The Witchsmeller had a face that seemed to be entirely composed of nose. A nose that quivered and trembled sensitively at the tip, as if at any moment it might wander around to left and right like a pointing finger.
The Witchsmeller had bony fingers that quivered like the legs of a praying mantis, as if he could smell with his very fingers themselves.
Beards of dwarves hung from his cloak. Little skulls of poor sprites hung from his neck.
From his belt hung goblin hearts and the beards of elves and toenail clippings of famous giants he had killed (AFTER they gave themselves up, for the Witchsmeller did not think you needed to keep promises you made to giants).
He was a little annoyed at having to come so far out west to this godforsaken uncivilized jungle. He supposed the food would be terrible out here, but the emperor had insisted. He gave Queen Sychorax a very perfunctory bow.
“Ah, the pest controller,” said Queen Sychorax, inclining her head.
“My name,” said the Witchsmeller, stiffening somewhat, “is the Witchsmeller.”