Ichabod was not some distant evil that was fought off by armies and valiant heroes. His trails were not hidden by hundreds of minions and an army of evil-doers, no; he was the evil that always left a trail through the snow. The Arch-Mage knew well that he would not live long in a world that refused to cooperate with his desire to serve his foul gods, but for a moment, he felt as though the mountains would move for him. Alas, that was not the case, and the monstrosity of a man knew well of how many 'heroes' hid among the slums nowadays. Their numbers greatly outweighed the count of criminals (when not counting the guards themselves), so even if he did gather help, there's no doubt he would only lead them too to their slaughter. Alone stood Ichabod as he gazed upon his name, posted in black and ending with Asterion's own inking. Within the hands of Ichabod was a dead Hinterlandic Raven that had dive-bombed itself earlier that day among the millions of others in the city. He had taken a long amount of time in molding and shaping its body to leave nothing but a disgusting lump of feathers of what one could assume to have once been a bird. A grin like granite parted and spit like venom ejected from his lips as he whispered terrible things to not himself, but the whole world.
"Let them come. I am an old man and expected death to leave its letter some day," weaved Ichabod with his blackened tongue, "but perhaps I might be able to finish what I started after all."
The damned creature wandered deep into the heart of the sewers, leaving behind nothing but his prints in the ice, a mutilated crow to sit above one of the notices, and rumours of what he was planning. Was Ichabod being hunted, or was he doing the hunting? One could only guess what the answer was to that one.
Better start looking.
