text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy]
  
  Lacking options, you follow the knight. In the moonlight, you can fully appreciate the man's gargantuan stature; he stands easily six and a half feet tall. His sword is the length of both of your arms put together, and he wields it comfortably with one hand. Where did they find this beast?
  
  He grabs a pitch-covered torch off the ground and thrusts it into the smouldering remains of the campfire. It ignites easily, and he hands it to you with a nod. He takes a half step away, and then turns back, and tosses something to you. It's only after you catch it that you realize it's your grandfather's skull, and he had disarmed you.
  
  > follow the Big Knight
  The reassuring weight of your grandfather's skull in your palm grants you a sense of reassurance.
  
  "You want me to follow you?"
  
  He nods.
  
  The two of you trek wordlessly into the field. He walks well ahead of you, ignoring the comforting circle of light cast by your torch. He leads you in silence for what feels like a good few miles, before you come to the ruins of an old house.
  
  It was clearly a pleasant home in the days before the Grim Harvest. There are shattered planters in the front yard. A rusted shovel-head sits in the ground, its shaft having long rotted away. Someone was gardening.
  
  The door is wrought iron and bears the Lion of House Winter. Crowley rips it off its hinges with ease, then stands aside and motions you enter. You waver for a moment, skeptical as to his intentions. He sharply raps his fingers against his thigh-plate, and you enter the house.
  
  The smell of mould fills your nose. The second story of the house has crumbled into the first, leaving a tangled mess of timber planks that must be navigated. You step around, looking around for whatever reason Crowley sent you here. Your boot raps against something heavy and metal on the floor. You stoop over with the torch and see a heavy metal circle, five or six feet in diameter, set into the floor. It's finely engraved, but the exact details of the inscription are obscured by a heavy plank, which is wedged under a pile of debris.
  
  "Crowley, can you get this?" you ask. No response. Grimacing, you grab the plank and strain to lift it. It snaps in two. The debris shifts ominously. You look at the metal circle. It resembles a manhole cover, but made of fine materials. It bears the sigil of your family. There's a small depression in the middle. Almost instinctively, you press your signet ring into it. A mechanism clicks. An ancient mechanism grinds as the circular door slides to one side, revealing the stone staircase below.
  
  As you descend into the darkness, your grandfather's skull takes a breath.
  
  You walk down the stone steps. You hold the torch as close to your body as you can get it; a protective talisman against the consuming darkness. Each step disturbs the ancient layer of dust that pervades the chamber. Beyond you, the mechanism grinds as the door slides back into place. Someone went to great pains to keep this place a secret.
  
  You cautiously step off the stairs and enter a carved stone chamber. As you do, a half-dozen sconced torches on the wall ignite. You survey the room, and see two passages on either side; one leading left, the other leading right. Pushed up against one wall is an oak bookshelf coated in a thick layer of dust. Next to it is a leather armchair with a smoking pipe on the arm, resting in an ancient ashtray. When was the last time anyone smoked tobacco?
  
  You approach the bookshelf and blow dust off the ancient spines. It's a shockingly well-stocked magical library, containing the kind of texts you had to have smuggled into the University. Practical necromancy, soul transference, and forbidden daemonological texts of every kind. You pull a random volume off the shelf: Practical Doloromancy. It's one half-anatomy textbook and one-half spellbook, instructing the reader on the most efficient ways to inflict agony on a combatant. You tuck it into your pack, for later, along with two randomly chosen books off the shelf.
  
  You walk down the right-hand passage. You come to another chamber, smaller than the first. This is clearly a bedroom of some kind. The hard stone floor is covered in soft fur rugs. There's a fireplace in the wall, connected to some kind of elaborate venting system carved into the wall. The centre of the room is occupied by a large bed, covered with furs and quilts of all kinds. There's a pair of slippers on the floor. Whoever lived here valued comfort.
  
  There's a leatherbound book with yellowed pages left on the bedside table. You open it and leaf through the pages. It's a scientific log, detailing an iterative process in some kind of experiments over a period of years. Much of it is faded beyond legibility.
  
  Day ninety —
  
  Those fools have killed the world. It's no matter. My experiments continue. The golem can drop supplies down the chute for as long as he can get them. Lost a third subject, today. Peasant girl. The mutagens were too much and she underwent spontaneous rapid mutation. Had to burst her brain. Note to self: perform survey of most muscular subjects. Maybe the plowman?
  
