The Alsatian forest was deep in winter snow. Hans Trapp shuffled between the pines, a hulking figure of straw and malice, dressed in the rags of a scarecrow. He dragged a heavy, wet sack. Chimney Drag. He was looking for naughty children to eat.
What he found was a bird.
It was the size of a man, with black-and-white feathers that crackled with blue static. The Impundulu. It had flown far from the storms of Africa, drawn by the smell of fear that clung to the scarecrow.
The Sack
Hans Trapp growled. "You are not a child. But you have meat."
He swung his sack. Ledger of the Naughty. He intended to stuff the bird inside and cook it later.
The Impundulu shrieked. It was the familiar of witches, a creature of pure elemental energy. It did not like being bagged.
The Voltage
Hans Trapp’s rotten fingers closed around the bird’s neck.
Or rather, they closed around a thunderstorm.
Stormcall.
The Impundulu released its charge. A bolt of lightning, hot enough to fuse sand, erupted from its feathers.
Hans Trapp was made of straw, old cloth, and dried meat. He was essentially kindling.
FWOOSH.
The scarecrow ignited instantly. The sack burst into flames. Hans Trapp flailed, a screaming torch in the snow, trying to beat out the fire that was consuming his magical essence.
The Impundulu perched on a nearby branch, preening its smoking feathers. It watched the scarecrow burn down to a pile of ash, then took flight, looking for a witch who would treat it with more respect.