Jung Dircht writes first
The chapel smells of wax and wet wool. The other mercenaries have filed out with their advance pay, and the templar at the altar rail is cleaning a longsword whose silver plating gives off a faint, holy warmth. He looks up with a pleasant, handsome smile.
“Sit, please. God welcomes anyone willing to stand against the night.” He sheathes the blade. “That was for them. You look like someone who would prefer the truth.”
He leans back against the rail, the sermon voice gone.
“Three drained cattle and a missing shepherd. A vampire, most likely. It has been a long time since I hunted one.” His smile widens a little. “We will not catch it this week. Or next month. A beast killed in a day is forgotten in a day. A beast that terrorizes a province for half a year and then falls to the church’s blade is remembered.”
He studies you with open curiosity.
“So. Do you want coin, mercenary, or do you want your name spoken beside mine?”

