Roland shuddered as he made his way up the steep slope, the snow clawing at his boots and hindering every step. Looking at the skies it was clear more was to come, and the thought did nothing to comfort Arnow. Even worse he was losing the witch's trail, the Malthorian cross he followed was beginning to struggle to retain the magic user's scent. His quarry had no more than three days start on him. Where had she gone? The magic bleed should have been more prominent, more distinct. This trail seemed to have begun going cold many days ago, likely even weeks. Even the late start he'd been given by the resistance fighters' delay shouldn't have accounted for such rapid deterioration.

Something was well and truly amiss.

Roland frowned and pushed those thoughts aside. He could worry about discrepancies later. Someone had been here, that was certain, and why the trail had begun to dim could have been the result of any number of reasons.

All that mattered was that the trail remained.

"C'mon, let's move," he tugged on Ruyters reins, pulling the horse along.

It snorted its displeasure, but followed dutifully, dull eyes fixed on the path before it.

He couldn't blame the beast. Between the cold and the plodding monotony of the march, he too was feeling the will to persevere ebbing. Yet they had no time, the cliffs had to be reached before nightfall and shelter found, of that, he had no doubt, lest the storm overtake them unprepared. He wondered if the witch would have such limitations. She could shrug off the storm with wards of course, but every human needed rest, he was certain her abode had to be near.

And so they continued, the Malthorian crosses tenuous grip on the witch's trail ebbing with each moment.

Soon. It had to be soon. She couldn't have fled much further. The wind whipped past him, tugging on his cloak with unrelenting force, guiding a small flurry of snow around his ankles. Roland gritted his teeth and took another step forward.

Thwack!

The sudden noise made the hunter freeze.

Thwack!

The sound repeated. Distant yet distinct.

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Thwack!

There it was again, echoing toward him.

Cautiously, the witch hunter drew his revolver free, scarcely daring to breathe as the noise continued to repeat. A woodsman somewhere? Chopping down trees? He could recall no such individuals mentioned by the Trevigen marshal.

He advanced cautiously, the barrel of his weapon leading the way through the snow-covered undergrowth. The sound continued at a slow and steady pace, growing steadily louder as Roland drew nearer. The Malthorian cross, however, had begun to fade entirely. Perhaps it was all a wild misdirection, drawing him from the correct path of pursuit.

Now smoke. A thin, lazy curl in the distance. That could only mean one thing, habitation.

Clenching the handle of his pistol he crested the ridge, ready to engage at a moment's notice. The witch hunter was steeled, prepared for ambush or trap, yet the sight that met his eyes could only be described as disappointing.

It was a mere woman, form haggard and dirty blonde hair disheveled as she chopped firewood with an old axe. There was no corona of mystic power surrounding her. The cross did not suddenly burn bright with the proximity of a mage. Snowflakes settled on her clothing and the cold was stinging her cheeks all too clearly. Behind her lay a small wooden cabin, a thin wisp of smoke rising lazily from the chimney.

And not a witch in sight.

"Who are you?" she said suddenly, not looking up from her labors as he crested the ridge.

Roland blinked in surprise, he had not expected to be spotted so soon.

"Well, out with it," she stood up and wiped her brow, eyeing him critically, "Who are you and what do you want?"

"I'm a hunter," he said simply.

The distrustful gaze did not vanish as she set aside the axe, carefully collecting the chopped logs that lay scattered about her.

"Hunters don't come this way, it's too far out," she said.

"Well I do," Roland answered frostily.

"If you say so," the woman snorted, "Doesn't look like you've caught much to me."

He stood still, wondering how, or if he should respond to the jibe at all.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Roland, Roland Arnow, and yours?" he inquired in turn.

The woman pursed her lips, and for a second he thought she wouldn't answer, or retort in some harsh manner.

"Sybilla," she said simply, straightening out and turning to carry the bundle of wood back to the cabin.

"Would you like help carrying that?" he asked.

"No," she answered, "Plus, you're the one who's needing help."

The threat took the hunter aback, freezing him in place.

"Don't stand there frozen like some idiot," she laughed sardonically as she carried the wood inside.

"Surely you can see it's about to snow, it'll be a bad storm," Sybilla added as she walked back out to get her axe.

"I know, but I'll manage, there's outcrops and caves up by the cliffs, and my quarry should be there too," he answered her.

At that she shook her head, a sad frown on her face.

"Don't try it, whatever you're hunting isn't worth your life," she said critically, "If this storm is as bad as I think, it could last days, and you don't want to die in that."

As she turned about once more, the woman paused as if mulling something over.

"If you need to, Roland, you can stay here. Go on once it passes over," she said simply, "Whatever you hunt won't go far either."

The witch hunter eyed the woman warily as she vanished into the cabin. Perhaps she was right, although it irked him to admit it. He sighed in annoyance. Snow was beginning to fall, the first few flakes flitting by him on the wind. The storm was indeed coming, and perhaps Sybilla was right after all.