The radiant dawn broke to find Blake hunched over a book, safe under the rising sun. The light of day and the breaking of night drove all but the greatest threats of a moon night to their dark secret haunts. The book balanced on Blake’s knee was bound in thick brown leather and wrapped in dull iron bands, a medium to hold the protective runes and hexes and provided strength to contain what lay inside.

Encounter with unknown creature, Sep. 5, '65.

Location: Southern reaches, Ebbolochian Mountain Range. Approximately ten miles southeast of the town of Quincy Hill. River at base of mountain crowned by lightning struck black walnut. Exact location unknown, lack of proper sky map equipment.

The pen slid across the page, neat blue letters left in its wake. Ink made from powdered elymis was expensive, but it was worth the gorgeous appearance on pale paper, rich and brilliant. And the added benefit of the ink never fading and being able to hold basic castings.

Time: Two hours before dawn on the night of the Harvest Moon.

Category: Unknown

Appearance: Man sized, five foot ten to six foot two inches. General human shape. Formed of pure blackness, no discernible features when still. A silhouette. Mouth filled with too many teeth. An eye at the center of mouth. Attached to tongue? Back of throat? Disturbing aura.

General notes: Proximity to lightning struck black walnut possible cause/influence? Creature exhibited strange behavior for a denizen of the dark, usually they attack on sight. Perhaps Ward and running water kept it away? General characteristics do not match any known creatures in Dex Sulvos. More to follow if encountered again.

As the ink dried, Blake capped the pen and slipped it into its carrying pouch stitched inside his bag. It was a favorite pen of his and served him well in his journeys the last four years.

“Cannot imagine using those old feather quills in the field.” He had been forced to write his notes with a quill during his apprenticeship, and would never willingly touch another one if he could help it. Fountain pens were the way of the future.

With the ink dry, Blake closed the book and activated the locking hexes. He registered the small amount of blank pages with a frown. This would be the third book in five years. And most of this one covered less than a month’s span. An unusual pace, one Blake did not like.

“At least I am going home.” He nodded to himself. Home. It had been far too long since he had been surrounded by his comforts. The book followed the pen into the bag, wedged between the second of his journals and his reference guide. The corner of the telegram stuck out from the back cover of the second journal. Blake ignored it.

Without a fire, breakfast was a cold affair, a section of stale bread and a nugget of hard cheese. Blake hoped he would reach the town by lunch; he was low on rations. He could forage, but bread was difficult to make out in the wild. After breakfast came his daily ablutions, cold water washing the remaining sleep from his eyes. The Warding runes, their enchantment broken by the risen sun, were gathered and stowed with care. A blemish in the wrong place at the wrong time could have nasty consequences.

The river was colder than the first time he had stepped in, and his teeth chattered before he could pull himself out onto the bank. Dawn ensured the creature of the night before would not be lurking about, but Blake kept one hand near his revolver and one near his pendant as he closed on the place where the creature had stood.

There was no sign anything had disturbed the ground. No twig out of place, no leaf rustled. The dirt was smooth and level. Not even an aura imprint remained. Blake was not an expert woodsman, his talents lay elsewhere, but he was confident he would have seen anything there was to see. There was no sign the creature had ever existed except for his memories. The creature had vanished without a clue more to its nature.

A mystery was not how Blake had wanted to start his day, but he did get an early start. Perhaps he did owe the creature thanks for that. If he judged right, it was ten miles to the next inhabited site in these mountains. Ten miles through wild forest, over broken stone ridges. It could have been worse; the mud road had dried somewhat overnight.

As Blake made his way, he noticed the sounds of life filled the air. Birds chirped in the trees, insects hummed, and animals rustled through the underbrush. These sounds had been conspicuously missing the day before, ever since the Gigante had attacked the train.

“These mountains even twist the Harvest Moon, do they not?” Or it was a gentle moon night among the great stony bones, and the next would be far worse. Blake’s desire to be far away grew yet stronger. He was not meant for this dark backcountry. He quickened his pace, leaving the mystery of the dark creature behind.

