When Haddral, formally “Knight Paladin of the Order of Tasmian” and his Lieutenant Mike entered the village on horseback, he’d been expecting a somewhat different welcome than the one he was receiving.

“Sir, shouldn’t there be, you know…” Mike gestured at the empty-seeming town and the shuttered windows, “…People or somethin’?”

Haddral had already asked this question to himself. They weren’t that late, and while they were unannounced, on a warm night like this one there should still be people out and about. Also, they weren’t exactly sneaking into town. The horse’s hooves clacked metal-on-stone along the cobbled road that led through this random village and, well, his armor did glow with holy divine light.

Keeping his disappointment at bay—Haddral was a real sucker for public adoration—he pulled out his small notebook. It was easy to read: the light cast from his armor wasn’t bright, but it did illuminate enough for situations like these. There it is, he thought to himself, finding the right page. He read over the entry for this village:

Name: South-Tenstone

Population: Presence: Small shrine to Aluane, unstaffed

Notables: Inn named “Kicking mule”, Farrier, Palisade (wood)

Summary: South-Tenstones, named for being south of the Tenstone-mill, is a small farming village which lays just off several major trade roads.

He scanned the page, but there wasn’t more information. He sighed. Haddral and Mike had originally gratefully accepted the “special mission” they’d been assigned on, seeing it as a path to promotion, but now, a month and too many small villages later, he was starting to tire. It’s not that his mission was uninteresting—after all, investigating an assassination was interesting—it’s just that this village-to-village trek wasn’t what he’d expected. At first, when his commander had told him about the opportunity, he’d jumped, imagining running down some dark-robed killer in a righteous hunt. Reality was much more boring though.

The glorious and honorable hunt he’d expected had happened, only it was much more anticlimactic than he’d hoped for. Mike—who could be a bit thick-headed at times—accidentally and unknowingly befriended the assassin at an inn, and then, after they both got far more intoxicated than any Knight had reason to, the assassin ended up confessing to Mike in a drunken stupor that he’d been one of the servers in charge of wine at a noble house. That is, until he’d been hired to poison the wine and gotten the entire serving staff along with him fired after the subsequent death of the noble. Mike, in a real foot-in-mouth moment, mentioned that the duo was in charge of investigating that specific poisoning, and even the drunken stupor that the man was in didn’t stop him from realizing he’d told his tall tale to the wrong people.

The man, like the guilty criminal he was, decided to run and got a whole five steps before knocking himself out by slamming his forehead into a closed door. Haddral’s glorious chase was done before he could properly get out of his nearby booth.

The Knights—well mostly Haddral—had then dragged the unconscious man away for further questioning and the next day proceeded with some “advanced interrogation”. This went well, until, well, the ex-wine server unexpectedly died while being questioned. To Haddral’s great chagrin, he’d even managed to die before divulging where he’d gotten the poison. All that he had to go on was the fact that the poison was put into multiple bottles and only one poisoned bottle had actually ended up being served. The rest of the bottles had “walked out” with the ignorant and disgruntled ex-serving staff, who’d then unknowingly pawned the poisoned wine to random merchants.

That’s what put the pair of knights on this village-to-village hunt: The nobles, while appeased that the “assassin” had been put to justice, were still unsatisfied with the fact that the toxin slipped past the food-tasters and desperately wanted a sample. For the unfortunate Haddral and Mike, this meant going village-to-village in search for mysterious wine-poisoning related deaths and then confiscating said poisoned wine.

“Wooah” Haddral slowed his horse. They were in front of South-Tenstone’s Inn: the “Kicking Mule” as the sloppily painted sign proclaimed. Problem was, the inn was shut and dark. Dismounting in a flourish and with a clink of armor, Haddral led his horse, Mike, and Mike’s horse to the nearby hitch. There, looped their reins on the provided posts before proceeding back to the darkened inn’s entrance with Mike.

Loudly, he thumped his gauntleted hand on the door, which didn’t budge. Mike meanwhile was peering through a window before he spoke up, “Sir, it looks like there’s a candle alight inside. Someone’s home I think.”

Well, time to use the power the job gives me, Haddral thought, taking a few steps back and then bellowing:

“I AM KNIGHT-PALADIN HADDRAL IN THE SERVICE OF TASMIAN. BY DIVINE ORDER, I COMMAND THEE TO OPEN THY DOORS. FAILURE TO DO SO BESMIRCHES DIVINE FAVOR.”

Haddral was happy; now, not only would whoever was inside the inn need to open up, but everyone in the village would know that he was here and ready to work in Tasmian’s glorious name. Expectantly, he fixed his gaze on the Kicking Mule’s door and waited.