  Day one-hundred-thirty —
  
  Heard a loud crash today. The estate must have finally caved in. Curious; what could be making the timbers rot so quickly? Perhaps an ambient necrotizing field effect. Or termites. With each experiment, I grow closer to making the ideal soldier. Father Leofric, that damnable paragon of honour, lasted for three days. He was the strongest yet, and the most lucid. He broke containment and I had to magically induct his nerves for a full minute for him to fall unconscious.
  
  Day two hundred —
  
  I am dying. It matters not. A sudden cough came on me in the previous month. Now I cough blood. I feel weak. But my experiment is complete. I have created the perfect man. Strong, fast, nigh-unkillable. He has survived lacerations, burns and every poison I could brew. He is as strong as I could make him.
  
  In the end, the only one to survive was one of my great and noble house's loyal knights. Sir Crowley of Ashtenford. His rage is insane and constant. He no longer sleeps, eats, or speaks, but instead struggles against his confines tirelessly. He is alone in the holding cells; all the other subjects have long expired. I will leave him in the dark. When his mind is broken, I can use my magic to rebuild it anew. If I live that long. He will serve the House admirably for when we reclaim our destiny.
  
  Only a member of our noble family can cl
  
  The rest is stained in blood and illegible. You flip through the remainder of the diary, but the pages are empty.
  
  You tuck the diary into your bag and leave the bedroom. From the antechamber, there's only one other unexplored passage. You follow it. As you walk, you think of the colossal amount of work required to dig this bunker out. You reach a fork in the tunnel. An oil-painted portrait overlooks you, bearing the likeness of some distant ancestor. It looks a little like you.
  
  You arbitrarily pick a direction and walk left. You come into a small alchemist's workshop, complete with racks of test tubes, burners and bubblers. A leather chair with straps dominates the centre of the room, the kind used by asylum doctors and barber-surgeons. Above the chair is a brass arm, sporting a hand-like appendage on one end with a half-dozen protruding needles. Dried blood covers almost every surface of the room.
  
  Exiting the laboratory, you briefly investigate the other room. It's easily the largest room in the facility, housing twenty wire-frame beds. Drilled into the stone ceiling is a gargantuan iron drum, fitted with twenty rubber hoses that snake along the floor to the beds.
  
  "Was this how he fed them?" you murmur.
  
  You're satisfied with your investigation, and believe that the bunker has no more to offer you. It's time to head to the surface.
  
  You ascend the stairs back to the surface, arriving back at the familiar metal door. The first spark of panic ignites in your breast as you realize that you cannot use your ring to open it from down here. You place a hand against the wall to steady yourself as your head spins and your breath goes short, and you hear a satisfying click. The door mechanism begins to grind, and the way opens before you. You breathe a sigh of relief.
  
  Outside the ruined house, Crowley is waiting for you.
  
  "Did you want me to see that?" you ask, staring at the armoured giant.
  
  He nods.
  
  "An ancestor of mine did this to you?"
  
  He nods.
  
  "How long ago was that?"
  
  He shrugs.
  
  "And that's why you can't speak, and why you hate magic."
  
  He nods yes to both questions.
  
  "Why haven't you killed me yet, in that case?"
  
  He shrugs. You chuckle.
  
  "Fair enough. Shall we head back to the camp?"
  
  He nods.
  
  > Leaving the Farmland With a Full Party
  Two days later, you break free from the countryside, leaving behind old fences and ruined farmhouses for miles of dead scrub. A jovial mood settles over the party.
  
  "Did I ever tell you the story of how I fought a lion?" Tor asks as you walk.
  
  "I don't believe you have," you say.
  
  "It was long ago, back in the sands of my homeland. My father had taken me and my brothers hunting. We found an old wagon, overturned. It was long looted, except for one thing. An intact barrel of Alfaretti Red, maker's mark and all."
  
  Frye whistles. "What I wouldn't give to have a taste of that."
  
  "So that night, my father, my brothers and I got piss drunk. And when you're piss drunk, you have to piss. So I left our campsite, and after I had gotten my cock out, I heard a roar from behind me."
  
  "I've never known a big cat to growl when it stalks its prey," John Boy interjects.
  
  "You've only known weak mainlander cats, then, woodsman. In my homeland, lions are as big as horses and roar like trumpeteers! So I whirled around, cock in hand, ready to face this beast. I've faced down many monsters, my friends, but this was unlike anything I'd ever seen. It's teeth were as sharp as swords, and its paws as big as my head. Its breath was as harsh as dragon-flame, and its mane was shaggier than Stitcher's cunt."
  
