Ditchingham, 1626
You wake early, a sharp prickling under your skin — something in the world is not right, some hazard intrudes.
You check your wards, but none are triggered. The demons you track are nowhere near, not even on this plane. Your brother and sister are puttering about, their routines unchanged from the last hundred times you checked on them. That will change, you know, but for today they are no menace.
Something else is out there, lurking, some other threat you will have to winkle out for yourself, before it can get its own hooks into you.
“Pincus!” you call, and two eyes appear, painted on the wall, blink.
“Be a sweetie,” you tell it, “Go into the village and let me know what travelers have come by.”
“Yes, Belit,” it tells you, and is gone.