The first order of business after breakfast was to check in at the local church. There were two buildings in the village that were lavishly constructed; one was the local lord's manor, and the other was the Church of the Golden Lady. The local lord's mansion was squat and wide, and the gate was adorned with the sigil of the man's house; three downward pointing swords on a shield of blue. Katarina straightaway decided that she wouldn't need to meet with the local Lord, seeing as she wasn't there in any official capacity. Besides, they were likely just a functionary that was appointed by the Church as a supervisor. The other building held the real authority.

The church was tall and narrow, one of only a few buildings in the village that boasted a second floor. The steeple itself bore the stylized fleur-de-lys of the Golden Lady, the Lily of Spring. Pastoral villages often venerated her fertility aspect over her other Aspects because there wasn't much call for militaristic Defender or the codified lessons of the Kneeling Woman.

As Katarina approached the church, grimly ignoring the mud squelching over her boots and the flies in the heavy air, she could hear singing coming forth, a song she'd never heard before. She loosened her sword in her scabbard, adjusted her gun, straightened her hat, and tugged on her coat's lapels briefly, checked Mystia's posture, and then opened the front door. The music seemed to be only suppressed by the walls and door of the church; as soon as she opened the door it washed over her, nearly pushing her back under its near-tangible weight.

She glanced at Mystia again.

"Remember, you try to run, and I'll blow your leg off. You can live just fine without a leg." She warned, and Mystia glared up at her sullenly. "Oh yeah? You try it, then."

Katarina grinned down at her. "You first. Show me how it's done." she encouraged. Mystia frowned and turned her head away. Katarina turned back to the church.

There let the way appear steps unto heaven;

All that Thou sendest me in mercy given;

Angels to beckon me nearer, my Lady, to Thee,

Nearer, my lady, to Thee, nearer to Thee!

Katarina's eyebrows climbed. This was not a hymn she was familiar with. There were stacks of hymnals, codified and canonical songs that were expected to be sung at different parts of the day, or particular life events or ceremonies such as weddings, funerals, birthdays, the arrival of a new child, or any number of other significant events. These were written by sanctioned, recognized, and consecrated songstresses and musicians, certified holy by a panel of judges, and dispersed to the various churches. Their lyrics and meanings were taught by teachers, who themselves were consecrated and legitimized by the faith. This was not a canonical song.

Then with my waking thoughts bright with Thy praise,

Out of my stony griefs a marker I'll raise;

So by my woes to be nearer, my Lady, to Thee,

Nearer, my Lady, to Thee, nearer to Thee!

They were packed into the place, shoulder to shoulder, bodies swaying in tempo to the song, arms raised high. The choir was standing as the congregation, and were clapping their hands and stomping their feet rhythmically as they sang.

Or if on joyful wing, cleaving the sky,

Sun, moon, and stars forgot, upwards I fly,

Still all my song shall be, nearer, my Lady, to Thee,

Nearer, my Lady, to Thee, nearer to Thee!

As the last note trailed off, Katarina pushed forward into the church single-mindedly, brows lowered angrily. The pastor immediately spotted her as she stood out completely from the others. Where they were short, she was tall; where they were dark haired and brown eyed, she was pale, with white hair and green eyes. He himself was a dirty dishwater blonde with brown eyes and a figure that was leaning towards fat. She locked eyes with him, moved her coat back from her hip and lifted her gun partway clear of the holster; an unspoken signal. His response was unexpected.

"Now ma'am, I'll kindly ask you to step outside this place of worship." The pastor said with a slight frown marring his weathered face. His accent marked him as an outsider, even if his appearance did not. it was thick and somewhat nasal. Everyone turned to eye her doubtfully. "Weapons are not permitted in Her holy place." He intoned, eyeing the gun on her hip mistrustfully.

Katarina pursed her lips for a moment before she answered. She hadn't wanted to do this; but it seemed she had no choice.

She raised her holy symbol and announced in a clear voice, "My name is Katarina, and I am a Witch Hunter in service to the Golden Lady. I have need of your services." There was a wave of gasps and hushed murmurs at this proclamation from the villagers; a Witch Hunter was a rare sight, and usually presaged a catastrophe.

He let out a long, slow breath, a breath of weary patience and forbearance.

"Can it wait until after the morning prayer?" He asked, not unkindly. She smiled a little at that and ducked her head in a nod. "It can wait, pastor." She replied, and dragged Mystia with her to stand at the back of the church.

She was respectfully quiet, but the members of the congregation kept turning to look at her. The pastor himself glanced at her from time to time as well as he gave his lesson, and for good reason. Witch Hunters were hunters of unsanctioned mages. If a Witch Hunter showed up to a village, a storm of paranoia and mistrust would spring up in the village as they chased down their prey. Who was the unsanctioned in this village? Who was the heretic? Who among their brothers and sisters and cousins and husbands and wives could dare truck with demons, mutants, beastmen, and foul abominations?

The pastor gave his lesson, which was simple: clean living, hard work, joyous worship of the Golden Lady. He listed off a few announcements; Forest Wardens were expected from a neighboring frontier village, and it was likely they were escorting a merchant train. A shipment of lumber was expected to be ready to leave when the merchant departed, heading back to the more civilized realms of Aston. From the way the villagers reacted at the news, the Forest Warden's arrival seemed to signify something else to them. She overheard bits and pieces of their conversation; words like "pavilion" and "Old Henry" were tossed around quite a bit. One word jumped out and caught her attention more than the others: Beltane.

