The sounds of horse hooves gently clopping against the dirt path rang out in the dusk as they approached the log farmhouse. All else seemed still and silent; it was as if even the wind had stopped blowing.

Elyse peered out from behind Nielson's back, squinting as she looked toward Roark, who led them forward at a cautious pace. The farmhouse looked comfortable - cozy, even. It nestled amongst a series of large holly bushes, and in the front of the house was what looked like a half-carves statue from a tall tree stump, the wood not yet shaved down enough to make it clear what it was intended to be. As they drew near, though, she could see that the front door was open - no, not merely open. Torn halfway off it's hinges, leaning haphazardly against the wall. Roark cursed, then stopped his horse, holding up a fist so that Nielson and Kells would do the same. The silence was complete now. He waited for a moment, squaring his shoulders, taking a deep breath. And then he called out, his gruff voice shattering the stillness; "David! David Hendrickson!"

The echoes of his shout faded away across the bare farmland that surrounded them.

Roark waited a few moments. "Mary!" he shouted. "Anyone home?"

Nothing but silence.

"Damn it," he muttered. He glared back at Nielson and Kells, his eyes glimmering in the gloom. "Dismount," he ordered, his voice low. "Martimeos, Elyse, you may stay with the horses."

"No," Elyse heard Martimeos say, after a moment's pause. "Might be best for us to attend, I think. Safer for us to remain as a group then separate."

"Fair point," Roark replied, as he swung his leg over and climbed down from his horse. "But be prepared to fight."

Elyse gave a small gasp as Nielson helped her down from the horse - the beast still seemed disturbingly high off the ground to her - and stumbled for a moment as her feet touched the ground. Nielson helped steady her, then looked down and blushed to the roots of his dirty blond hair. "Don't worry," he whispered, gripping his halberd in what she assumed was meant as a display of bravery, though he looked more nervous than anything. "If anything happens, I'll protect you."

Elyse snorted at him. As they rode, Nielson had tried to talk to her about his duties as a guard, asked her about what it was like as a witch...but eventually all conversation had returned to how pretty he thought she was. It was her eyes, he said, he had never seen eyes as dark a blue as hers, nor hair so dark as night, skin so pale and fair. Flattering, surely - though Elyse had not failed to notice it was not her eyes he seemed most interested in, but whatever glimpses of her bare legs he got whenever they peeked out of the layered tatters of her robes - but it became tiring to hear it after a while. Martimeos was right, though, the boy probably was smitten with her. "You just concentrate on protecting your head," she replied. "Martim and I have the Art for our protection."

She murmured to Cecil, letting him down from his sling on the horse so he could wander free - though it seemed her familiar actually enjoyed being snugly bound up, purring and sleeping from the rocking motion of the horse's travel. He yawned at her, a little annoyed, as she coaxed him out of it, his tail flicking in the air as he sniffed the ground and wandered away. Martimeos approched her with Kells, after they had leapt down from their horse - one day, Elyse thought, she'd be able to do it that gracefully. Wordlessly, he handed her his crossbow, already loaded with a bolt, as he gripped his sword in his other hand. Kells held his spear tight in both hands; he seemed nervous as well, but less so than Nielson, his sharp face drawn and grim.

They staked their horses, and slowly crept forward, the house seeming to grow more and more sinister as it loomed before them. Not a sound could be heard besides their footsteps - no conversation from within, no children's laughter, nothing.

Roark put his hand against the weather-worn logs of the house's walls as they reached it, trying to peer in through a window, only to be greeted by freshly-painted green shutters and drawn, woolen curtains. He grimaced, then made his way around to the front of the house, hatchet held low by his side, running his hand along the wood as he did so, with Nielson, Kells, Martimeos and Elyse trailing behind.

Elyse got a better look at the front door as Roark led them closer and closer to it. It was a sturdy door, made of thick and polished board, with black iron hinges. Whatever had opened it had torn it off its top hinge entirely, and the force of it slamming against the outer wall had left it cracked and splintered. She heard Martimeos draw in a sharp breath from beside her, and glanced to him to see his eyes fixated upon the door as well. She knew he was thinking the same as she; whatever had torn it open must have been incredibly strong.

