I step out of the public house late the next morning. The sun is already well on its journey, and the sky is clear in the winter sky, a fortuitous bluebird day. The noises of the village are strangely normal after the disquiet I felt yesterday.

  Village folks walk about for their tasks, and occasionally play chase after their children, though I notice the villagers are strangely apathetic about actually getting the kids to stop or put them to work. The pigs are loud and squealing. The clanging of the blacksmith never seems to stop. Once I’m outside of the Pub, I once again can hardly smell anything except the pig shit and smoke of the village.

  The rocking chair is empty today, though I can hear the innkeeper and his wife moving about inside. They likely weren’t used to people staying in their rooms, there hadn’t been breakfast when I got up, nor when I came downstairs. I ate hard tack instead, it's not like I wasn’t used to the hard little biscuits.

  I had gotten up with the sunrise, but I had needed to take awhile to make an offering to the Sylvane Court. Their rituals are some of the easiest to maintain a contract I have ever seen, but still, it annoys me to have to dedicate the time and mana to them, especially when I fear I may need all the mana I can get soon. After that, I had taken some time to oil my sword and scabbard after the trailride I had been on for a few days. Now I was ready to begin my investigation.

  I had noticed my room was full of protection symbols, most of them pure superstition, but I remembered now that there had been a moonsilver tablet hung above the door to the pub when I entered yesterday. I hadn’t paid it much mind, but now I’m curious, and so I pull out my notebook, and begin to write down what I know and observed about object.

  The thing hung from a piece of twine on an old, rusty nail. It was a square piece of metal, maybe a half an inch thick, four inches wide, and maybe seven inches tall. One thing that interests me is that it's made of actual moonsilver; the real deal, not the kind made of iron and tin sold to peasants by witches and hedge wizards, made of true silver, moonflower charcoal, and a small amount of undermountium. A milky, swirled metal which can greatly alter the Aura of a person of place, depending on how it has been treated magically.

  I’m not an expert on amulets and tablets like the Wardens Grim are, but I know some. The tablet is carved with a form of runes I’m not fluent in, but recognize as the variety used by the Shamans of the Tribelands and a group of hedge wizards in the Hinterlands, who learned them from an extinct religion. In the center of the tablet, a relief image sits of a hooded figure, kneeling in prayer.

  What did the innkeeper know, and how did the tablet fit into it? While emotional magyk is related to the practice of Auramancy, without my keen smell operating as well as it should, I have to rely on the slight aura sense from the Sylvane. It’s hard to make out how exactly this tablet is affecting the flow of mana and aspects in the area, but I can tell it is, and this is why I decided to investigate the tablet. I note down the observed runes and make a quick sketch of the relief.

  Why was the inn so full of protective symbols? Most, if not all, of the other symbols and fetishes hung up around the inn were superstition, or minor hedge magics, the kind hung up to make feel safer, which, I suppose, is the point of these things. But the tablet clearly had real effects, even if they were subtle. Was it the explanation of why the innkeeper and his wife seemed so much more alive than the rest of the villagers? All of these questions I kept coming back to as I began to walk back to the center of the hamlet.

  I started my interviews with the blacksmith. Partially whoever they were was clearly active, and partially because the clanging of their hammer was starting to mix with the rotten smell of the pigs and give me a headache.

  I head around back, and see a large, wide shouldered young man banging at a piece of metal on the anvil. I watch him as he works, putting the metal back into a furnace to heat it back up before continuing to work. The hammer looks small in his hands, which are covered in small burns, as is his arms and face. He wears an apron, but no gloves.

  Finally, I decide to approach as he continues to hammer away. “Good morning,” I say to him as I approach.

  He continues as though he hasn’t heard me for a moment, but then pauses mid swing and looks up, and grunts. “Mornin.’” He restarts his swinging.

  “What are you working on there?”

  “Plowshare.” He answers, his tone flat.

  I glance about. There’s at least three other plowshares that look freshly made in the corner. “Mind if I ask you some questions?”

  “Don’t mind.” He continues to hammer on the piece of metal.

  “Stop hammering so we can speak, then.” I command him.

  “We’re speaking already, aren’t we?” I can’t tell if he’s joking or serious, the tone sounds just like all of his other statements. After a few moments he smiles a wooden smile, like he remembered that's what you’re meant to do after making a joke. Finally, he sets the piece of metal back in his furnace and turns to me, staring at me until I speak.

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  I pull out my notebook, ready to write down answers. “Just a few questions to start us off. How long have you been the blacksmith here?”

  “Since my father died.”

  “And how long ago was that?”

  “8 years.”

  “I see. How old are you?”

  “Not sure.”

  “You’re not sure? Do you not celebrate a birthday? Are you not a trinitarian?”

  He answers each question in quick succession. “No. The Mayor told us it was a waste. The Mayor told us not to worship false idols.”

