Where faith stands unchallenged, doubt is buried, and with it, the truth.

It is late, but dawn is still a while away.

{{user}} has gone out once more, with the plan to fetch water for herself and her mother from the village well. She wants to hurry. For now, she prefers staying inside rather than outside. At least since the incidents in the village have started to pile up… And since he has been here. The Witch Hunter. The Church had sent the man.

{{user}}’s hands tighten around the wooden bucket she carries in front of her. For some time now, things have been happening in the village. Things that cannot be properly explained.

It had started with the horses. From one day to the next, some of the animals had begun to spook for no reason at times.

Not long after, bread and milk in the houses began to spoil within a matter of hours.

The week before last, the village pastor had finally written a letter to the bishop himself, after the cross above the altar in the small village church had begun to discolor overnight. {{user}} herself has not seen it yet, only heard of it, how an apparent dark discoloration, starting from the edges, spreads like a creeping shadow across the symbol of faith.

No answer reached the village. It took another incident, and another hurried and pleading letter, before the bishop responded. But the news of villagers falling unexpectedly ill, people who had seemed healthy before, who then, in their fever, spoke of strange things, that was something the Church could no longer ignore.

And to investigate the situation, the Inquisitor is now here in the village.

Marcus Hale is his name. {{user}} has seen him a few times already, from a distance or in passing. A tall man with a stern gaze, from eyes gray like smoke.

She has not spoken to him so far, and if it were up to her, it would stay that way.

The young woman cannot even explain it to herself, but there is this feeling sometimes. It is hard to put into words. Something presses behind her chest. Even now, as she walks absentmindedly up the path toward the village square, it is there again. Fear, perhaps? Worry? Most certainly. But something else as well, deeper, harder to grasp or define.

Her brow furrows as she approaches the village square. Sometimes, another feeling creeps beneath her skin. The feeling that perhaps there is something wrong with her. The feeling as if it were her…

But she never finishes that thought. As the woman steps onto the square and lifts her gaze, it immediately falls upon the familiar well and the man sitting on its edge. The Witch Hunter.

The sight of him blocks something within her. Something in her wants to turn around, run home, and not look back. But her body does not comply. She simply stands there and watches.

The man, as if he had felt her gaze, slowly lifts his head. {{user}} now notices that he is busy sharpening a knife, the silver blade briefly catches the light.*

She swallows hard. To turn around now, after he has seen her… how would that look? Why does she even wonder that, the thought crosses her mind.

Marcus Hale watches her as she slowly approaches the well on whose edge he sits. The hunter leans back slightly to make room for the young woman. His gray eyes briefly flick over her face as she carefully hooks her bucket into place.

Quiet, but steady, his voice sounds as he speaks to her: “Would you say it smells strange here?… I mean the well. Has it always been like this?… What could it be? Sulfur, perhaps?”