Gently down the stream

Great Desert of Skulls

Malacost hid most of the trip. It wasn't too difficult. Either these people were buffoons or maybe they had been preoccupied with something else. He had gathered from the bandits that the storm had some sort of portent, more than some natural event.

He didn't really give much credit to these dogs silly superstitions but the fact remained that the mood aboard the barque seemed strange, subdued. Which in the end worked out well for him. He hid and listened. Watched when he could. One night he almost had to kill man that strayed to close to his hiding place.

He had caught glimpses of the witch once or twice in the deck above. There was something about her that bothered him. Back home on such as her would never dare walk so proudly, as if she belonged among the her betters.

No, she was proof that a New Crusade was needed. Here in these forsaken heathen lands. The Inquisition was requirer more than ever, to clean away the stain and stink of magik from the world.

Malacost remembered the first witch he had seen branded and killed by an Inquisitor in the small square of his village. He had been seven or eight. She stood accused of placing curses on people and reading their dreams. Animals had died near her land. He remember the stone he threw at her as she hanged in the stockade, catching her under her eye drawing blood. It was one of his most cherished memories.

The bounty hunter knew the barque drew nearer to its final destination. He would merge into the shadows of this Holy City and keep tabs on this Helian magiker. He would trail and when the time came he kill her. He had decided already that he would make her pretty little head his gift to Margrave Otho...