Everyone attending filed out of the church, eyeing Katarina with the curious, unafraid glances of people that lived comfortably in their lives.

"You perhaps could not be more discreet?" He began angrily, after the last villager had left. Katarina's eyes instantly narrowed.

"Don't take that tone with me, pastor." She warned, stressing his title. "You saw my gun, you know what it signifies. If you'd just kept your mouth shut and stuck to your lesson instead of calling me out in front of the whole church we'd be having a completely different conversation right now."

"You think to lay blame?" He shouted. "My sister and I, we have been here many months and still the townspeople, they do not trust me. Now they may never!"

She shrugged dismissively. "Not my problem." She replied. His eyes blazed furiously at her, but she refused to back down. After a long minute all the anger seemed to drain out of him slowly. Against her, he was powerless. He was a nameless preacher in some backwater village, while she was a Witch Hunter of the great church. While she had no official position in the hierarchies of pastors and preachers and Cardinals, a Witch Hunter's authority outstripped theirs. She could go where she liked, do what she liked, and should she wish to assign blame, he was required to take it.

"You are from Darnell, oui?" The pastor asked in a resigned, listless tone, switching topics.

She nodded. "And you're from the southern nation of Lyonesse, if I'm not mistaken." Katarina replied pointedly, folding her arms across her chest. He smiled self-deprecatingly and spread his hands disarmingly.

"Indeed mademoiselle, my sister and I, we come from the great Jewel Cities of the Samarkand highlands in the beautiful country of Lyonesse." He replied. "Have you heard of them?" He asked curiously. She nodded at that.

"A great kingdom of the past." She replied dismissively. "I'm more interested in the song they were singing, pastor." She replied harshly, gesturing at the rows of pews.

He smiled again, uncertainly. His expression was guarded, suspicious. "It is their way, oui? They need the music. It fills them with Her Lady's grace, no? In the fields they sing, and in the forests the trees resonate with their songs as they hew and cut. Surely the Goddess smiles upon a village so blessed."

A muscle in her neck twitched. "They should be singing the songs provided to them by the Great Church of the Golden Lady, monsieur." She replied, stressing the word. "Things are starting to add up here, pastor, and the numbers aren't pleasant." She said, and straightened from leaning against the wall of the Church. "You claim to be from the heretical Jewel Cities, and we have a village singing songs that are unsanctioned."

He sighed tiredly, pinching his nose delicately. "The serpent of the church has a long reach and the fangs seek their prey without worry, oui?" He asked, raising his hands placatingly. "I did not teach them the songs they sing, and the lessons I teach, they are pure. I was raised in the faith of the Golden Lady in the grand city of Opal, Witch Hunter, the Jewel of Healing. I am without sin."

Katarina marched towards him, her fist lashing out, lightning quick, catching the man backhanded across the face. He staggered back, reeling and catching himself against one of the wooden benches, blood running from his nose and lip.

"There is no one free of sin, pastor." She reminded him. "There are only varying degrees of it. Your words border on heresy, and my temper is short." She stated coldly. Mystia's gaze kept flicking between Katarina and the priest.

"I misspoke!" The man cried through his cupped hand. Blood was trickling between his fingers. "I misspoke! Anglish is not my native tongue! The words, they do not come easy!" He cried. "Forgiveness!" He implored.

With an obvious effort, Katarina reined herself in. "I came seeking transport for this one." She said, gesturing to Mystia. "She's a mage in need of Sanctioning. Can you handle her?" The man shook his head, and pulled out a handkerchief for his hands and face. "The Wardens, they may help when they come, oui?" he replied slowly, guardedly, his voice muffled. "We have no way of containing one such as her. Higgenfal is... how you say, provincial? Small? Oui, she is small. We are but peasants, Madame chasseuse de sorcières. You would be better in taking her west, to Aston."

Katarina sighed, and dragged her gloved palms across her face in exhaustion.

"As I suspected. Come, Mystia. We've got a long road in front of us." Katarina said tiredly, and grabbed the young mages' arm and began relentlessly dragging her towards the exit.

"Madame, wait." The pastor called, stopping Katarina with a vexed sigh.

"Yes, pastor?" She asked, turning around.

"A compromise, no?" He offered with a grimace at the blood-splattered handkerchief and a snuffle of bloody snot.

"Oh? What have you got?" she asked.

"You use a decoction, oui? To keep the sorcières docile for transport." He inquired, wiping his nose again.

Katarina frowned. Decoction? Could he mean the potion? "If you're talking about the potion I have to force her to drink when I'm carting her around, yes, I use it."

He shook his head with a twist of his mouth. "No, no, no. I mean, I have heard of this potion you use. This church has an... what is word..." he trailed off. "apothicaire." He wrangled out. "You understand? One good with plants." Katarina nodded.

"We have no way of keeping her contained in ways as perhaps Aston or the far-off Darnell, but we could dose her."

Katarina glanced at Mystia. "Well, songbird, what say you? Want to be doped to the gills?" She asked the girl, who shook her head frantically.

"Sounds like a plan, pastor." Katarina remarked with a wry smile, turning back to the man. The man nodded hesitantly. "I'll bring her around tonight."