The day was getting on, the sun getting orange, and for many men it would be the last light they would see. A mob of angry townsfolk of Brogden stormed up the main street shouting and waving pitch forks and pistols. In the middle of the ring, lead by a rope tied to his bound wrists was "an Indian." 

"We want justice! Devil summoning heathen! Witch!" The crowd had all kinds of ideas about how wicked wildlings were. They had brought him to the town center, insisting the sheriff and the priest come out to hold court. A simple farmer stormed up to the office clasping a noose, "We demand this Injin be tried immediately! He stole my corn!" 
"He stole my daughter's honor!"
"The heathen brought the spirits upon us!"

The crowd was dirty from a day's labor and shook their weapons of justice fervently just across from the church. 

Ashtar was tired, and scared. They had drug him around the town on display, and put a gag in his mouth. Even though he could speak the language of the pale skinned, they didn't want to hear him. This seemed to happen more and more often lately, but was this time going to be the last?? The wild native was certain he was going to die to these possessed people. He looked with pleading eyes in the Sheriff's direction.