The livery, which simply is a barn that also houses goats, has two gentle and stocky workhorses. One a spotted gray, the other a chocolate brown, both sporting black manes. Like the streaks of a squire's flag, the brown horse has white stripes on its face and legs.

Every evening, after a day’s work in the fields, Nero tucks the horses to bed. He ushers them into the barn, brushes their fur, and polishes the yokes. He kisses them goodnight. Stablehands and Jaqui check in and out, and they sleep amongst hay bales in the attic.

One night, there is a thump and some creaking. It seems to be nothing more than wind, and sometimes the animals kick their enclosures. A stablehand decides to take a midnight piss. He climbs down the ladder, and after securing his foot on the dirt floor, he turns around to see the barn’s quad doors unlocked, slits of moonlight intrusion. He hears the gurgles of a horse chewing and scraping at a trough, before it erupts into a bellow.

The horse barges through its stall gate, wood splintering, almost tramples the stablehand, neighs, and bursts out of the barn.

Across the landscape, the thunderous shrieks wake everyone, a flood of hay-poked men growing while chasing it. The sky is still asleep under the predawn, yet the gentle brown beast rampages across the campsite, crashing into rickety cabins and leaving hoofprints all over.

Armed men burst open from their homes with torches, clubs and hatchets, but their fear escalates to horror.

The draft horse sprouts an ivory horn from its forehead, straight but knobby. A dark liquid sprawls from its base, flowing down face and neck, eyes pitch black and bulging, foaming at the upcurled lips, black gums and teeth permanently on display like piano keys.

Alerted by the commotion, Scorpion leaps out of bed, grabs his belt of pouches by habit, and trapezes off the rails. He rushes through the shearscape, but as the torches dot his view, his night vision fails. Circling around the public area, he witnesses the berserk unicorn for himself. He must find the highest vantage point, and he scales the trees for their assistance.

The farmers manage to wrangle the wild horse with rope, prodding it with weapons. A man had been tossed aside and landed against a building, and women attend to his wounds.

"It's no good," a rasping voice calls, "we gotta put him down!"

The horse rears, creating a ripple in the tug of war against men.

The subtle twang of wood precedes the great collapse. The men holler as they dash away from its colossal withers, the great beast shaking the air as it impacts the ground. A bolt protrudes from its ankle.

"Who shot that? You could've killed us!"

Scorpion blinks as he lowers the crossbow. "Did I hit anyone?" The farmers remain silent, most of them focused on the dying beast.

"No? No harm, no foul." The witchhunter dabs his collar across sweaty stubble, then rustles off the tree, plying himself onto the ground.

Nero hugs the pregnant woman next to him tightly. He trembles as he watches the horse lying on its belly, whinnying and moaning. Desolate tears marr his forlorn face. "My poor Bravo," he utters.

Bravo struggles, his legs sweeping arcs in the dirt. His formerly deep, warm eyes are replaced with the whites. The horn is cracked, the top half bent downwards.

Nero drops his head, unable to look up. "Can you put him out of his misery?"

With just a nod, Scorpion kneels to reload his crossbow. After tightening the bowstring, he aims at the temple point blank, then squeezes the lever.

When Bravo has stopped breathing, Scorpion borrows a torch from another farmer and approaches the creature, crouching next to it. The skin around the horn bends inwards, indicating it isn't a real horn, but punctured. "Someone stabbed him," he announces.

The crowd shuffles and people murmur to each other with expressions of dismay. Nero says, "Who’d do this? Why?"

Bracing himself, Scorpion wriggles out the horn. He extracts the pointed end of the stake, covered in slimy material and bone particles. Turning the horn around, it has an odd shape, like a string of knots. Horns from normal animals should have layered ridges, much like fingernails.

He casts clairvoyance to track mana traces. Around the horn and the stab wound, the pattern is spotty and erratic, unlike most casters who have a consistent line. This is an extra complication: it won't lead him towards the culprit. Fortunately, it's unique. He would have to observe everyone casting magic, and anyone with a spotty signature will be given away.

As the sun rises, a portion of the farmers gradually disperse to start a day's work. Nero remains behind, having lost an animal under his care. His wife whispers, "I'll go get ready," and heads for the barn. Volunteers stay behind to help drag the horse to the slaughterhouse.

His voice sawing between grief and rage, Nero says, "Please, find the bastard who did this." His arms are squeezing himself.

With the broken horn in possession, Scorpion wonders if he's able to. "I will."

He paces around the abandoned campfire, around the log benches and cabins. Daylight banishes the fog of fear, but the fervor of cruelty is no less palpable. The horn has a vaguely familiar quality to it. Its beachy tone reminds him of bone. He brings it up to his face and notes the complex twists.

It looks like a spine, albeit too straight and the individual vertebrae deformed, but still a spine. He can't ignore the disc padding and vaguely butterfly cross-section. What a disturbing thought! Someone poured their creative energy into making this. What does that say about their character? Would the chicken's death be related to this incident? Would these incidents be related to Harcus?

Timo mentioned that Harcus soiled his pants, so it’s possible Harcus was poisoned to death. If so, the perpetrator might hack up the body to distract anyone from noticing poison in the flesh.

It’s also possible they wanted to disguise his death as by a savage, unnatural creature. The chicken was shallowly disguised ‘as coyote.’

Semi-aware that he is traveling back to the guest house, Scorpion thinks about an anecdote from his childhood: his younger brother was opening a gate, and accidentally stepped on a chick. He cried for hours. He kept grieving how its shriek of agony replayed in his head over, and over.

The livestock incidents started after he showed up. It was like someone within the farm reacted to his presence. They took place earlier than morning, in the shadow of dawn. Typically the elderly and children would be active during those hours. Soldiers too. Judging from the sleep schedule, the culprit might be an insomniac, they go to bed early, or they skip the afternoon siesta.

Is the killer trying to communicate? The chicken is the cousin of the phoenix, a symbol of peace and prosperity. The horse is a symbol of power and speed, and the unicorn endows wisdom and purity. Do they seek to plunge order into chaos?

Scorpion lifts his tent flap and ties it up, allowing the morning's glory to illuminate the interior. Each death had occurred across different sections: cropfields, poultry, livery. The culprit pollinates between them often.

On his dresser, a parchment is laid out. He looks at the sketch of the victim, of the dented cranium, thinking hard and slow. The horse had a torturous head injury, which seemed inspired by the butchers, who use a pithing rod to stun large creatures.

The culprit likes to mess with heads, literally and figuratively, with a flair for idealism. It's only a matter of time before harm befalls a human. Who will be the next target?

You want to fight for justice? His master, a grizzled man wearing a flat cap, widened his eyes. You won’t last long with that kind of thinking.

But sir, if people did not demand for justice, then why should we exist? Before he adopted the name of Scorpion, he was just another lad.

It was a gloomy day, so perhaps Master was in a pessimistic mood and arguing for the sake of it. His facial scar rippled. Everyone has their reasons. Money to be made, sport to be had, or The Great Spirit compels them to madness.

I don’t agree with you. The pupil pouted and stood his ground. Justice means to correct a deficiency. We have laws, but they mean nothing if we do nothing.

If you want to protect the interests of the weak, go ahead. Master gave the lad a long, adamant stare. But you won’t have the backing of another power. You’ll have to do everything on your own. It’s like raiding a hornet’s nest without gear.

In his ruminations, the witchhunter closes his eyes, mouth grimacing. "I'm the next target."

But Master, when the nobles pay you, you spend the coin on taverns, weapons, and whores. When the poor village pays me, they give me lodging, a community, and many priceless things.