Half a minute later, light footsteps approached the door from the other side, a wooden bar was removed, and the Knight was greeted by the wide-eyed visage of a preteen boy. The boy was, as Haddral expected, wearing an awestruck expression illuminated by Haddral’s glowing armor. It’s not every day these village bumpkins get to see holy power in person, he thought.

“Ah, Boy, where might the proprietor of this establishment be currently?” he said.

“Sir Knight? Propio-propt-… what?” the boy said in a timid voice.

Haddral realized his mistake, “Whoever owns the inn Boy, where are they?”

“You mean my Da?”

“Does your father own this inn?”

“Y-Yes, Sir Knight.”

“Well then yes, where is your father, boy?” Haddral was getting a bit annoyed.

“Well, my da’s with the others…you know, talking to the witch.”

With these words, something stirred in Haddral. When a village “talked to” a witch, it usually meant that some poor upstanding herbalist was about to eat the pointy end of a pitchfork, but in the rare case that the accused was actually a magic-practicing heretic… Well, I haven’t been on a good witch hunt in far too long. Haddral didn’t quite salivate at the thought, after all it was still likely that it was just a poor herbalist, but what if…

Bringing the church the head of an unlicensed magic user would be another feather in his cap and a welcome distraction from the drudgery of this interminable wine-hunt. After all, poisoned wine can wait while potential witches can’t. Haddral turned to his Lieutenant, and gave an order, “Mike, prepare for battle, we’ve got a potential witch to hunt.”

“Yes Sir!”

“Now boy, which direction did your father and the other villagers go, and what can you tell me about this witch?”

The boy briefly collected himself before he launched into his tale, “W-well sir, a few days ago I was at her hut and…”

Both Mike and Haddral were Knights. This meant that they were armed, often mounted, and were technically minor nobility. They were also Paladins. Being Paladins meant that they’d given their Knight’s oath to a particular church and were proficient in the use of holy blessings and other divine-magic workings. In fact, Paladins as a group were widely considered as the combatants with the most individual combat prowess. Their strong muscles and frames gave them plenty of power for their blessings and their martial prowess let them close in on normal and magical foes alike to deliver killing blows.

Now armed and ready to hunt some potential witches—the boy had spun a tall tale about the local herbalist cavorting with a demon which the Paladin had deemed unlikely—Haddral led Mike along the trampled path that the mob of villagers left. Following them wasn’t difficult. Of course, he’d dimmed his armor, which was still reinforced by holy power, but glowing like a holy lantern would dash any chances of stealth. Moreover, both he and Mike had invoked Tasmian’s Blessing of Stillness which muted all the noises produced by his metal boots and chainmail along with providing a slight weave of Fate to make them less noticeable. He mused; I’m truly blessed that Tasmian’s blessings can be subtle. Then, he let lose a noiseless chuckle at the thought of one of the infamous sun-paladins trying to cast a stealth-enhancing blessing: notoriously impossible for them to do without transforming into a beacon of holy sunlight and nullifying any potential stealthiness.

Cresting a small bluff, Haddral sighted the mob of villagers on their witch hunt, apparently stopped. He exhaled in nostalgia at the sight of the torches and pitchforks extending into the air above the group. Really, it’s a shame that the young lad’s father didn’t take him on the hunt, he thought, A proper witch hunt should be a cornerstone of any man’s childhood.

Don’t get too excited yet Haddral, nobody’s thrown any magic yet, he admonished himself. It wouldn’t do to get worked up over nothing after all. Mike in tow, he continued to creep forwards to get a better view of the mob. From the voices on the wind, he could just make out that there was something being discussed. Encountered the witch already, have you? He wondered.

Then, a dozen steps later, both he and Mike had eyes on the confrontation. A man, unarmed, stood at the head of the group and was yelling at his fellow villagers. In front of the mob, a dozen paces away, stood a woman who clearly looked like an herbalist: she had a dress with too many pockets, a lantern, and at her belt a small satchel presumably containing the tools of her trade.

Haddral’s curiosity grew, and as the villagers did whatever they did, he began to carefully quest about the surroundings with his mind. Sadly, he couldn’t find what he was looking for: a magical aura. This meant either the woman was inert, only a weak witch, or so insanely skilled that she was able to conceal her aura. Haddral quickly discarded the last possibility. He wasn’t deluding himself—a practitioner good enough to hide their power from his quick look would’ve already killed him and wouldn’t be living in the squalor that a village like South-Tenstones provided. No, this had to either be a hedge-witch or a simple nonmagical herbalist.

