pg. 262-263 said:
When the True Fae retreat from the corners of Arcadia to hold court and play their games, the land returns to what it once was. Sometimes escaping changelings stumble across these empty realms before they cross into the Hedge, these undeveloped lands devoid of living civilization, a theatre stage with scattered props and sets but no lights or actors. Most often, changelings view them as cold woods, chilled enough to see their breath illumined in moon- and starlight, a midnight land rife with barrow mounds and watchful eyes. These eyes are both hunter and hunted, air and darkness assuming thought and form by will or whim. They are the Huntsmen: They were in Arcadia before the Gentry, and they will be there after the Gentry leave.
But in this time and place, the Gentry rule the lands beyond the Hedge, and even those verderers of the woods must acknowledge their authority. When the Lost stubbornly refuse to be found, the True Fae venture into the deepest thickets to call upon the Huntsmen, who are never far from their masters.
Never Farfrom the Queen
Everything has rules. Rules and reliability. The crossbow and its quiver of 20 darling daughters are reliable. They do what you expect of them. You're reliable. Your snares will catch, your sword will draw blood. The woods are treacherous. Without rules and order, the woods will consume you. The woods define you, and they are all you need. The Gentry make their own rules, however. They come into the woods, magic billowing before them, fog parting in the forest. When they come upon you, they make a swift motion with the surety of sovereignty, removing your heart and sundering grace. Into that cavity pours the desire of the True Fae, a Title representing their desire for the Lost who has forsaken them, and you become their Huntsman. Whatever desires you had before are muted — you now share the same desire for a changeling as the Keeper, and you wear the livery of yourqueen. Your quarry doesn't believe in rules. Your quarry isn't reliable, except in one key respect:
Changelings run. They always run. And so, the Huntsman follows.
The Herald
Often, the herald comes as the first sign of the hunt. The bird of prey alights on a changeling's windowsill, looks her in the eye, and then she hears the voice. Come home, he says, and she knows the Huntsman has her scent and draws nigh. Follow me and spare yourself the chase. Your lover pines for you, your master fades without your song, there are contracts to sign and slaves to eat; the kingdom dies without your smile. Sometimes the Huntsman's herald is their pet briarhound or hookshrike, in which case their love for their companion is the only thing that persists past the loss of their heart. Only their fury can match it, so woe to the changeling who injures the herald.
By the time the herald comes, the Huntsman has been observing their prey for weeks, perhaps months. Goblin contacts willing to inform on the changeling have been paid for their silence, either with Glamour or cold iron. The verderers have walked beside her on the street, watched her sup Glamour from emotions, eaten the same spicy pork from the same local Burmese place that she has. The herald is an announcement of the hunt, but it also flushes the prey out from her complacent routine. It reminds her that she is not safe, and she never will be, and only the rarest and strangest changelings resist the panic that follows so stark a reminder. One who does, and who clings stubbornly to defenses and a routine, finds the attempts to flush her out never cease. The heart that beats inside the Huntsman is that of her — their — Keeper, and they know how to hurt her in manners most intimate.
The Wild Hunt
A Huntsman never ceases. They can die, after a fashion — they're canny and tough, but they're creatures of flesh and Wyrd like anything else touched by Faerie. When you prick them, they bleed rather a lot. They meet attempts to wrong them without revenge, however, for their heart's desire is to see a changeling in fetters, dragged through the Hedge and brought back to Arcadia's Plutonian shore. Even slaying the Huntsman will not end her suffering, for only a chill cavity rests between their ribs, and so long as their heart beats in their stolen Bastion, they reform somewhere in the Hedge within a month's time to start again. And even when the heart itself is destroyed and the Huntsman is no more, the animating Title's fire flits back to the Keeper whence it came, and can be sewn into a new Huntsman to start the cycle anew.
In the colloquial among the Lost, the phrase "Wild Hunt" represents this dread reality: The hunt against them never ends, a furious host will chase them to the ends of the Earth, and a Huntsman may be coming for them at any time. Huntsmen will pay off privateers, command goblins, and even treat with mortal forces to harass their prey.
