Author's Notes: I think this wins the award for most frustrating chapter ever. I've been staring at it for weeks and I'm still not happy with it - fortunately though, I've gotten over my mental block, though it didn't help make the chappie any better quality. *grumbles* Still, updates are going to appear more frequently after this!

And a big THANK YOU to those who reviewed the first chapter! You're comments are the only reason why I pushed on with this, so I am completely and utterly grateful to you all. Thank you very much again! (And especially the comments about the love choice, hah, I'd want my dog back anyday!)

Lastly, following the advice of Serpent King, I've decided to have no pairing for this story - I have it all planned out now, and any heavy romance would interfere with the upcoming plot. I'm sorry if this has disappointed anyone!

CHAPTER TWO

It was only a week later when she truly started noticing the changes in the wood around her. Subtle hints, such as the muted cry of the birds and the state of the path she walked soon caved way to obvious signs; the foliage grew darker, wilder, seemingly determined to trip her feet as she walked. The early winter's sun seemed to prefer to hide behind the clouds, or shine on any spot besides the wood. At night, the full moon hung in plain few, emitting an eerie glow to the cry of nocturnal animals.

Sparrow grimaced. They were nearing Westcliff.

But she spotted signs of civilisation before that - upturned buckets, crushed bottles and piles of rotting hay were just a few examples of the waste that littered the sides of the road (could it be called that? It seemed to be mostly made out of mud).

Still, there were plenty of small villages that dotted Albion's countryside that she hadn't even heard of. Sparrow hoped they had a trader. Her supplies bag was running pitifully low, and she didn't fancy having to ration out her food until she reached Westcliff, not when she had a moderately heavy bag of coins in her pocket that could be satiated elsewhere.

After a few hours, however, she noticed something wasn't right.

It was cold.

That in itself wasn't unusual for this area. The coast loomed only a few yards away, and the chilly sea wind often battered the cliff tops. No, this was a different type of cold – one that felt slimy, sickly and anything but fresh. Oddly enticing, drawing her in. Other humans would've felt it at a lesser extent, but Sparrow was a Hero and, most importantly, a necromancer. This was familiar.

This was death.

She swore, pulling her sword from her sheath. The silver blade seemed even more pronounced in the shine of the moonlight. It wasn't a particularly astounding sword – duller than most people expected a Heroes' weapon to be. It was nicked and notched and had seen far more battles than Sparrow cared to remember. But it was reliable.

A brush against her leg made her glance down. Dog was sticking close to her, ears flat against his head. His tail quivered. His chestnut eyes were stuck on something in the distance. She followed his gaze.

"Shit."

There was no mistaking the sinister smear of crimson across the path. It seemed to have approached from the opposite direction, before veering off through the forest. With a sinking stomach, Sparrow noticed that the wild bushes had been hacked through, and the grass trampled on again and again. It was slick with blood.

A deep rumble echoed from Dog's throat as they crept through the feral undergrowth. This was a foolish, foolish idea. The sense of death was growing stronger, almost beckoning her to follow it. The temperature dropped with each step. Her breath appeared in white puffs of smoke. There was a growing smell, putrid and festering, rotting.

But if there were enemies nearby, she couldn't risk an ambush on the path. She would bring the fight to them.

If they also had her sister, then that was an added bonus. Her grip on the sword tightened.

She didn't imagine what was waiting for her. She was usually wrong.

The path of crushed bracken and grass ended a few metres before her, dipping down out of site. Like a hunter stalking it's prey, she edged towards the ridge of the hill, peering down with her sword resting against her shoulder.

Dog whined. Sparrow gagged.

The hill was, in fact, a giant pit, dug crudely into the soil. No, it wasn't a pit, she realised, it was a grave.

There were bodies. Men, women and children of all ages, still clothed in pauper's attire, heaped on one another. Blank, glassy eyes stared up at the sky, some still had terror petrified onto their faces. Their limbs were crumpled, entangled, as if they were dolls, tossed by a careless child. Dirt crusted their almost translucent flesh. Crusted blood stained each corpse.

The stench was incredible. Dog whined and edged back towards the forest, tail between his legs. Sparrow choked, but she flailed for her senses, clamouring to her feet, cursing all the time. You've seen worse. Remember the Tattered Spire? Remember when you first stepped off the boat, how you felt the death there? How men were starved and tortured and mutilated and you felt it everyday?

She clenched her jaw, straining her ears.

Nothing. The hero waited for the padding of oncoming footsteps, the menacing cackle of an attacker. But there was only silence. Dog, who had often acted as a warning bell for her, merely whimpered and shrunk back. Whoever, or whatever had butchered these people had been long gone.

