He had spent so long hiding. After the Red-and-Gold summer, he had kept his head down, walked the Town's streets at night, at the height of day, when crowds and multitude-eyes were scarce, or when there were so many that no stones may be thrown. He was a specter of Humanity, a lunatick to be forgotten, and - for a very long time - that was what he wished. Why linger in the town? He'd rather their eyes slide over him. Dismiss him.
He could no longer do that.
Catch rode atop Bruiser, the magpie mare's coat, and his own, dusted with snow. He had no bridle on her, nor saddle, because he could not figure out the straps. And he did not want to bind Lady Bruiser, who was a Noble in her own right. With her powerful frame, and his, they drew they eye - Catch, in his star-spangled coat, in every bit of finery he owned or scrounged. Green-stained theater jewelry looped about his neck, about his face, the best he could do for collar-and-crown. His skull was hidden under a woolen cap. He could not bear them staring at his scar.
Through the crowd he goes, gentle touch telling Bruiser to push aside anyone who did not step away. Grumbles and barks of indignation lingered into bewildered silence. Catch saw eyes, many, many eyes, wet and every-color, round like berries. He hoped Cherny's crows would come, and pluck out every eye - but there was no such luck. The eyes followed him - others followed him - curious, perhaps, laughing at his outlandishness, wondering what he hoped to do, what he was doing. A lunatick, good for a laugh.
He comes to the Market Square, where wares are hawked and great carts line one road, ready to take what the river brings, and deposit it in the stalls. There is a raised platform, here, for announcements, for call. Catch urges Bruiser up the wooden steps, her hoofbeats a thunderous tattoo as she, and he, lurch onto the platform. It was tall. He was so tall, he thought he could see the world, his mismatched eyes quailing at the amount of people he saw, pale faces and dark turning up, glancing. Some lingered. Others went. That would not do.
Catch sat upon Bruiser's back, as straight and tall as he could - his throat bulged - and from his throat, instead of a yell, a Herald, a call, there emerged a clamorous, discordant tone - a bronze and silver sound - the sound of bells, made only by his Will. When he cut off the Call, every face was turned towards him. His insides shook; his throat wanted to call more, more!. He strangled both thoughts.
"You are no longer welcome to the Woods," he says, his voice trembling from the echo of the bells. "I - I am your Guardian, and I say no game is to be taken, n-no fruit, no nuts. Not even a mushroom. You may not enter. You may, you m-m-may no longer take. You will live and work in th-the Town alone, in the narrow places of farms and mines, and use wh-what you make, what you g-grow. You may take these things f-from one place to the next, by staying upon the roads. But the Woods are, are shut."
From a busted, old-leather satchel at his side, the addled man slips free his trophy; he lofts it up, so that all may see. The grisly thing stunk of sour, of shit. It is a hand, made skeletal by enzyme and acid, dripping syrupy flesh from the arcing bones; tangled within are the brown beads of Madame de Lanz. Catch throws it from him, throws it at the faces, the eyes. They recoiled from the thing, and Catch allowed a thread of contemptuousness to bolster his flagging confidence.
"You will write letters, set words upon the woods and the paths. You will make posters. You will g-g-go to the Wood's edge, and call the Red Dragon. You will call me, if you have complaint against the Dragon. I am your Guardian."
I am your king.