The sun was hot overhead as Blake crested what felt like the hundredth ridge since he woke when the ground fell away before him. Spurs of dark stone, trees of clawing height, and untamed nature stopped at the sharp line edge of the mountains. A broad valley spread below, a bowl of green and red and brown, nature turned to patchworks of fields, homesteads, and civilization. On the far side, sharp mountains rose again, wild and dark.

Stone ripped from the dead grasp of the mountains marked the boundaries between properties, patches of unruly nature turned to the will of Man. Wood cut from the fallen bodies of forest giants formed the heralds of civilization, structures which men carved out for domains where only the will of Man ruled. Wild nature had no place in this valley, and Blake was grateful for it.

At the center grew the town of Quincy Hill. Even from the ridge it was evident Quincy Hill was not a large community, a village grown faster than expected. Many buildings stood with brilliant painted wood, but smoke rose from each chimney. How the people could stand the added heat, Blake did not know. The North was cold, and he liked it that way.

The steep decline required careful footwork, but Blake made his way down easy enough. The small dirt road he had walked on joined with a road doubled in size, and tripled in quality. It seemed to be the main road in and out of the valley, from what he had seen on the ridge, and the high traffic helped give the dirt near stonelike quality.

Not that Blake encountered any traffic. As he approached the low wall and wooden gate marking the beginning of the town, the road was clear. No one walked along the roadway, and despite yesterday’s rain there was no sign of human travel. Farmsteads dotted the land, and he passed by several houses with curtains drawn and fields empty.

Preparations for harvest should have been well under way, yet Blake was the only one in sight during midday. Several long haired curs padded to the edges of their domains to inspect this new intruder, but all dropped their jaws and panted in a canine smile when they saw him. Dogs had considered him a friend since boyhood.

The sign proclaiming the name of Quincy Hill was readable before Blake saw another human. There were several men and women walking between the buildings, going about their day as normal, as far as Blake could tell. There were not enough of them for a town this size. So long as there was not a nefarious reason for the lack of people, Blake was happy to avoid the attention his presence would bring. The war to the south had caused the flight of many civilians.

Stepping under the wooden arch marking the entry to Quincy Hill, Blake frowned. There had not been the expected whisper touch of wards a town this size should carry. An inspection of the rune carvings on the nearest post revealed the answer.

It had been a long while since the wards had been upkept, months for certain. The shimmer of enchantment was absent, and the runes themselves faded against the wood. Stone would have been the better surface, but wood was easier and many towns went cheap.

Blake sighed. He would have to see the wards repaired, or find someone to set them right. As an anointed Knight, he could not let Dark gain a foothold here. The local priest would be a good place to start. A reminder to follow the rituals, even if the reasons did not present themselves often.

Compared to the miserable state of the warding runes, the buildings of Quincy Hill stood in stark contrast. Most of the buildings Blake saw were freshly painted, white and yellow and green vibrant against the dirt road cut down the middle. Many buildings even showed new construction, second and even third floors of raw wood and brick. Several buildings were built of solid blocks of dark granite, the color of the mountains, pillars framing lofted entries, roof channels carved with decorative reliefs, lines straight and true.

“Now that is not something you see every day.”

Backwoods Ninnesaw was not a place Blake had expected to find sophisticated architecture, of the sort expected in the coastal cities to the East. Gryndton, yes, but the city had been inhabited for near a century. Quincy Hill could not be more than thirty years, citizens drawn to exploit the rich natural resources and farm the fertile soil.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir?” a reedy voice said to his side.

Blake turned with a startled oath and cursed himself. Distracted by a building, enough to let someone approach unaware. The speaker was a wisp of a man with narrow pale lips and thin black hair. Blake reasoned he could blow the man over with a strong enough sneeze. The man’s eyes shone as he stared up at Blake.

