Marcus didn’t know exactly what most people thought hunting witches was like. Though he imagined they viewed it much like he had before he began doing it -- daily violent battles and dramatic encounters with death. In reality, a new witch’s trail was generally easy to follow, and they were simple to kill, while experienced witches often took months or years to track down and corner. Then the fight was usually quick. You either killed them or they killed you. An injured witch hunter was usually a dead one. 

Rather than fighting, witch hunters spent most of their time talking with people. Which was why he was sitting at the small inn’s bar sipping a beer. It was what he did almost every evening, partly so that people had a regular place to find him should anyone find out anything about his current mark, partly so that he could hear a bit of gossip and rumors, and partly so that he could sit and drink beer. Today, like most days, consisted of entirely the latter part. Unless one considered the rumor going about that the city’s Prince had visited a nearby brothel three days ago to be relevant gossip, which he didn’t. 

Marcus had been hunting down witches for nearly seven years, and he had killed four. Two of them had been young and quick to find, one actually came looking for him, and one he spent two years tracking down and had finally killed nearly half a year ago. Four other trails had gone cold during his search, and one witch had been caught by someone else. The Inquisition paid good money for witch hearts, nearly enough to live a year off comfortably. Unfortunately, the hunt for them often took much longer than a year, and unless you were after a new witch, the trail often went cold. It wasn’t the sort of profession you got rich off of. His recent hunt had nearly hit a dead end, but he managed to get lucky when he heard about a family of traders who found themselves in an adjacent city with no memory of traveling there. 

That was his latest mark, a witch who made people forget things, usually memories of herself. Marcus had spent the last three months wishing that he had the power to make people forget things. At least now he knew the witch knew about him. She had toyed with him in Cervisia, making him think some young noblewoman was her. When it turned out the woman was human, her husband, some Baron whose name he couldn’t be bothered to remember, had nearly done the witch’s job for her. His shoulder still ached from the pistol shot, and his arm hadn’t felt the same since. Though he supposed he had nearly strangled the woman to death and was close to gutting her before he realized his mistake.

The last two weeks he’d been setting up in Vallis, a city he had thankfully been in before. He had spoken to people in every tavern and inn in the city, along with people in the guard, the local Inquisitors, numerous traders, many of his old contacts, and a handful of various others. Next, he needed to contact one of the nobles he knew, something he’d been putting off after the disaster in the last city. He hated dealing with nobility. 

Marcus sipped his beer and leaned one elbow along the bar, his hand pressed against his chin. It would be his last one for the night. He limited himself to two, or occasionally three on a particularly dreary day. He couldn’t let himself get too complacent, as he never knew what day he’d be killing a witch, and he wouldn’t live it down if he missed the opportunity because he was drunk. Plus there was always the chance the witch would see it as an opportunity to come to him. It had happened before. 

A little before he was about to head up to his bed, a short lanky man meandered in. His feet hesitantly shuffled forward, one awkwardly after the other, as if uncertain where to place them. He glanced around the bar and upon spotting him, began to make his way to Marcus. The man’s hands were wringing nervously along the wide-brim hat that he held. 

“Good evening,” Marcus said, in his low and husky voice. As much as he disliked the talking part of his job, there was no reason to be rude. Of course, nice or polite weren’t ever words people used to describe him. 

The man stuttered out, “Are you the witch hunter?”

“I am.” He replied firmly. People always expected a witch hunter to have fancy weapons. The lucky ones who could afford them often had pistols. But pistols, much like crossbows took time to reload, time that could kill you. Marcus preferred the simple bow and arrow, for numerous reasons. He was used to using it, had a good eye for it, and it meant he could hit something quickly. It may not pack the same punch as the other two could, but it had its own advantages. Fast, reliable, and silent came to mind. Marcus planned to obtain his own pistol eventually, but they were expensive enough that sometimes even nobles had trouble getting their hands on them. What all this meant was that when people looked at Marcus, they often mistook him for a woodsman rather than a witch hunter. It had its advantages and disadvantages. 

“Right, friend said you’d be the one to talk to. Said you’d be here.” The man paused and Marcus simply waited for him to continue. “It’s about my brother. He’s -- he’s been forgetting things. Started about a month ago and been getting worse. He’s…” he trailed off staring off to the side.

“What made you come now?” 

“We didn’t think much of it. It happens to some people, you know? They start forgetting as they get old, but.” He turned his hat in his hand nervously. “But he’s young still, younger than me. We hoped it would turn, just go away like most stuff does. Then his wife spoke to me yesterday. She said he walked off the other day and didn’t come back for two days. He didn’t remember a bit of it. I didn’t wanna come bother you, sir. But it’s just odd. Something just don’t seem right about it.”

Marcus took a moment to think it over as he studied the man a bit longer. It was likely nothing and wouldn’t be the first person to come to him with a similar story that led to nowhere. However, it also parallelled to around the time that the witch came to the city. He didn’t know the specifics of how the witch’s power worked, or what other powers she had. 

He could see the hope in the man’s eyes. They all but begged him to say it was nothing, no reason for the witch hunter to go anywhere near his family. Most people didn’t tend to like the sort of man who might come after their mothers, wives, and daughters. And witch hunters had been known to kill innocent women as well as witches. People were usually more scared of witch hunters than the witches they hunted. Sure, witches could kill you, but to most people, they were more something to frighten the children with than something people actually ever saw. Hunters you did see, and they could knock on your door any day bearing the news that someone in your family might not be who you thought they were. Witches killed; hunters killed the people you loved. 

“Alright. Let’s go see your brother.”

FlitterPuff

Hi, and welcome to my first story on SH! There's not much to the prologue here, so the first chapter will be coming up as well in a few hours. I've been wanting to write a story about witches for a while, but with a focus on the more traditionally evil perception of them rather than that of the more modern witches and witchcraft. Of course, my witches differ quite a bit from just regular historical takes on them. I don't claim all the credit, I've of course taken influence from plenty of other stories, but I do like how the story and setting has been turning out as I plan and write. Do note that this story will contain trans themes and characters. If that makes you uncomfortable, this may not be the story for you? Otherwise, I hope you enjoy this story at least half as much as I have so far! Please feel free to comment and tell me what you think!