The Hessian pauses at the doorway of Elisabeth Killian. There is movement under the floor. All is not finished, here.

Outside the church, oblivious to the cries and shots of men, the firing of rifles and the lies of the desperate, the Hessian rides, and plotting all the while how to remove a body from hallowed ground whilst keeping safely distant.

The model-houses almost look *illustrated* here, the the mist-enshrewed dark, as the Hessian swings his blade. Perhaps the blade senses its targets, for there are no eyes to see it with--though, however sorcerous, there is little need of eyes.

An alternate version of the dazed Hessian, looking not quite as confused, but a bit lost. The light from the house behind a peculiar shade, but no less effective as a backdrop.

A close-view of the space where a head might be, were not it stolen by those who have no respect for the dead. Of course, having no respect for the dead makes one a fearsome opponent, no? And the dead very seldom complain.

Smoke and bullets glancing off armour as the Hessian circles the chapel, the great phantom-horse rearing in challenge--the picket-spires gleaming like a set of deadly teeth around the would-be victims.

Toward the Windmill, as mouldering in its sail as the Hessian in cloak and purpose.

Borne of battle-fury's fire and emerging from such reborn.

Hell's fury in the dead of night with the drawing of a blade and the last breath of a manservant.

Dark banners raised with blades borne of night-blooming Vengeance.

Mist enshrewed and entwined in the arms of the Western gate.