  "Oi!" Stitcher yells.
  
  "So what did you do?" you ask, masking your smile.
  
  "I did the only thing a man can do. I punched the beast square in the nose, my cock still dangling in the night air."
  
  "It's a miracle you survived," Frye says gravely. You can see the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
  
  "It was. The beast tucked tail and ran, leaving me the victor."
  
  A low horn echoes across the plains. It's joined by another, and another, and another, until a tuneless symphony echoes across the dead scrubland. Tor and John Boy dive into the grass, Stitcher and Frye a second later. Crowley tackles you into the ground.
  
  "Wh— " Crowley clamps a hand over your mouth. Frye turns to you to raise a finger to his lips. You can see the whites of his eyes.
  
  Stitcher crawls over to you on her belly and presses her lips to your ear. "Donkeys."
  
  You nod, and Crowley releases you. John Boy slithers forward on his stomach, crossbow and hood drawn. He draws a spyglass from his pack and stares through it a moment, before returning the spyglass. He crawls back at painstaking speeds.
  
  He holds up ten fingers, then three. Thirteen. He glances to Frye, and cocks his head inquisitively, as if to say: your call.
  
  Frye nods, then crawls over to you and presses his lips against your ear as he whispers: "Listen well, lad. We're outnumbered but Donkeys are fucking cowards. We're going to hit them hard and fast and disperse the raiding party. Stick to me like glue, you understand? Like glue."
  
  You nod.
  
  "One more thing. Don't let them take you. Better for you to die fast, understand?"
  
  You nod once more.
  
  Frye rises to a crouch, drawing both his pistols. Tor readies his harpoon. Stitcher opens her holy book and gives her mace a few experimental swings. John Boy checks the sight on his crossbow, then draws a knife and places it within his teeth. You draw the skull from your belt and stare into your grandfather's bejewelled eyes; it stares back, expressionless.
  
  Over the hill, you hear inhuman brays and snorts, accompanied by occasional bouts of devilish laughter.
  
  > stick with the Party
  You charge as a group. Frye lets out a battle cry and others take it up, joining their voices together in a chorus of rage. As you pass the crest of the hill, the Donkeys come into view.
  
  The beasts' name conjured quaint pastoral images of grazing animals that could not be further from the reality. The Donkeys stand as tall as a man. They wear crudely fashioned armour out of bits of metal and leather, and festoon themselves with gruesome fetishes made out of human body parts. Their legs are covered in hair and end in hooves. They have the heads of their animal namesakes, but their teeth are yellow and bloodied. Their trousers are all open, exposing their gargantuan genitals.
  
  They shriek and bray as you charge, raising their crudely fashioned picks and clubs in defiance. There are twelve of them and six of you. As your formation slams into the mob of braying devils, you hope that One-Eye Frye and his Fighting Men were worth the silver.
  
  The world instantly becomes an insane tapestry of violence and sound. Two gunshots resound right next to your head as Frye hits a Donkey in both eyes, killing it instantly and spattering its comrades in gore. They shirk from the loud noise, producing just enough of an opportunity for Tor to hurl his harpoon directly into one of their necks. A Donkey seizes him from behind as it tries to slash his throat with a dagger fashioned from an old bone. He bites down hard on its arm, before pulling on its ears so hard that they come off. It stumbles backwards, clutching its face.
  
  You watch as Tor begins the laborious process of ripping a Donkey's jaw in half, captivated by the violence. As its jaw pops and cracks, its rotten teeth begin to shoot out of its mouth. You're ripped out of the reverie as something grabs you by the hair and starts dragging you away into the grass. You try to twist and look behind you, and see a Donkey squealing with delight as it drags you away from the melee. You reach for the skull and whisper a few words, before tossing it into the grass and covering your ears. Your grandfather's jaws open and begin to scream, a wail so mournful and loud that the Donkey releases you and falls to its knees. The spell wears off in an instant, so you snatch the skull up and point it at the Donkey. It lunges at you, but not before you scorch every nerve in its body. For a durationless instant, it stares at you with wide eyes filled with hatred and lust. Then its brain boils and cooked cerebral matter comes shooting out of its eyes.
  
  You turn around and realize you've missed most of the fight. Three Donkeys are fleeing further into the foothills; you watch as a crossbow bolt pierces one of their necks, and the creature falls to the ground impotently clutching at its throat. Its comrades leave it to bleed to death.
  