When he was about a foot from the entrance, up against the side of the house, Roark held up a hand for them to halt. Drawing his breath and steeling himself, he readied his hatchet, and stepped into the doorway.

Elyse watched, holding her breath, as the grizzled man stared into the house for a brief moment, his eyes darting around the scene before him. Then his face grew deathly pale, his scars and pockmarks standing out lividly against the rest of his flesh, and he lowered his arm, his hatchet dangling from it limply. "Damn it," he muttered, stepping back, shaking his head. "Damn it."

He stepped aside, spitting into the grass as the rest of them crowded around the doorframe to see what he had seen.

The interior of the farmhouse was small, but cozy. Quilted stitchings in various shades of blue yarn covered the walls; below them lay carved wooden drawers that had been painted green, with crude but cheerful paintings of pink flowers decorating them. A black iron stove with a tin tea kettle still on it was against the back wall. In the center was a carved wooden kitchen table, yellow clay dishes still laid upon it, next to plain forks and knives, and a roasted chicken surrounded by cooked potatoes and carrots on a platter in the center. And at the corner edge of the table, blood running down to paint the table's leg a dull red, was a man's head, silver-tinged brown hair flecked with blood, his blue eyes open and staring at nothing, mouth slightly ajar.

Elyse heard Nielson curse behind her and stumble backward, coughing. Kells sighed and shook his head, tapping his spear anxiously against the doorframe. Martimeos merely stared grimly at the severed head, then glanced to the side. There lay the farmer's body, to the side of the doorway, a stout man in simple woolen overalls and large, mud-covered boots, a cudgel still held firmly on one hand, blood pooled beneath the stump of his neck.

Roark pushed his way past them to enter the house, glancing at the severed head again and muttering dark oaths beneath his breath. He knelt beside the body, pressing two fingers into the pooled blood; it was still tacky, but had dried a good bit. "Well," he muttered, "This happened a while ago." He glanced up, his face dark. "Kells, check upstairs. And...be careful, boy. I don't expect the rider is here still, but be careful."

Kells swept a hand through his dark hair, pulling his spear close to him. "Aye, Cap'n," he said grimly. He carefully picked his way through the room, careful not to step in any blood.

"I told him," Roark muttered, still kneeling by the corpse. "I told him, the damn fool, to come to town. Had a limp, he said, that he wanted to heal before he made the trip. Well, you've got much worse than a limp now, don't you? Fool." Roark stared at the corpse, anger and sadness battling each other across his features, then sighed and stood, and gave the corpse a salute. "You were always a stubborn mule who thought he could handle more than he could, weren't you, David? Damn it."

Martimeos and Elyse stepped into the room as well. Martim was asking Roark about something, something about whether there was any pattern to the bodies which rose and which didn't, but Elyse couldn't take her eyes off the head on the table approaching it slowly as she lowered Martim's crossbow. Something about it....it was not the first severed head she had seen - but something about it seemed....familiar.

She continued staring curiously at the head as Martim talked with Roark. Kells returned from the upstairs, his boots tromping heavily as he descended, looking grim, his fists tight around his spear. He shot Elyse an odd look, seeing her transfixed by the head, as he made his way over to the captain.

"Nielson!" Roark was shouting out the door, as Martimeos stood next to him, apparently lost in thought, staring down at the body. "If you can't stand to be in here, go to my horse and fetch me my hammer and nails." He turned as Kells approached him, raising an eyebrow. "Well?" he asked softly. "Mary? The children?"

Kells sighed, shaking his head. "Dead," he said quietly. Roark growled, and slammed a fist into the wall in anger.

"Martim," Elyse said suddenly, catching all their attention. She still stood transfixed, staring at the head. "Does....something about this head seem odd to you?"

"What about this isn't odd," Kells muttered, but Martimeos simply frowned and went to her side, joining her in staring at the head. Kells and Roark glanced at each other, Kells raising an eyebrow at their odd behavior.

"Odd?" Martimeos muttered. The head still stared blankly at the wall. "I...do not feel the touch of the Art upon it, but...yes, something...seems strange. It...looks as if it's still..."

And then suddenly, the head blinked.

Elyse and Martimeos jumped back with shouts of alarm, almost stumbling over each other as they did so, Elyse only managing not to fall by yanking on Martim's black furred cloak. "What is it?!" Roark shouted in alarm, his hand going to his hatchet again.

