Cowritten with [@Luftwaffles]

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[b][u]The Viarosa Witch Project[/u][/b]

Heavy boots pounded on the forest floor, kicking up piles of dead leaves and splintering rotten, bug-infested logs under their thick soles. A faint trace of moonlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting eerie shadows that danced a sinister jig around the trees. A long howl echoed in the distance; a wolf, or something worse? It did not matter. Gottmar von Eibenschütz had travelled to these lands for a singular purpose, and it would take more than wild beasts and tricks of the light to deter him from his pursuit. Vaulting over a fallen tree and resuming his sprint without so much as a second's pause, he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the faint light that flitted in between the distant trees - no ordinary light, but the sickly glow of foul sorcery; a taint, a plague upon the land, a corruption that must be purged without hesitation or mercy. With every second that passed, the faint light grew stronger, edged closer as Gottmar sprinted as fast as his aching legs would allow, carried forward by willpower alone, reaching for the bulky repeating crossbow at his back as his prey came into range.

Without warning, the trees parted, giving way to a clearing that was somehow no less ominous than the darkest depths of the forest itself. The grass and shrubs that covered the floor were not their usual vibrant green, but a pallid grey that resembled the skin of a corpse. Puddles and patches of mud littered the ground - rains had fallen not long ago - but the water here was thick and crimson. Unfazed, Gottmar pressed on. He had seen worse sights than this more times than he cared to count. The sorcerous light burst out of a patch of shrubs across the clearing, heading for the relative protection of the trees once more, and Gottmar raised his crossbow, loosing a pair of bolts that whistled through the air and slammed into their target with the sickening crunch of metal shattering bone. A shrill scream echoed into the night, and the distant wolves replied with their own howls. The glow of magic began to dim. Gottmar gave a satisfied grunt.

Striding up to the fallen foe, the hunter surveyed the pitiful specimen before him. A woman, elderly and frail in appearance, if not in ability, with almost skeletal, gangly limbs and wild grey hair, her frame covered in ragged, filthy robes. She could have been simply a brain-addled old crone, were it not for her eyes. Or rather, the lack of them - the empty sockets replaced instead by the dim shimmer of magical light that Gottmar had been following since the chase began. He glanced down. The crossbow bolts had sheared almost clean through her kneecaps, splinters of bone protruding from the gaping wounds. The skin surrounding the bolts had begun to blacken and shrivel - the work of the holy oil that lubricated the weapon's intricate mechanism and thus coated its ammunition. Gottmar's gaze shifted to the woman's face. "Witch," he began, his voice cold and unforgiving. "You are accused of the practice of dark sorcery, a most unholy affront to humanity and to blessed Calidorus. Have you any words to speak in your defence?"

The witch laughed, a harsh rasping sound that brought flecks of blood spraying from her twisted mouth to land on Gottmar's boots. The light in her eyes grew brighter for a second as she chanted in an alien tongue, forming a spell to vanquish her assailant. Her chant grew louder, until she was almost roaring each syllable, and wind and leaves rushed around the pair in a twisting whirlpool. The glow grew almost blinding, and a pulse of arcane energy emanated from her battered body, enveloping the hunter and... nothing. No scream of pain, no sudden collapse, no equally broken form lying next to her. Nothing.

The witch hunter's cold glare did not falter for a second. "Very well. For thy crimes, I sentence thee to death and damnation eternal. May the holy fire of Calidorus render your black soul naught but ash." He reached down to his belt with a gloved hand and withdrew a short, brutal falchion, dropping to one knee and pinning the exhausted witch to the ground. With a swift chop, her throat was split open, and with a second her spine was shattered in two, separating her head cleanly from her body, the light in her eyes finally extinguished entirely. Gottmar's hand reached into his coat, and he began to lay out before him the tools required to finish the job. From a small leather pouch, the witch hunter took a pinch of salt, rubbing it evenly on the witch's severed neck, both the shreds still attached to the base of her head, and the bloody stump that sat atop her shoulders. From a metal flask, he shook a few drops of holy oil above her heart. Then, placing a wooden stake in the same spot, he produced a mallet from his belt and struck until the spike had been driven as far in as it could go. Lastly, gathering a good bunch of the dead shrubbery that littered the clearing to use as kindling, he withdrew a firesteel from his pocket and drove a shower of sparks down onto the witch's corpse, waiting until the blaze had fully caught hold before he rose and placed his tools back into their various pockets and pouches. As the body burned and blackened, Gottmar bent and picked up the sorceress's head, giving one final glare to its ugly, wizened features before stalking back into the forest, clutching his trophy as the fires raged behind him.

