Pieter

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Winnowing his way through the chaos of the Fields took Pieter time: the faces he knew wanted to talk about the Witch Hunter. By the time it had leapt across the river, the story of the Sparrowhawk’s victory had taken on a dozen different masks.

“Is it true he cut the Templar’s head off in one blow?”
“I heard when they looked at the body he had an eye inside his mouth.”
“No, no, it was the Powers behind the boy, I tell you! That’s what they’re saying, there was a witch who froze ‘im to the ground!”

Nobody seemed to have seen Halbermann’s mystery bastard first-hand, the same second-hand story filtering back to Pieter with various embellishments – it was more than a couple of hours before he found anyone who claimed to have actually met the man, two gaunt-faced children looking up at him with expectant eyes. A brother and sister, they had an irritating habit of completing each others’ sentences.

“Yeah, we saw him,” said the girl. The other nodded. “He said we should throw things, and then he went away and he looked like Sergeant Halbermann, only more younger,” he added. The boy sounded almost as if he were reciting the words off a page.

OOC: The make-up removes the penalty. Good idea!


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Lothar

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Kleiner shook his head.

“He was on his own. Looked ‘alf bled to death, too.” He sneered. “An’ no, ‘course I didn’t give him what he wanted. Some nutter comes bargin’ into your home, askin’ things without payin’, what would you do?” He paused. “He went out the back door. This window don’t face the right way to watch it.”