  Stitcher roars jubilantly as she brings her mace down hard into a Donkey's skull. The force of the blow is so great that its eyes pop out. It stumbles away in confusion, not realizing that it is already dead.
  
  Frye stands over the last survivor with a boot on its neck. Its shrieks are piteous and defeated, that of an animal caught in a trap. He forcibly turns its head aside, and shoves the barrel of a pistol into its ear. Its sad wailing is interrupted by the crack of the gunshot that empties the contents of its head into the dead grass.
  
  "The day is won!" Frye declares, thrusting his pistol into the air. Brain matter drips down his sleeve. "Now we drink!"
  
  > Emerging from Donkey Carnage
  As the last Donkey's lifeblood seeps into the dirt, your hands begin to shake violently and your eyes involuntarily well up with tears. A chill passes over your skin. You have to sit down. The rest of the party joins you. Together, you sit in silence for a moment, proudly regarding the pile of slain demons that lies before you.
  
  Stitcher stands up abruptly and opens her book to a leatherbound passage. "Alright, who's injured?"
  
  "A minor scrape, my dear," Frye says, noticing a crudely made knife jutting out of his shoulder. Blood is pooling in his armour at an alarming rate.
  
  Stitcher's lips pull back and her eyebrows knit together. "You fucking idiot," mutters under her breath as she approaches Frye. "Right, Tor, be ready to pull this out. John Boy, be ready with a rag. Lordling, go fetch something to stick in Frye's mouth."
  
  Moving quick, you pull a knife from its resting place in a Donkey's eye socket. You wipe the blood and ocular fluid off on your sleeve, then offer Frye the leatherbound hilt to bite down on.
  
  "Three, two, one. Pull," Stitcher says tersely. Tor yanks on the dagger. Frye's screams are muffled by the knife. After a second of straining, the knife pops out, carrying with it a chunk of bloodied meat and sinew. The "knife" is little more than a sharpened piece of bone with metal hooks drilled into the side, making it agony to remove. John Boy stuffs a clean rag over the wound with practiced efficiency as Stitcher reads aloud from the book. Her right hand glows brightly and begins to emit a pleasant warmth as she presses it against Frye's bloodied arm. His screams subside almost instantly as his wounds heal. John Boy pulls the rag away, and you watch as his shoulder stitches itself up in real time
  
  "Thanks," Frye says breathlessly as he leans backwards, "we've a new story for the songs! One-Eye Frye the cunning and brave, shivved in the arm by a pack of rapist devils."
  
  Exhausted as they are from the skirmish, no one laughs at Frye's joke. "Fair enough."
  
  You depart some twenty minute laters, the pile of corpses in your wake. As soon as your backs are turned to the dead Donkeys, a flock of crows has gathered. You hear their squawks of delight as they begin their grim feast.
  
  As you make camp that night, you swap stories and drink, as has become the custom. As the group swaps boasts about the day's battle, Frye locks eyes with you. "Lordling, why don't you tell us about the one you took down?"
  
  You become aware of ten eyeballs staring at you. "Right, well, uh. I think I was behind you, Frye, and I got distracted watching that mad bastard Tor rip a Donkey's jaw clean off."
  
  "A mighty deed it was!" Tor declares without an ounce of modesty, earning himself a light boot in the shin from Stitcher.
  
  "And the next thing I know, something grabs me by the hair and starts dragging me backwards. I looked up, and there I saw this Donkey; spitting and raving, and fully, um, engorged. I knew I had to act fast. So I barbecued the bastard."
  
  "You did more than barbecue the bastard, I'd say. Brain shot clear out his head," John Boy remarks.
  
  Frye smiles wide, at that. "We'll make a warrior of you, yet."
  
  Stitcher raises her wineskin. "To the lordling!"
  
  Tor raises his cup. "To barbecuing bastards!"
  
  You raise your flask. "To making it out alive!"
  
  > The Journey Grows Arduous...
  Weeks turn into months on the road. For the most part, you pass abandoned townships and dead forests on the road. Occasionally you will find an occupied township, and trade with grime-smeared, emaciated yeomans. You start to notice some changes in yourself. You're stronger now, leaner and faster. You've grown a respectable beard, a feat hitherto impossible to you. You carry a knife alongside your skull, which John Boy instructs you in every night. You're beginning to think that the boy who left might not recognize the man who arrives at his destination.
  
