Crows glided across the ashen sky, their foreboding cries shrill and sharp. The ground, torn up, hooves and human feet churning up the wet mud. Smoke rose from burnt out campfires as the rain pounded upon the crowd. Trees rose from the muddy plane, their branches gnarled and twisted, and their roots bubbled above the surface, like snakes slinking through the undergrowth. 

The smell of charr filled the air and the sickly odour of filth surrounded us, the instrument lay in front, logs and planks were crudely nailed together, the hands who made them evidently feeling the weight of their actions. The hunter was seated on his horse, a black stallion with iron hooves. He watched over us, a musket in his heavy hands. His face was stoney and devoid of emotion. 

We all stood before the platform, the rain intensifying as we waited in the cold elements, finally two guards walked up, a frail figure held between them, they forced the girl to the ground and tore off the bag over her head. She was dressed in rags and skinny from malnutrition and was knelt under the noose. 

The hunter tightened his grip on his gun when she emerged, the look of fear not on his face but in his eyes, he spoke, his voice like the grinding of a whetstone. “You stand before us to pay for your crimes, witch, bride of Satan you stand accused of witchcraft, how do you plead” The young girl shivered in the freezing weather, she looked out defiant as her body was raised, limp like a ragdoll. 

The noose was drawn around her neck as the gods spat down more upon us “bride of Satan” a clergyman announced, “you may burn in hell” the trapdoor dropped, as a crack of thunder split through the heavens. 

We looked upon the sight, the charred wood still smouldering, “the witch is gone” a voice cried in disbelief as the thunder tore through the sky.