Fortunately for the Paladins, it looked like they wouldn’t have to wait much longer. The agitator and some cronies were making their move and stepping towards the woman. If anyone is going to cast a spell it would happen right… and suddenly the man tripped and collapsed, seemingly having lost control of his limbs. Now.

Fire poured into Haddral’s veins. He’d gotten lucky. There was an actual practitioner out there; that trip-up had been classic mind-magic attack executed with some skill. The man, still shaking from the aftereffects of the hostile magic, stood up and hissed a word that was like music to Haddral’s ears. “Witch!”

Haddral stood, unsheathed his sword, and began to rush towards the witch—knowing that Mike was just on his heels. Mentally, he visualized himself at that moment: Blessing of stillness broken, armor shining, sword raised, rushing to vanquish some heretics after appearing out of seemingly nowhere. Truly, Haddral thought, worthy to be immortalized in painting or holy scripture. Ahead of him, his quarry, evil incarnate, was preparing to cast a—no she’s not. What? Haddral’s rational mind caught up with what was going on.

Haddral was a good fighter. Maybe even a veteran, and he knew what expression a hostile witch should have in this situation: Surprise, maybe, but more importantly, the grim determination—that unhesitating killer attitude that set them apart from civilized people. This witch didn’t have that—or more precisely, he couldn’t see her expression because she was running away. What? Did she not?

Suddenly, his intuition tingled. Something was wrong, a spell had been cast but it wasn’t the fleeing herbalist (?) who’d done so. There was another caster. Someone who was hidden. He skidded to a halt. Haddral cursed himself. I’ve run into a trap like a fool.

It was risky, but he had to know, so Haddral began to search the surroundings with his mind. He had to find them. First, of course, there were the bright spots representing the souls of the villagers, most of which had begun to flee. Then, there was a singular bright spot heading away from him—the herbalist. Finally, at the edge of the gully, some sixty paces away was another, slightly dimmer spot of light—another soul. It wasn’t moving.

Planting his feet, he motioned to Mike the direction of the new presumed opponent and looked for them. Then, sword raised and counter-blessing on his lips, he waited. And waited some more. They weren’t moving. Ha, maybe they’re frightened now that they realize they’ve bitten off more than they can chew. It was time to give a challenge:

“HERETIC, SHOW YOURSELF AND ENGAGE IN HONORABLE COMBAT! KNOW THAT THIS NIGHT, YOU SHALL BE VANQUISHED BY THE HOLY HAND OF TASMIAN, HIS WILL EXECUTED THROUGH MY BODY AND SOUL, KNIGHT PALADIN HADDRAL!”

That should do it, Haddral thought, no evil would deny answering such a challenge.

The Knights waited some more. Evil wouldn’t answer their challenge. Haddral was beginning to become frustrated, so, he decided that if Evil wouldn’t come to them, he’d bring the Holy Power to the Evil. He stepped forwards to advance, Mike following in step.

Their opponent still wasn’t moving. It’s time for another proclamation:

“EVIL, I KNOW YOU ARE BEHIND THAT TREE. REVEAL THYSELF, AND FIGHT HONORABLY.”

Upon this proclamation, the Knight’s mind suddenly had to do some gymnastics: for a second it appeared as if a part of the tree and grasses surrounding it had come to life and stepped away from itself before he realized that it had a human shape, albeit with camouflage bordering on the miraculous. Then when the bark and grass texture began to melt away, he realized what he was looking at and cursed. It could only be a Demon.

Yes, this Infernal didn’t have red skin as was normal nor did it have horns nor any other features he’d consider as telltale “Demonic”, but, well, there was nothing else she, no it, could be: Abnormally tall, inhumanly beautiful, and with enough visible muscle mass to rival that of rigorously trained male warriors. Also, there was something wrong with its eyes, although Haddral listened to his training and avoided making eye contact. Strangely, it was also unarmed and dressed as a man in a style that Haddral would describe as… shut-in librarian or archivist? Furthermore, its expression was wrong too: No malice or evil but a mixture of curiosity, wariness, and bemusement.

Then, it raised its hands in a half-surrender, and spoke in a strangely accented, but recognizable tounge:

“I apologize stranger, but I do not wish to fight you.”

Haddral wasn’t a veteran for nothing. He knew the type of foe he was facing: A Demon. Obviously, it’s trying to get me to lower my guard before it strikes. He wasn’t going to fall for such a silly trick. There was only one proper response to a Demon in a situation like this: unadulterated holy violence. Yes, hunting witches and tracking down poisoned wine was his duty, but hunting Demons? That took priority—that superseded all other orders. He readied his blade, and then charged.