Legend says their hearts died in their chest cavities long ago, that they putrified and made a heavy slime about their lungs as thick as underworld tar. That's how they became killers and perhaps why. The witches of the north say their emptiness is their madness, that they take life over and over as if they may possess the hearts and souls, yet never so. To be healed someone pure has to love each of them, to reform their heart as if it was the finest of clay, then set it to beating with pure nature's essence. So until they find such a being to forgive all that they have done, to break the universal scales and set them free to begin anew, the killing goes on.
Their are two kinds of joy, one is soft and mellow, warming and goes to the core. It forms links between the body and soul, helps the person feel at home in their skin. It helps us to love more strongly, to feel connected and do what is right. The other is a high, more akin to overeating sugar, comes fast and brings on an impulsiveness, and an indifference to others... and this is how the killers are, hollow inside and laughing even as they warp beyond recognition. Our faith says there is always a way back to the light, to real goodness and we must always offer that olive branch of love and for it to be real. Yet we must protect ours first, live up to our duty to those who always fought to stay real. Today we go to meet one who says he has turned a new leaf and not once will we ask the deeds done. All that matters is now and onwards, and if they can commit to that we start with baby steps to train them in our ways. Rehabilitation is painful though, so very painful, and unless we love them they are trapped and will be lost. So we try.