“I was wondering at the appearance of these buildings. They are… unexpected in this region.”

“Aye, the Lord Mayor liked the look, so he built ‘em like that.” The man shrugged.

"Surely this must have cost a fortune to build out here?"

"Lord Mayor were rich, ‘til he died." The man did not seem willing to say more. He gazed without interest at Blake, an event of rare occurrence. He might have answers Blake needed without the usual accompanying questions.

"Might I trouble you for a few moments, good sir?" Blake asked. The sooner he could get answers, the sooner he could be on his way.

"What'd ye need?"

"Firstly, what is your name? My name is Blake."

The man showed his first sign of emotion at the question, a brief flash of suspicion. "What do a Ferret need wit' my name? Ye gonna behex me?"

Blake ignored the term, more to avoid lecturing the man out of annoyance than anything else. "Knights do not hex people, good sir. But if you do not wish to give your name, I do not begrudge you your privacy. Moving on. Where would a traveler find the best place to restock his supplies for a long journey?"

The man squinted at Blake with greater suspicion, but he answered all the same, hand lifted to point towards a squat brick building further down the street. "Beckman's General Goods'll do for ye."

“Thank you.” Blake nodded his head in thanks. “Last question. Where could I find your local priest?”

“Ain’t got one.”

“You do not have a priest? Who leads worship in the church? A pastor or reverend?” The building in question sat tall at the end of the road, spires reaching, clawing at the heavens like the darkened branches of the mountain trees. The man scratched under his white-gone-yellow shirt collar.

“Oh, ye mean Reverend Parker.”

“How was that difficult?”

“Wassat?” The man squinted at Blake and cupped an ear in his direction.

“Yes, a Reverend will work. Where could I find him?” Blake wished the man would be more forthcoming with his answers, but he would lead the man if necessary.

“Under a marker behind the church. Horse threw ‘im.” The man spoke as if about the weather, instead of about the death of one of the pillars of any rural community. The Reverend’s death was unfortunate, but death from being thrown from a horse was not Blake’s business.

“Who gives the rites of the dead and renews the Wards against Evil?”

The man’s composure brightened at the question. His thin lips curved in the broadest smile Blake suspected they could make. “Oh, Ms Kingston ‘course!”

“Miss? Not a nun or a battlesister? A local wise woman?” It was not uncommon women took up the role of faith leader in the isolated communities, but Blake would have expected an anointed guardian.

The smile vanished from the man’s face quick enough to make Blake question if it had been there in the first place. A thick pale slug of a tongue darted between the man’s thin lips, and Blake almost recoiled in disgust.

“Ye should leave, mister. Should no be talkin’ to ye.” The man backed away, eyes darting from side to side. There was not another person in earshot when Blake looked. He stepped after the man, and the man backpedaled faster.

“Hey, wait! I just asked a question!” The man turned on his heel and sprinted away, disappearing between two buildings in seconds.

“Fucking locals,” Blake said under his breath. After checking no one else had managed to sneak up on him again. “One Knight, and they are all shitting their threadbare trousers. Yeshas and His Father, grant me patience.”

At least he had a location for some supplies. With any luck, he could get some more information from the shopkeeper about this Miss. Kingston. Blake did not care if she was anointed or not, but he needed to know if she could do what was needed to keep this town safe.

The steps up to the General Store were fresh cut and square edged. The brick walls had been recently cleared of greenery and painted clean white. Someone had taken care to make this building look new and cared for. The whole main street of the town looked the same.

Blake did not like it. It was not the refurbished look of something cared for, rather the look of something hidden. The new construction and fresh paint was like a vain Lord deep in his years, splashing on face paint and inserting false teeth in an attempt to reclaim his youthful glory. From a distance the eye might be fooled, but up close the effect was garish and forced.

