Wen Qing is a witch hunter. She has always been a witch hunter, the task handed down to her from her parents, to seek those witches who invest the town with their craft and bring ruin.
But no: she is a doctor, not a hunter, and not from this village at all, but the exact opposite, somewhere dry and dark and haunted. Why does she think this place is home? The memories collide and confuse, a unique torment that leaves her clutching her head.
The knock is a distraction, and Wen Qing stares at the man on the other side of the door. She knows him, vaguely, the way she knows all of the faces of the people who've traveled with them. But— travel? She's never left the village. She doesn't know this man at all.
Does she need candles? She glances back into the dwelling, but it provides no answers. She's a witch hunter. Does she need candles for that? Possibly.
"I need them for work," she tells Jesse. "Do you have small candles, easily carried around?"
the drifting
But no: she is a doctor, not a hunter, and not from this village at all, but the exact opposite, somewhere dry and dark and haunted. Why does she think this place is home? The memories collide and confuse, a unique torment that leaves her clutching her head.
The knock is a distraction, and Wen Qing stares at the man on the other side of the door. She knows him, vaguely, the way she knows all of the faces of the people who've traveled with them. But— travel? She's never left the village. She doesn't know this man at all.
Does she need candles? She glances back into the dwelling, but it provides no answers. She's a witch hunter. Does she need candles for that? Possibly.
"I need them for work," she tells Jesse. "Do you have small candles, easily carried around?"