyingly intelligent eyes. Together, they have spent the last three hours carefully drawing an elaborate sigil around the farmhouse with dirt and pebbles. She will drag them all down to hell if she can.
Inside, motes of dust hang in shafts of light. A dim impression of rafters, hanging bunches of garlic, stacked cookpots, the pervasive smell of spoiled milk.
The witchfinder and his two lackeys hide behind an overturned table. They have heavy wheellock pistols and basket-hilted blades. The farmer's wife and his two twelve-year old sons lie gagged and bound on the floor. They have long since cried their throats raw.
Lurking in the tall grain, a seventeen year old girl. There is a fat black rat perched on her shoulder. It has terrifyingly intelligent eyes. Together, they have spent the last three hours carefully drawing an elaborate sigil around the farmhouse with dirt and pebbles. She will drag them all down to hell if she can.
I hope they get that mean old witch
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