Little Hodcombe

The heart of Little Hodcombe manifests as a cobbled clearing where centuries of foot traffic have worn the ground smooth, ringed by ancient oaks whose gnarled roots twist through the compacted earth. The air carries the sharp scent of woodsmoke from the execution stake being assembled, mingling with the acrid tang of unburnt pitch and the damp wool of militia uniforms. Villagers move with methodical purpose, their footsteps echoing against half-timbered cottages with blackened thatched roofs where peaty smoke lingers. The northern edge of the green features a freshly constructed scaffold, its wooden planks pale against the dark stains of previous rituals. Rebels watch from the periphery, their detachment palpable as they critique the villagers’ efficiency—until the moment turns, and their mockery curdles into the same tension gripping the assembled crowd.