There Are Carvers in Crostrunn

“For the last time, there are no carvers in Crostrunn,” The officer gave the reporter a stern glare; that would be her final warning.  
Behind him, other officers worked away investigating the gruesome scene at the end of the railway station.  The many lines of police tape obscured some vision, but the reporter could still see enough to know the officer was lying.  Along with the lanky, pale figure that had been slain by the officers just moments ago, there was a crumpled, bloody mess of a man with his chest torn open.  
Though she could not see into the man’s wound, the reporter knew what the officers did.  The man’s heart was gone.  That was the standard for carver attacks.  No matter how hard the city watch tried to cover it up, there was no denying there was a carver problem in Crostrunn.  Typically, carvers made their move at night.  They were smart enough to not get caught.  There was still some humanity in them.  Why this one attacked in the middle of the day in such a public area was a mystery to the reporter.  
As she turned her attention elsewhere, the reporter caught little bits of bystander conversation.
“You’d think magic was alive and well with all that’s been happening recently,” said one woman.
“I hear they’ve got hearts of bone.  They must be from the Hills. I dunno how they make it all the way here though,” said another.

One final sentence grabbed her ear in particular, “My sister, that one was my sister.”

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