Martimeos rubbed at his neck where Elyse's scramblings had pulled the clasp of his cloak tight against it, but before he had a chance to explain, Kell's awed and horrified voice spoke out. "Black Hells, Cap'n," he whispered. "Look at it."

They all turned to face the head.

Blue eyes rolled in their sockets, independent of each other, giving the head a look of grotesque madness. Its mouth opened, stretched, its tongue lolled, as if wetting its lips; a low, creaking groan built within it. They all stepped back, scrambling, but unable to take their eyes off it. Finally, dark and damned, the head's eyes settled, fixing on them; its mouth opened wide, and from it came a low, raspy voice, like dry smooth stones sliding against each other. "Bring them," it said. "Bring...them...to me."

Roark was too stunned to even curse. "David...?" he whispered. "You...still live?"

But Martimeos shook his head, and Elyse murmured, "No. I don't think that's David."

"Bring them...to me," the head spoke, its voice growing more urgent, running its tongue over its teeth. "Bring them to me...or suffer."

There was a sudden clunk behind them; they all turned to see Nielson in the doorway, white as a sheet, a hammer and bag of nails dropped by his feet, the nails spilling out across the floor, scattered. "Did that head just speak?" he gasped.

As if in response, the head shifted its gaze to him. "SUFFER," it said, its voice rising to a shout that made them jump.

Martimeos held up a cautious hand to urge quiet. But Elyse took a cautious step forward, staring straight into the head's wide, percing eyes. "Who are you?" she asked softly.

"Nameless," the head groaned, "Kinslayer...bring them....to me..."

Elyse glanced backwards as she felt someone grab her arm. Kells and Roark were glancing back and forth, from the head, to her, both with eyes wide with shock and fear, while Nielson stood in the doorway, shaking, but frozen, too afraid to move. Martim had the grip on her arm, and shifted his gaze from the head to her, furrowing his brow with concern. "Are you certain 'tis a good idea to speak with it?" he asked her in a hushed whisper.

Elyse understood his worry. There were things that might curse or kill through speech with them; especially when it came to those who spoke through the dead. But she had seen something like this before, and she did not think it was the case here. She placed a reassuring hand on his arm, nodding, and he let her go, though he placed his hand on his sword as she stepped forward once more. "Who is it that you want brought to you?" she asked.

"My brethren...my brothers...my sisters..." the head's mouth opened wide, wider than was natural. "They deserve...death...bring them to me....bring them to me, bring them, BRING THEM TO MEEEEEEE..."

The head's mouth opened wider, and wider, its words turned into a low, creaking growl that built into a roar, an awful, screeching roar, a roar that grew loud enough to cause them to cover their ears, to rattle the plates on the table, a long, endless howl of madness and rage, until they went fleeing from the house out into the twilight, fear coursing through them, breathing heavily as they bent over, panting, in the fields. And even then dread filled them, even then they could hear from the house the head screaming, blind, inhuman howls, screaming into the empty house to bring them, bring them, bring them.

Kells was the first to speak, looking back at the house, his hands gripped tight around his spear. "Damnation," he muttered. "Let's go. Let's get out of here. Leave this cursed place." He pointed his spear towards the horses; the screams were loud enough to make them dance nervously, tugging at their stakes. "Leave, before night falls. I want as much distance between myself and this house as possible before I sleep. Not that I think I'll be able to."

Nielson quickly nodded his agreement, but Roark shook his head. "No! We have to board up the house and mark it - we can't let those bodies get up and wander free. And I..." he winced, listening to the screams. Sadness looked strange upon his rough face. "I can't leave David like that."

"I would not go back near that thing," Martimeos said, still catching his breath. "It's not your farmer anymore, anyway. Just something that speaks through what is left of him."

It was a little strange to see Roark at a loss for words; until now he had seemed gruff and unshakeable. "But...how do I make it stop, then? I won't just leave it screaming bloody hell here..."

Elyse knelt down to the ground. Cecil had come bounding up to her through the twilight, drawn by the sound of the wild screams, and was looking up at her with wild, wide eyes, nervously glancing towards the house. "If you really feel you must," she said, "Just smash it."

