Most of my men are fanned out in the woods to the North and West, lanterns burning, making noise, driving her towards me. The ones with me, the ones with the nets, are absolutely silent. Head to toe in black, faces painted.
The old man warned us with his last breath: the witch has power, or would if she had her books, potions, powders. Now that she’s hurt and frightened, now that she’s desperate, she’s all the more dangerous. Our talismans should protect us from her, if we’ve done our research.
Nothing on this Earth will protect her from us.
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