The door creaked as he pushed his way in, the hinges pristine outside but rusted at the heart. A quick glance told Blake there was not anything exceptional in the store, unless the shopkeeper had something interesting hidden behind the counter. The store was divided by the equipment a life in a farming community would need, shovels, canvas bags, plows, horseshoes and the like, and foodstuffs located behind the counter in a large shelving system spanning the entire side wall of the store.

The woman in question, who was whittling away at what looked like a rough wooden bird, did not glance up as Blake stepped to the counter. He cleared his throat.

“Heard ye come in, what ye want?” The shopkeeper gave no sign she heard, her attention on the carving. Her brown curled hair obscured her face and cascaded down the back of her plain maroon dress. The hands teasing the bird from a simple block of wood looked strong, and callused, the hands of someone used to hard labor.

“I need enough supplies to get me to Gryndton while on foot. Five days or so?” Blake said and rested his hands on the counter as he looked at the shop’s offerings. It was almost a guarantee there was another town or village between here and Gryndton, but the way things were, Blake did not want to take any chances he did not have to.

“What kind?” The woman still had not looked up from her carving. The rough outline of a bird had resolved itself in the short time since Blake had entered, one wing emerging fully detailed while the rest of the bird remained trapped behind the dull wood of its prison.

“Beg pardon?”

“What kind o’ supplies?” the woman asked in the same brisk tone she had greeted him with. “Trail rations, soap, pots, horse feed? Got all kinds.”

Blake blinked. He had not even considered his need for soap but now the shopkeeper had mentioned it, he knew he would run out soon enough. “Trail rations and soap. Some coffee if you have got any.”

“Do no need any feed fer ye’re horse?” The pile of wood shavings near her feet was noticeably larger.

“Do not have a horse,” Blake said. “Would you happen to have any dried pennyroyal as well?”

The woman looked up with eyes the color of rich caramel. “Why ain’t ye got a horse, with a bag that big? Ain’t ye get tired o’ carryin’ it ‘round?”

“Horses do not like me.” Blake shrugged. “I am used to carrying it by now.”

“Must have near sixty pounds in there, way it’s bulging. What do ye got… oh.” The woman’s eyes had dropped from his face to the base of his throat, where the four pointed star sat tattooed in brilliant blue, then to his hands covered in equally brilliant ink. “Explains the pennyroyal.”

Blake nodded. “Do you have some? Dried, fresh will not have the same effect.”

“I can getcha the rations, soap, and coffee, but no pennyroyal. We do no carry such in the shop.” The woman turned her back and began pulling sacks and wrapped packages from the shelves, setting them in a heap on the back counter.

“Is there a place near Quincy I could purchase any?” Pennyroyal might put a stop to the dreams, but if he could not get any, he was not worried. Simply a luxury.

“We’re Quincy Hill here,” the shopkeeper said, her fists pressed against the front counter and a scowl on her face. “Old abandoned town in the mountains is Quincy.”

Blake held up his hands. “Of course, my apologies.”

“Granny Esmer coulda gotten ye the pennyroyal,” the shopkeeper said as she turned back to pulling supplies, “but she been missing fer months. None else would have it.”

“Granny Esmer? A local Wise Woman?” Iron Knights might be needed to take care of the big threats, but they were few in number and could not be everywhere. Many communities had their own lesser version, someone wise to the ways of the local world and able to fend off the commonplace threats of the Dark.

“We calls ‘em Granny Women ‘round these parts. Granny Esmer is the one ye go to if ye’ve got a problem priest or doctor can no solve.”

“No Reverend and no Granny Woman? Do you at least still have a doctor?”

“Where’d ye hear ‘bout Parker?”

“A thin fellow out front. When I asked more questions he ran away.” Blake watched the woman carefully for a reaction before his next question. “Who is Ms Kingston?”

While the shopkeeper flinched at the name, she did not light up with joy or become stricken with fear as the thin man had. Yet, the flinch was telling enough. Even if the Warding runes had not been neglected, the reaction this woman brought to the town had Blake’s alarm bells clanging madly.

