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The Hunt pursued souls—specifically, those who had violated sacred law, broken oaths, committed crimes that demanded supernatural punishment. A murderer who escaped human justice might flee for years, living in apparent safety. Then the Hunt would come for them. Witnesses would report seeing the person swept into the procession, their screams audible above the storm, their fate sealed.
The Hunt also gathered those destined to die soon. To see oneself in the Hunt was prophecy of death—not possibility but certainty. The wyrd was already woven; the Hunt’s appearance simply made visible what was already determined. Those who saw themselves riding with the dead began preparing for death, setting affairs in order, making peace with enemies, because they knew the end approached.
But the Hunt’s purpose was not purely punitive. It also served as cosmic maintenance, clearing away spiritual pollution, gathering loose souls that wandered instead of passing properly to the afterlife, maintaining the boundary between living and dead. The Hunt swept through the winter night like cosmic broom, cleaning what needed cleaning, taking what needed taking, restoring order through terrible motion.
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