It was the early hours of the morning and as expected the lights were all off in the main street except one. The building at the end of the short street in front of him, with its old timber beams that were barely showing through its mostly white façade, and that dominated the others in size, was staring back down the cobbled street at him. This building even though it was boarded up, he could tell from the cracks in the timber that it had its lights on. Then as the bowman slowed to a walking pace, he’d reached behind himself and took his bow off his back and slipped his fingers down into the quiver on his side, pulling out a cursed arrow. In his mind and through the magic that was flowing within him, something about this village gave him a strange feeling, and with it he wasn’t sure if the demons weren’t already in it, waiting for him. The street was tiny like that of what you’d find in London through the period when the great fire had ravaged itself through it, and the side alleys were even tinier.