  You sit on a fog-capped moor, trying to dry your socks off next to the fire.
  
  Stitcher is crouched over a pan, frying hard tack and rabbit bacon. The meat is stringy and looks revolting.
  
  "I don't see you makin' anything better," she says. She removes the rabbit from the heat and takes a nibble. "It's not so bad."
  
  You extend a hand and she tosses you a strip of meat. You devour it ravenously, then look at her expectantly.
  
  "That's it, I'm afraid. We gotta make the rations last."
  
  Your stomach begins to rumble as your mind turns to breakfast. "Where are the others, anyway? Seems like they went off hunting hours ago."
  
  Stitcher takes a ferocious bite out of the chewy rabbit meat before answering. "Ah, you know John Boy. Probably found something big and insisted on stalking it."
  
  "I wouldn't mind a spot of venison right now. What about you, Crowley?" you turn your gaze to the armoured sentinel standing at the edge of the camp. He shrugs. "Figures."
  
  "Don't doubt my leadership again, lads! Never again!" you hear Frye's good-natured scolding long before you see it happen. Stitcher smiles.
  
  Frye emerges out of the fog, beaming from ear to ear, carrying two sackcloth grocery bags overflowing with fresh produce.
  
  "How in the Hundred Hells did you come across that?"
  
  "Start frying these potatoes and onions and I'll tell you, m'boy."
  
  You eat a better meal than you've had in months, complete with bacon, fresh bread, apples and smoked fish. The meat is delicious, far more fatty and healthy than anything John Boy has caught in the wilds.
  
  You all sit in silence and gorge yourselves, save for Crowley who seems content to smell the frying bacon. "So what do we owe this bounty to?" you ask, sucking grease from your finger.
  
  "Thought I'd give this lot," John Boy jerks his finger at Frye and Tor, "a few lessons in stalking. We were following something big."
  
  "A mighty beast, no doubt," Tor says wistfully, no doubt picturing a glorious battle with a snarling monster.
  
  "And then we stumbled right upon this village. It was far and away the most prosperous village I've ever seen, certainly since leaving. Lots of farms, families, healthy-looking folk. All of it behind the biggest wall you've ever seen in your life."
  
  "Grass was too green," John Boy remarks.
  
  "That's the most remarkable part. The whole village was teeming with life, right down to the grass. Everything was alive, as it should be; like it appears in your books," he says, tossing a glance at one of your leatherbound volumes. "The mayor showed us their cattle, and their apple orchard. They had a proper inn with beer and bread and stew, nothing like the swill they served us back in the city."
  
  As Frye talks, he's met with increasing interest from the party. People lean forward, place hands under chins, eager to absorb this story that sounds too good to be true.
  
  "There's a catch," John Boy says.
  
  Frye waves a hand dismissively. "We spoke with the mayor, a man of exceptional manners, by the way, and he expressed an interest in the service of rough men. If we did him a favour, we'd be welcome for as long as we like; I don't know about you lot, but I'm ready for some hospitality."
  
  "We've still a mission," Stitcher says, "and who knows what these people are doing for their prosperity? Not even the sisters at the abbey could grow healthy apples. Seems foul magic to me."
  
  Frye looks at you. "Of course, of course. We're to deliver Lord Winter to Seffonshire. I was only suggesting we hear the mayor out, and maybe rest a spell. If you'd prefer to push on to Seffonshire, then we will. You're the man paying for this, after all."
  
  As Frye smiles self-effacingly, you feel as if he's trying to charm you into going into town. Then again, you could do with a bath and a hot meal.
  
  You gaze sadly at your wet socks. "The mission can wait. We go into town, talk to the mayor, and see what they want."
  
  You're met with a chorus of approving grunts. You spend a half hour packing up camp, then begin the trek to where the village is supposed to be. As you cross the misty, dead hills of the moor, you come across the village quite abruptly.
  
  The term "village" seems inappropriate. It is a small city. It's surrounded on all sides by an impressive nine-foot stone palisade. Outside the palisade wall is a deep trench encircling the city and filled with sharpened wooden spikes and pitch. There's only one entrance in the form of a drawbridge, which is lowered at this time. As you approach the drawbridge, you get a glimpse beyond the walls. The buildings are built wide and tall from sturdy brick. The streets are clean, and filled with people milling about.
  
