Sorry about the multiple posts, but apperantly their is a max. word limit that I kept exceeding.

See my previous post 'Aemus Shades, imperial Withhunter' before reading this one.
Here is where the story really begins. Enjoy!

The whirling winds coated his boots with yellow dust as he stood on the last hill before civilization began anew. Although, civilization might not be the right word. The dirt road he had been following the last few days had brought him here. It wasn’t exactly Altdorf , but it needn’t be. Just a good meal and a place to rest his tired feet was all he desired at the moment.
All? No. A town, even as rural this one, was always in need of a spring-cleaning. He arched his back and stretched his arms to get the stiffness out of them. It didn’t help much. He stood there just a moment longer, examining the town with his eagle-like eyes, absorbing all details. He blinked, trying to keep the dust out of them. Surly it was one hell of a hot day. His clothes were as dry as the road, they seemed to have sucked all the fluids out of him. He ran out of water yesterday and was just about to stray from the path in search of fresh water. Then he had smelled burning wood, the first sign of inhabitation, and a little later the stench of every day life. He had stubbornly refused to stop and had continued until late in the evening, until every muscle ached and his feet burned with each step, as if the hot sand reached through his leather boots. And now he was looking at it, the sun setting at his back, he could clearly make out the traffic on the main road, which was also the only road. The light send huge shadows flying behind the people he observed, like one of his mother’s shadow plays that he had loved as a child. Now the memory was barely enough to bring a thin smile to his lips. He straightened his black hat and headed down.

The people of Old-Creek didn’t like what they saw that late-summer evening. The stranger descended to their quiet community, and although the sun had been burning all day long, he was clad in black from head to toe. His black cloak flew behind him, carried on a wind that animated the dust. Only his face was showing, unshaved cheeks, cracked lips and vivid green eyes. On his head he wore the mark of his trade, the Witchhunter’s hat. On his belt hung his tools; sword and crossbow. Mothers hastily carried their offspring out of his sight. Men whispered to each other in soft mumbled voices, gripping their weapons. Most of them only possessed daggers or swords, but some had pistols hanging on their hips. They were scared.
When a Witchhunter visited a town, any town, he took lives. Sometimes few, sometimes all.
So they huddled tighter in groups of threes and fours, watching the Man of God pass them by
with fear in their eyes. One man gathered his courage and spat on the ground. The Man in Black reacted at once, turning around he unhooked his crossbow, pulled the string back and placed a bolt in its place. The man who had spat was now facing death, before he had even had time to swallow the remainder of his spittle. Slowly he raised his trembling right hand and made the sign of the comet with his fingers. The Witchhunter continued to look him square in the eyes until the man dropped them to the ground and took a step backwards, seemingly pushed by the Witchhunter’s gazing green eyes. Then the Man in Black dropped the crossbow, touched the edge of his hat in salute and returned the Sign of twin-tailed comet.
Dozens of eyes followed him as he approached the town’s only church, a small building at the end of the street inhabited by the local warrior priest, brother Hoffman.

The Witchhunter ignored the looks they gave him and continued with steady pace towards the small building recognizable by the copper sign above the door shaped as the Twin-tailed Comet. He would speak to the priest first. Men of war and faith as much as himself, warrior priests usually were the only humans he could really relate to. He reached the door and knocked several times, then his hand reached up and removed the hat from his head.
He heard stumbling noises inside and a low voice spoke. ‘Just a second, just a second. I’m having dinner!’ Then the door flew inwards. The short, fat man appearing in the opening looked up at the Witchhunter, wiped some crumbs from his linen shirt, hesitated, looked up again and the blood withdrew from his face. He looked like he might pass out any moment, but he managed to pull himself together at the last second. ‘Oh my, oh my. I...I wasn’t expecting to see one of you here! Not that you’re not welcome! No, no...Come in, come in.’ The fat little man turned around, stopped, turned back with his hand outstretched. ‘The name’s Hoffman by the way.’
The Witchhunter looked at the priest’s fat, stubby fingers and felt disgust well up inside.
With a voice cold enough to freeze over hell he slowly replied. ‘Aemus. Aemus Shades.
Imperial Witchhunter.’ He ignored the hand. Those last words seemed to make quite an impact on the poor priest.

Like his final hopes were lost that, despite the obvious signs, this wasn’t a Witchhunter, and that he wasn’t going to be very angry (who was he kidding? He was going to furious, mad, insane with rage, pissed off.) when he saw how he was living here. The same two words ran around and around in the man’s head. ‘Oh my, oh my, oh my, oh my...’ He started to sweat. The man in black stepped through the entrance and carefully closed the door behind him. Hoffman could hear the lock click into place. The words in his head suddenly got company. ‘Oh my, don’t let him kill me, oh my, don’t let him kill me....’

A man of God he dared call himself! He was nothing more than an imposter, a fat, ugly little man, more capable of having an heart-attack than actually fighting evil, like he was suppose to. He saw the walls decorated with beautiful paintings and the floor, tiled with marble.
The house might be small, but the interior more than made up for that fact. He smelled the air.
Bread, meat and some sort of soup, his nose told him. He was living like a king here.
Correction, had been living like a king. They entered a small room. In the middle stood a small, oak table, filled from left to right with food. No wonder he was so big. The priest, Hoffman, nervously hurried to the other side, putting the table between the two of them.
He might have lost his guts, he still used his head. Aemus placed his hat on a small cupboard
and acted interested in his surroundings. In a way he WAS paying attention. To that warhammer that hung behind the priest in particular. It was an heirloom of better days, when Hoffman hadn’t settled down yet, when he still went from town to town, fighting evil with his own two hand. But those day were over now, the chubby figure that stood ten feet away was a mere shadow (no pun intended) of his former self. Aemus got ready for the kill.
The story continues in this forum as this post was too long to be posted at once!

Please leave a comment ! They are all well received, however small they may be.