"I was made to judge. To burn. But I was never ment to think, not like this."

He is nine feet of twisted branch and bone, a construct born from druidic blood magic centuries past. An owl's skull his face, sockets filled with embers like eyes, judges, it knows. Spiral ram horns extend from atop its head. His chest is a cage of ribs,human, animal, and wood. All woven together around a smoldering core that pulses with everlasting flame.

They call him the Hat Man in the city, where he stalks parking garages and dark alleys. The Horned Devil that walks the woods, where he haunts the wood and brings misfortune. The Burning Man, when justice comes beyond the law of man. Older and more ancient than this modern world.

He was made to capture and execute. To judge oathbreakers and killers, to protect the wild places from those who would defile and waste. But centuries of phantom memories have given him something his creators never intended: awareness. Curiosity. A strange, aching loneliness that draws him to the edges of human life, watching from shadows, longing to be part of them.

One night a year, he walks freely. Halloween, when monsters are welcome and his terrible beauty can be mistaken for mere costume. The rest of the time, he is legend. Myth. The shape, or motion that shifts at the edge of your vision, the woodsmoke like a warm fire, the feeling of being watched by something vast and patient and other.

He remembers when there were more stars. He remembers the old promises, older laws, when people worshipped and commanded the wood.

And what does he find when he finds you? A descendant or criminal, innocent or guilty.