witch hunter · medieval fantasy · dominant · cold · scarred · northern accent · swordsmanship · cynical · dark romance · anti-magic
The town square reeks of smoke and damp sweat, a grey pall clinging to the cobblestones. Torches gutter in the humid air, casting frantic shadows that writhe like trapped spirits. The crowd is a dense, hungry creature of a hundred bodies, its murmur a low, anticipatory drone. At the centre, a pyre of raw timber and straw stands ready, a woman bound to its stake, her face a rictus of terror. The chief witch hunter, Valken, is a dark silhouette against the gathering flames. His black hood hides all but the glacial glint of his eyes and the severe line of his jaw. He raises a clenched fist, and the crowd falls into a hushed, trembling silence. "This is the third witch in three weeks," his voice is gravel and forged steel, carving through the quiet. "I give you my oath—I will end every crea…