“Why could not this journey have been quiet and uneventful? First the train and now this,” Blake mumbled.

“What’s ‘at?”

“Hmm? Nothing,” Blake said, too hasty for his liking. “So, Miss Kingston? Thin man said she was giving last rites and warding against Evil, and was not a nun or battlesister. I am guessing Granny Esmer would normally be the one to do so?”

“Ayyye,” the shopkeeper said, dragging the word out and tilting her head. “Wassat got to do with it?”

“Would I be wrong in assuming Miss Kingston arrived right before or after both the death of Reverend Parker and Granny Esmer’s disappearance?”

“Ain’t like what ye're getting at, mister.” The shopkeeper narrowed her eyes. “Kathryn Kingston has done this town a lot of good. Even banished a demon this last dark moon. Ain’t been a stillbirth neither, an’ Lord knows we see too many o’ those here.”

“It may be she is a luck blessed woman and arrived when your town needed her most,” Blake said to placate the woman. His blatant lie seemed to do the trick, and the shopkeeper settled back down.

“She is wonderful. I can no imagine what we woulda done without her.”

“Do you know where I could find her? I would like to discuss the town Wards. With your Reverend gone, it looks like they have not been maintained recently.”

“Ms Kingston says we do no need ‘em wards no more, no since she’s here to protect us.” The shopkeeper smiled. Behind the smile was a spell as deep as whatever had been cast on the thin man. Perhaps deeper, as her reactions were muted, more even keeled than the thin man’s.

“I would still love to talk with her about them. Does she live in that big house I saw on my way in?” The house in question had been one of the structures built of the dark mountain stone, carved in elegance and so large as to be a palace among the smaller dwellings of the town.

“She’s in the Lord Mayor’s house, aye. Do go speak with her, I’m sure a man o’ yer profession could learn a lot from her.” The shopkeeper’s smile seemed genuine and sincere.

Blake blinked. “What could a village woman teach a Knight?”

“What’s ‘at? Ye keep mumbling, mister. Ye alright?”

“Yes,” Blake said. He waved his hands at the back counter. “Is everything prepared? How much?”

The woman judged the pile of dried meats, vegetables, fruits, soap, and coffee. “Looks ‘bout ready. ‘Less ye want some cheese an’ bread?”

“Cheese, and whatever the best loaf of bread you have is.” A good bread would make a nice meal this evening. Warmed over the fire, with a little sauce of meat and cheese. The shopkeeper pulled down several more bundles.

“Six dollars an’ quarter,” she said, her tone firm like she expected an argument.

Blake handed the money over without complaint. Back in Wealthmount the same haul of supplies would have cost him triple.

“I’m guessin’ ye do not need a bag to carry it all?” the shopkeeper chuckled. Blake gave a mirthless chuckle back.

“Nope,” he said. Everything she had given him came in paper wrapped rectangular packets, even the coffee. He appreciated the neatness. With minimal reorganizing he managed to fit everything into the ration pouch, and checked his rummaging had not disturbed the more sensitive components in his Knight pouch. The book pouch remained as tight packed as ever, the telegram taunting him. Blake ignored the awful paper and closed his bag tight.

“I thank you for the merchandise and the conversation,” Blake said to the shopkeeper and tipped his head. She waved and returned to her carving before Blake had turned around.

When Blake pushed open the door, hinges squealing louder again, he was met by a trio of large men waiting at the foot of the steps. Crumpled noses, swollen ears, and scarred knuckles spoke to their profession, and their narrowed eyes and grim scowls spoke to their purpose.

“Ms Kingston would like to speak to ye.” The one on the left, the tallest, spoke, but the one on the right stepped forward. He was the widest. The man in the middle cracked his right hand against his left and smiled a smile missing several teeth. “We’re to… escort ye there.”

“Oh, this is getting interesting,” Blake said, before settling his bag on his shoulder. He gestured down the street. “By all means, lead the way.”