Roark looked at her for a moment, the screams and howls from the house echoing all around them. "Give me your halberd, Nielson," he said grimly. He hefted the weapon in his hands as Nielson handed it to him, slapping the shaft against his palm, feeling its weight. "If anything happens to me," he said quietly, "Then Kells, Nielson - you take these two straight back to town. Go straight to the mayor. Tell him what we saw here."

Squaring his shoulders, he trudged back towards the house, back into the howling screams, halberd propped against one shoulder. They watched as he paused before the doorway, steeling himself, and then stepped in. A moment later, there was a series of loud, wet thwacks. And then the screaming stopped. Roark stepped out the doorway, grimacing with disgust, wiping down the blade of the halberd with a cloth.

With the screaming stopped, they sealed off the house by taking the torn-off door and settling it crookedly back into its frame, using the hammer and nails Nielson had fetched to nail it crookedly into place, leaving only small gaps where it did not settle into the frame, so that if the bodies within rose they would be trapped in the home. With this done, Roark took his hatchet and chopped a large, rough 'X' into the logs on the side of the door. "This house needs to be burned - probably more than any other I've seen," Roark muttered in explanation to Martimeos and Elyse when they asked. "But no time to do it now. Marking it so a future patrol knows what to do with it."

When they had finished, night had fallen, a yellow moon hanging low in the sky. But though the dark closed in around them - perhaps what they had seen in the house had burnt the in their veins out, but they felt a bit less afraid as they trudged back to their horses, boots crunching on dried grass. "Hold a moment," Roark said, though his voice did not carry the snap of command, as Nielson reached his horse and made to pull himself into the saddle. "Before we move on. Let's talk a moment about what we saw."

In the dim light of the moon, he pulled out his ornate boar's-head pipe, packing it with tobacco. After a moment, Martimeos did the same with his own. Their faces were briefly lit by a dim orange glow as they drew on them, eyes twinkling in the darkness. "So," Roark said, quietly, after a moment. "You said something was speaking through David's head back there. You are certain about that...? It didn't sound like David, but...who knows, perhaps being headless and beyond the veil of death drives a man mad."

"Yes," said Elyse softly. "I've seen something like this before."

In the darkness, she could feel Martimeos looking at her curiously, but thankfully, he did not ask her about it - though if she had a guess, it would be the first question out of his mouth when they were alone. "Nothing like this has happened before?" he asked.

"Talking heads?" That was Kells, leaning on his spear. He snorted. "No, though maybe with all else that's happening, we shouldn't think it so strange."

"Actually," Roark muttered, "I had read a report from one of our patrols that mentioned something like this, a few weeks back....they did not state what it said, and before I could question them, the men were killed. I had put it out of my mind...thought perhaps the stress..." he shook his head, puffing on his pipe in silence.

"So..." Nielson said, softly, standing by his horse. "If it...was something speaking to us...what was it? Was it the rider? Why would he not just speak normally?"

"Perhaps he cannot," Martim replied. "Or perhaps, it wasn't the rider speaking to us at all. Perhaps it was someone he serves."

They all contemplated this quietly for a moment.

"He said he had brethren," Nielson murmured. "Woed's beard, Captain. What if there are more of these things? That is...if it were the rider speaking."

"Well, on the bright side, he did say he wanted to slaughter them," Kells said, giving an unpleasant grin. "Maybe they'll all kill each other."

Roark chuckled softly as he tapped out his pipe against the side of his boot. He seemed...more worn down, now, for the first time since they had met him. A bit softer around the edges, a bit drained. "Aye, maybe. And maybe the next time I go to take a piss, I'll trip over a bag of gold." He sighed, then looked up at Martimeos and Elyse. "I know you two are simple travelers," he said, "But when we get to town, I ask that you come with me when I meet with the mayor. I think hearing it from the mouth of a wizard and a witch, those who know of these things, will lend weight to my words."

"Certainly. A fair trade for an escort, I think." Martimeos still puffed on his own pipe; he liked to pack it heavier than Roark did. Elyse, however, was uncharacteristically quiet; lost in thought and memory.

Roark nodded. "Right. Good. Kells, Nielson, bring out the torches. Let's get away from this damned place before we break for the night. It is not that far of a ride to Farmer's Circle."