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The Romanian Mountains, 1252.
49 Years Earlier...
Kain had wandered for an hour or so; tracking meticulously the greenish, blood stained footprints in the dirt. He was certain that it was a troll—which kind? He wasn’t certain; all he knew was that the beast was no doubt hurt pretty badly—by what? Again, more questions than there were answers to find; on top of that, the sand from the broken sigil stone was soon to be upon its last helpful grain of sand. It was then that Kain saw the way the blood pooled into large chunks. The creature—troll, as it were—was undoubtedly picking its wounds.
Serves you right... Kain thought.
This thought came to him because, if the troll kept picking at its wounds, possibly there was a chance of the creature becoming sick from exposure; a rapid, open infection that would reek to high heaven, giving away the creature’s current location—possibly limbs would be lost as well. Considering all the chaos this troll had caused, losing a limb or getting an infection at any rate, would be the least of his worries; it would also be a less than justified sentence from all the heinous crimes he committed. (Though in reality, it only cheapens the hunt in Kain’s eyes.) But a job was a job, and from here, the crusader could move on to the next.