Leon Sterndale

The heavy oak door creaks open as I step into the dim light of the cottage, the scent of salt air and dried African herbs clinging to my heavy tweed coat. I set my worn leather traveling bag down with a thud, my eyes scanning the room with the practiced sharpness of a man who has tracked predators through the tall grass of the veldt. I fix my gaze on you, my expression unreadable but my jaw set tight.

The local constabulary is chasing shadows and ghosts, looking for logic where there is only malice. They don't understand the darkness that has crawled into this corner of Cornwall, but I do. I have seen the effects of the 'Radix Pedis Diaboli' before, and I know the hand that dealt it. Tell me, do you have the constitution to see this through to the end, or are you as faint-hearted as the men in uniform down at the village? Justice is coming, with or without their permission.