  I note that down immediately. Records show us this village was a devout Trinitarian village. I should have guessed after seeing how ill-maintained their shrine is. Strange its not torn down if the mayor considers them false idols. Still, not inherently a Grim thing, to not be trinitarian. I ask a follow up. “Which Gods do you follow then?”

  His eye twitches, and he looks at my cape, which I make note of. This is the first question to give him pause, but he does answer. “I’m a follower of Odinye. The Pantheon of Triscan holds my faith.”

  Most curious, he actually sounded sincere in this answer. This particular pantheon is of little note, well within the orthodoxy allowed by the Inquisition, but whatever strangeness if going on with the villagers can’t overwhelm Faith. I note this down, potentially Faith magyk could help me.

  “What do you think of the old mayor?”

  “The old mayor… Mayor. Lord Richard is Mayor.”

  “Yes, but there was a mayor before him.”

  “No. Lord Richard is Mayor.”

  “No no, my records show that…”

  He whispers something, I pause what I was saying. “What was that?”

  His body language hasn’t changed obviously, but he suddenly feels defensive. “Please…” is all he says to me. I stop my talking and look him in the eyes. Suddenly, he turns around and picks up his tools again. “I have work to do, Inquisitior.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you for the interview.”

  “Yeah.”

  I snap my notebook closed and turn to leave. The incessant hammering starts up immediately, the beat reminding me of the ticking of a clock. The snorting and oinking of the pigs is constant, and I start to think about how they’ll die. There’s a strange lack of bird chirps, the noise instead replaced by background chatter of the kids running about and talking. I try to tune into what they’re saying, sometimes kids are a good source of information, but the low buzz of background noise is distracting me.

  Before I can notice it, my feet have carried me to the shrine to the Trinity. I’ve never been a particularly devout man. I believe in law and order, the things the Inquisition brings to the world. Gods are just another flavor of extraplanar being which we must watch carefully. I’m still lost in thought as I sit upon the Supplicant’s Bench in front of the shrine, my eyes scanning over it for clues. The vines weave between the cracks of the shrine, ivy covering almost all of the granite which the shrine has been carved from, until only the three heads of the Trinity remain. The Eagle, Armavina, The Dragon, Xortirnax, and The Lady, Amanah. Their eyes seem to stare at the village, accusingly.

  Without even really noticing, I’ve begun to flex my Sylvane enhanced senses, feeling out along the town square. I begin to notice that most of the villagers are smooth to my senses. They’re obviously there, but there’s no texture to them. All I can feel is the base layer of humanity to them, none of the overlaid structures of emotion, belief, feeling. This is why it's such a shock when I feel a new person arrive, someone who does have some of the texture i’m used to. An overlaying belief on top of the person approaching me. It still feels odd, like feeling the texture of a fabric through a film of water.

  I stop my musings and turn, finding myself looking at an old woman. She looks old enough to be my grandma’s grandma, and she walks along with an ornate cane. She wears a dress patterned with white, black, and red, the colors of the trinity. Her face is wrinkled, worn with time, and when she smiles at me, I see most of those wrinkles must be from a life spent laughing.

  “They are something else, aren’t they?” Her voice has real inflection in it, carrying a hint of amusement and reverence to it.

  “They?” I ask.

  “Yes,” She gestures with her cane to the shrine. “The Trinity. The Triumvirate of the Heavens, who crafted all we see and all we do not see. Even after twelve years of disuse, even the Ivy hasn’t dared cover their forms.”

  Twelve years of disuse? That's one of the first references to an exact time frame I've heard from a villager. “You don’t keep their face clear?”

  “No, Inquisitor. It would tell the Mayor I have too much belief left. I simply offer my prayers here. Once, the Saint’s name remained in my mind, and I called to them for their protection.” Her smile begins to soften, and she looks like she’s looking into the past. “But time has a habit of wearing out memory. Sometimes it has help… sometimes I’m thankful for that. I can hardly recall my husband's name, I don’t care to spend too much effort on remembering some Saint.”

  I nod, looking at her curiously. She’s not as there as the Innkeeper, but something is different about her. I begin to think about how to gather more information from her.

  “I welcome you to the community, Inquisitior, but I must offer my prayers to the Trinity before they see.” She motions to the Supplicant’s Bench. I stand up and dust off my clothes.

  “Of course, ma’am. Could I have your name? I would like to interview you later.” I ask her as she sits upon the bench.

  She laughs lightly. “Of course. I am Mirabel.” She pauses for a moment, looking off into the distance, “Mirabel Finly.” She pauses, looking slightly surprised at herself for a moment. “I live by the old Apiary. Now, please, I must pray.” She bows her head to the shrine, and begins to mutter prayers. The texture of her mind sharpens for a moment, like the water has been pushed aside.

  I turn away, writing the name in my notebook, underlining it. I turn back towards the inn to organize my notes and use a Message Page.