Remiel, the grizzled old veteran, was sitting on a bench and chewing on a toothpick. He had seen settlers come and go; always they came, hoping for a better life, a place to start again, a place to put down stakes and build their own version of Utopia. And, as always, they left just as quickly, once the bodies started to accrue. The land was cursed, they said; the very soil was contaminated with the evil that covered Miller's Hollow like a shadow. Oh, things would start innocently enough; but soon, very soon, things would start to lurk in the shadows, snarling and growling in the night. This was not a good place, he knew. The werewolves' curse had been here since the days of his grandfather. And that wasn't the worst part. Eventually, they would turn on each other, brother against brother, sister against sister, calling for blood in the name of mob justice.
Until only a few survivors were left.
He sighed. "What we need," he said around his toothpick, "is someone who is fair, but cautious. Someone who isn't quick to jump to judgment. Someone like Blythe."