Nyraith Vywelyn, Imperial Hound of the Great Dragon Empire, sat unmoving and silent as death upon a magnificent midnight steed. Tall, pale and slender, the Witch Hunter might have initially appeared more elf than human to the casual onlooker, although any concerted scrutiny would have quickly disclosed the error of such a hasty observation.

The Helgwn y Draig (HEL-kwin yə DRĀ-kyəh) were human . . . at least, that is how they began their life. It was speculated that, along with the preternatural rituals they performed, the potent Fethe Ymarwolaeth (FƏ-təh uh-MAR-o-ləth) alchemical solution all Witch Hunters regularly ingested, in order to stretch the limits of their abilities – also emaciated their physical appearance; stripping their skin of all pigment and luster, atrophying muscle and tissue, narrowing and lengthening bone . . . making them appear more akin to a corpse than any living man or elf.

But, much like the spells they wielded and the tactics they employed, a Witch Hunter's appearance was utterly deceiving. The Helgwn y Draig were easily three to four times stronger than a normal human, needed very little sustenance, and required no sleep whatsoever. And, as a result of the physical changes brought on by the Fethe Ymarwolaeth, Witch Hunters did not retain the ability to feel or suffer pain, even under the most adverse or unpleasant circumstances.

The Hunters were accomplished warriors and exceptionally competent spellcasters. Similar to a magus, they could employ devastating spells while actively engaged in physical combat. It was said that a lone Witch Hunter could prove victorious against a platoon – or perhaps even a company – of the Empire's finest soldiers. But, whatever truth there was in such a bold declaration . . . there was no denying the Helgwn y Draig had earned every chilling morsel of their reputation as the Dragon Empire's most deadly and dangerous servants.

A Witch Hunter's mount was also similarly transformed over the course of its life. These beasts (commonly and unimaginatively referred to as witch-horses) were overly large, supernaturally quick, and their endurance seemed practically limitless. They could bear the weight of their riders for days at a time without pause, rest or food. They ignored the most adverse weather conditions and readily maneuvered through terrain any normal beast of burden might find difficult or impassable. Although the potent alchemical solutions forced upon these beats did not result in the same drastic physical changes experienced by their masters, other equally bizarre characteristics emerged which often proved every bit as disturbing.

An example of this was, either by direction or as a matter of behavior, these steeds generally remained as still as statues when not actively engaged by their riders. Hours could pass by without the beast emitting a single snort or whinny, or issuing the slightest movement . . . not even so much as the blink of an eye, the flick of an ear, or the swish of a tail to ward off buzzing or biting insects. When in this state, a witch-horse appeared as if it was magically held fast in place, unbreathing, unmoving . . . frozen by some dark enchantment . . . or, as one scholar wrote, as if the beast was trapped within time, at the very moment of its death.

Astride his monstrous horse, dressed and cloaked in dark purple hues, trimmed with olive satin and gold-beaded lace, Witch Hunter Vywelyn posed the intimidating figure one would expect from his kind. Hidden beneath a heavy, spacious hood, his pale, cadaverous visage remained mostly in shadow, untouched by the bright summer rays of the morning sun, now high at his back. But despite the shadows, the pale blue of his sallow, sunken eyes shone out dimly from beneath the hood, as if they reflected the light of some unseen source or, perhaps, possessed a mystical energy of their own.

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At the Witch Hunter's left, a smartly-uniformed, broad-shouldered officer sat mounted on a dapple gray horse that was functionally barded and adorned with the livery belonging to the Office of the Burmisz. Atop his large head, the soldier's tall, decorative hat cleverly hid the fact that the man now had more hair above his lip than he would ever again grow atop his middle-aged cranium. Cynwrig Grigora, First Gyfredin of the Imperial Constables, habitually chewed at the scraggly ends of his thick black and silver moustache and huffed in annoyance beneath his breath. At the behest of this . . . Witch Hunter, he and his soldiers had been waiting upon the Szerokyi Bridge since just after sunrise. Over the course of many wasted hours, the only crossers had been an old farmer leading a mule-drawn cart full of dry goods and peat, a soap merchant who seemingly made little use of his own products, and a young couple dragging a wagon filled with candle wax, wicks, battered lamps and scented oils. The farmer and the soap vendor were both headed north and the couple crossed the bridge in the opposite direction, traveling toward the village of Ludmita.

As First Gyfredin of the of the Imperial Constables Eastern Territorial Office in Burmisz, Grigora was used to taking orders from just one man . . . well, two really, if you counted Glaudys, his wife . . . who was not a man, of course, despite the fact that she had recently began growing quite the moustache of her own. But officially, First Gyfredin Grigora answered only to the Burmisz; Halwyn Lyestil. And since the fat old Provost never traveled very far from his well-stocked wine cellar in Biasto na Vilnuz, the daily coordination of police and military matters, up and down the length of the entire Peshov Coast, was left to him; Cynwrig Grigora, First Gyfredin of the Imperial Constables. So, taking orders from some half-dead freak who wasn't officially part of any military or police office, was not any easy pill to swallow. "What makes you so certain the missing sisters are headed this way? And on foot, nonetheless? Klasztor Tajemna is a very long way from here. Those crazy Handmaidens don't walk anywhere outside their own school grounds. They have a carriage or two, and a stable of horses far healthier than any of the local beasts you'll see outside of Biasto na Vilnuz. If they are coming this way, they are riding . . . not walking. And if they are riding, they would have been here hours ago. Excuse me for being so bold, Syr Helgwn, but I fear we are wasting valuable time."

Within the shadows of his heavy hood, Nyraith allowed himself just the hint of an amused smile. Always it was the same with the military. They could not begin to fathom where and how a Witch Hunter fit within the hierarchical structure that made their world turn the exact same way, each and every day. The highest ranking officers were usually the most resistant. And often he had to make examples of them. But, despite the fact that the First Gyfredin felt unduly threatened by his presence, the man had readily fallen into line and complied with every direction Nyraith had issued. The Witch Hunter was glad it hadn't become necessary to reduce the First Gyfredin to slag or shatter every one of his bones while his men looked on in horror. Certainly, such displays were useful in ensuring loyalty . . . even if only motivated by their own self-preservation. But in this case, despite the obvious mistrust, the sidelong glances, and occasional whispered slights from Grigora's men, there had been no real issues or obstacles to stand in the way of his mission. "First Gyfredin . . . The two most successful warriors are patience and time. Patience is bitter, but its fruit is ever sweet. Time, as it turns out . . . well . . . as the unruly grey hairs living on your weathered and wrinkled face can attest . . . time is just bitter."