Murmurs and whispers abound in the streets of Vallaki.
Sights of the red-hood, the boy with death in his eyes, creeping along like a shambling dead on the streets. The scythe-haft, always at the shoulder - causing notice among the poorly, and the beggar, who all fear the reaper.
They say, whisper gibbering mouths to prying ears, he tried for the Garda, and they marked him a witch.
They say, the rumourmill swells, he's the son of a hag and devil's union, that his look might lay a curse.
They say, with malice in their leers, that he breaks bread with the outlanders - that it is their vraja his scythe holds, that terrible keen blade he hones each night.
The red-cap, they all say, is a witch - and a terrible curse upon any in his path.