She lowered her sword, but made a note not to sheathe it, an invaluable lesson experience had drilled into her. Gingerly, she padded around the pit, examining the bodies with a careful eye.

Once upon a time, she would've frantically rushed down towards the corpses. That was before instinct was ruled over by logical thought. Sparrow knew the dangers of rotting flesh from her time on the streets, in the Spire, and of course as a Necromancer.

Sparrow frowned when she noticed their throats had been slit. Most citizens of modern day Albion carried guns around with them – it was safer to shoot at a distance, well away from harm, and it was less personal. More professional. It seemed that each villager had been executed up close.

One woman was lying on her back, hand uncurled, showing her palm. Another slit had sliced the skin there, and a quick look showed that each villager had the same wound.

There was a disgusting squelch underneath her feet.

Blood. It was still wet, fresh, and it coated the grass like a second skin. Unlike the grotesque trail from before, it was an almost perfect circle of dark crimson.

This wasn't bandits, she thought, they just kill and loot. This was systematic. This was precise. Ignoring the glazed eyes that peered aimlessly in her direction, Sparrow did a quick body count. Thirty.

So it wasn't a low profile slaughter, either. Someone would notice thirty people missing, and bandits and hobbes wouldn't risk a full-scale attack close to a village with a substantial amount of guards. As Sparrow searched through the blood-mottled grass, her unease grew steadily within her, as did the frown on her face.

This was almost sacrificial, but the Temple of Shadows had been destroyed many years ago, by her very own hand.

Who then?

Her thoughts flashed to the crumpled letter in her pocket. Rose...? She had mentioned her companion as intimidating... was she in danger somehow? Taken captive by whoever had instrumented this massacre?

It hurt Sparrow's head tremendously. Viridian eyes closed for a moment, her gloved hands reaching up to massage her temples. Dog, still whimpering, gave a miserable yowl from the tree line.

Sparrow was completely and utterly clueless.

-0-

It was hard to tell the difference between night and day in Westcliff – so used to the angry plume of grey clouds blocking any shred of sunlight from the sky, the residents continued on their daily business until they simply grew tired. The huge renovations to the coastal town had done nothing to improve the weather, at least. Angry drops of rain splashed the roads.

Thomas the Guard stood vigilantly at his post by the gates. He was a very young man, fresh out of his teens, and, like any new soldier, was an idyllist. Spine snapped straight, shoulders square apart, he seemed like a statue as he stared through narrow eyes down the path.

Ever since the overhaul of the village, bandit attacks were scarce, and Balverines were dealt with the swift hand of justice before they could even take one step into the establishment. Those with bites were given the only medicine available – a strike to the neck.

Still, he couldn't help the shiver crawl through his skin. There was something awfully cold today, some growing sense of dread that he couldn't fathom to explain. He kept one hand on the hilt of his sword, his dinner had been barely touched.

"See anythin'?" A fellow guard called out. Thomas shook his head, damp sticking his uniform to his skin. Despite his eagerness to serve the guard of Westcliff, Thomas hadn't actually seen any real action apart from drunken brawls and the occasional escaped animal from the Crucible.

Seconds drew on like hours. The villagers became more subdued, more melancholy, and Thomas licked his moist lips. He didn't like this, didn't like it at all.

Something moved in the distance. Shambling, stumbling, the shape of a man was making his way down towards the entrance.

His first thought was to draw his sword, to impale whatever dastardly manifestation was lumbering towards him and his precious village. Glancing upwards to another guard who stood watch in a nearby tower, Thomas shared a nod and slowly pulled out his weapons.

"Halt!" He was rather proud of how authoritative he sounded, "Halt! Identify yourself now!"

The figure paused, but only for a moment, before breaking into another shambling pace. Narrowing his eyes, and gesturing for the other guard to cock his gun, Thomas wandered forth steadily, his sword held at chest level.

This was his chance, he thought. He had always idolised great heroes, like the Scarlet Robe and Maddog and Lionheart. Slaying this foul beast could even earn him a promotion!

The mist cleared before his eyes, and as he drew closer, he stopped in his tracks, eyes wide.

A filthy, dishevelled man stared back at him, streaked with mud and gore. His clothes were ripped, revealing a beaten, bruised chest. Wobbling beneath a broken nose, his lips were puffy and cracked, dark against his sickly pallid skin. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he fell to his knees, grasping the hem of Thomas' shirt, sobbing and gasping and choking on his own breath.

"H-hnn..." The man keeled over, gargling. Thomas strained his ears to make sense of the words.

"H..hero!" His face arched back, mouth agape and sputtering. "t-they're go... going to ki-kill us all! H-heroes!"

Hero.