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Moving at a brisk trot through the towering wooden gates of Viarosa, a dappled grey draft horse stamped and whinnied as it was confronted by a pair of halberd-wielding guards, drawn to the animal in no small part due to the menacing appearance of its rider. Bringing the beast to a halt, Gottmar dismounted in a swift movement to face the guardsmen, fixing them with his usual cold, grim expression - an expression only magnified in its intensity by the network of scars that covered his pale visage. "What is the purpose of this delay, soldier?" he enquired, his tone calm and level yet still giving the air of a rather less civil interrogation.

The closest of the two guards gulped. This new arrival was not a man he particularly wanted to find himself in confrontation with; a hulking figure with the scent of death on his clothes, who towered over him by a good foot - although how much of that was due to his tall, wide-brimmed capotain hat the guard could not tell. Nevertheless, he steeled himself, puffed out his chest, and addressed the newcomer. "It is standard practice to enquire as to the reason any heavily armed stranger such as yourself might wish to enter this fine city, sir. A precaution, nothing more."

The witch hunter grunted dismissively, reaching across to his horse and unfastening a burlap sack from its saddle. "Is it also standard practice in this 'fine' city to allow the forces of evil to run rampant less than a league from your walls?" Letting the top of the sack hang open, he gave the guards a glimpse of the shrivelled, half-rotten witch's head that sat within. "Behold. The head of a dark sorceress, executed by my own hand in the forests not far from here. You will take me to your Lord that I might receive the appropriate compensation for my work."

"For the love of Solanius, who the hell are you?!" the guardsman shouted, jumping back as his eyes met the empty sockets of the deceased witch and lowering his halberd to point towards the stranger. "You murdered this woman and now you want to wave her head in front of Lord Demetrios himself? I should kill you where you stand!"

Gottmar's hand came to rest on the hilt of his arming sword. "I would not advise it, soldier. Many have tried, but by the blessing of holy Calidorus I still stand." As if by instinct, he made the sign of Calidorus across his chest. "If you will not take me to your Lord Demetrios, you will bring him to me. You will tell him that a representative of the Altenschloss Chapter of the Order of Brother-Soldiers of the Temple of Blessed Calidorus in Asmeinland is here to collect what he is rightfully owed." The guards stood still, unsure. "NOW, SOLDIER!" bellowed the witch hunter, prompting the foremost guard to give a sharp nod to his partner, who jogged away into the city to find the Lord.

The guard returned a while later, followed closely by a rough-looking man dressed in fine clothes.  Although he wore their garments, it was fairly clear that the newcomer was no lord.  “Are you the witch hunter?” he asked, looking Gottmar up and down.

"Aye," said Gottmar. "But you are not the man I requested." His attention left the new arrival, and his gaze fell back upon the guard. It was not a pleasant gaze. "Did you not hear my words the first time, soldier? Or did you wilfully disobey me?" He took a step towards the guardsman, who visibly flinched in response. The witch hunter gave a disgusted scowl. "Return to your duties at the gate, soldier. I have no further need of you." Once more he regarded the newcomer, sizing him up properly now. "You are a representative of Lord Demetrios?"

“I’m a representative of Viarosa, my friend.”  The man smiled.  “And its grateful citizenry.  Show me the head, and I shall pay you in full.”

The witch hunter nodded, taking the decaying head out of its bloodstained sack and dropping it at the man's feet. "As you wish. Now, my payment. One hundred pounds, in weight, of sufficiently pure silver, delivered to me within twenty-four hours. Think of it as a donation to the Order - a gift to blessed Calidorus himself, if you will. A gift that will help to fund my further investigations in Viarosa, that I might know how deep the taint of black magic pervades this city." He glanced down at the head, lip curling with disdain. "As a representative of Viarosa, you will deliver the head to your Lord, inform him of the presence of Brother-Captain Gottmar von Eibenschütz in the city, and tell him that the Order expects his full compliance in the investigations and potential witch-hunts to follow. Am I understood?"

“Of course you will have your silver.  Our fine city values the work you do for the gods.”  The man turned to the guards behind him and nodded his head, sending both of them off to complete some unknown task.  “I shall convey your message to the Lord O’ the Port.  Now, where shall you be staying?  We will need a place to send your reward.”

"The [i]Treis Ippótes[/i] inn down by the docks. The Order rents the east wing of the establishment as an outpost in this city. You shall find me there. If I am not present, you may leave my silver with any of the senior Brothers you may meet there; they will ensure my payment is kept safe until my return." Turning away from the man, Gottmar swiftly mounted his horse once more. "In the meantime, if you hear or see anything suspicious, I expect that you will not hesitate to inform me. For the sake of your city, and your soul." At that, the hunter gave his mount's flank a sharp slap, and the beast began to move off towards the city streets beyond.