  As you arrive at the drawbridge, you're greeted by two guards with spears. One of them is an older man with a moustache and a gut that's beginning to press against his gambeson. The other, a younger man, has a face spattered with acne and an almost perfectly triangular Adam's apple.
  
  "Hail, travelers!" the moustached man says with a jovial smile. His voice is deep and his demeanour pleasant. "You must be cold, coming in off the moor!"
  
  "Freezing!" Frye replies. "Is the mayor about?"
  
  "Mayor d'Harcourt is secluded in study at the moment, I'm afraid. But I'd be happy to show you to your lodgings."
  
  "Lodgings, already? He knew we'd accept his offer?" Frye says.
  
  The older guard tips his head forward. "Mayor d'Harcourt has a way of people. This way, gentlemen, my lady."
  
  Stitcher scoffs as you enter the town. It is the most pleasant place you recall being in. The sun seems to shine brighter. The townsfolk seem healthy and strong. There are artisans hawking their wares, everywhere you turn; tailors, swordsmiths and toymakers alike.
  
  As Frye begins to chatter away with the guard, you let yourself drift back in the party until you're walking in lockstep with Stitcher.
  
  "How is this possible?" she asks.
  
  "No clue," you answer.
  
  She looks around, staring at a group of laughing children like one might stare at an egg to see if it is rotten. "I've heard of such things."
  
  "I've never heard of anything like this," you say, quite honestly.
  
  "I wouldn't expect you to. In times before, folk used to do all manner of devilry to ensure the prosperity of the village. Sacrifice animals and crops, for one. Sometimes children. They'd offer them up to one devil-god or another, for prosperity, or safety from barbarians, or even something as simple as a good harvest."
  
  You're not familiar with the folk traditions of the countryside, but you're rather familiar with the notion of human sacrifice. You think back to the spellbooks you pilfered from the underground study, where almost half of the arcane rituals involve human blood to some degree. "I suppose people are unpredictable, when they get desperate," you say measuredly.
  
  She nods. "Be on your guard."
  
  When you reach your lodgings, you drop your guard almost instantly. The fat guard shows you to the local inn. When you enter, a portly, red-faced alewife is wiping a thick coat of dust off the bartop. It's empty, save for you, your companions, the guard and the woman.
  
  "Hello, lovelies," she coos as you enter, "just give me a moment and I'll fix you some nice lamb stew."
  
  "Thank you, my lady," Frye says gallantly. He sits at one of the many empty tables, doffing his hat. He winces as he leans back. For the first time, you think of Frye's age. He presents himself as invincible, but the man has to be pushing forty-five and still sleeping in wet tents and going on perilous adventures. It's no wonder his joints hurt.
  
  You join him at the table as the guard takes his leave. Before any conversation can begin, you're interrupted by the alewife carrying out trays of ale and lamb stew. You tear into it without thinking, shoveling soup into your mouth with chunks of crusty bread that you then devour, then washing it down with cold ale.
  
  "I could get used to that," Tor says as he begins to suck the broth off his fingers.
  
  Stitcher furrows her brow, but her bowl lies empty before her. You notice John Boy has yet to remove his cloak, and scans the room while he eats. Frye wipes the gravy from his moustache. Crowley, who has not sat down, stares into the distance.
  
  Your eyes begin to feel heavy. You yawn. The yawn is taken up like a battle-cry, as yawns often are. Soon, you feel bleary as the stew, ale, and bread begins to reach your stomach. You want nothing more than sleep. "What say we turn in? This Mayor d'Harcourt can send someone along to wake us," you say.
  
  You're met with four desperate nods, save for Stitcher. She furrows her eyebrows slightly, as if to say: what happened to keeping your guard up?
  
  "You worry too much, my friend. If these folk meant to eat us, why would they share their hospitality like this," Frye says.
  
  "But —" she begins.
  
  "It's fine. Besides, Crowley can stand watch," Frye says.
  
  With the matter resolved, you turn into your rooms on the second floor. It's the first time you've had your own room in some time. You pull one of your ancestor's books from your pack, and begin to flick through it. You read the disquieting, mathematical wisdom of Francisco Al-Wahad, a strange mystic famous for his idiosyncratic rituals and baffling disappearance. He claims that his wisdom was revealed to him by the Far Ones, who traveled the stars and time itself with their strange mathematics. It contains a set of detailed instructions for operating what he claims to be a "multi-headed gateway of most sublime blasphemy". Fascinating though it may be, it is not a page turner, and you fall asleep with the volume resting open on your chest.
  
  You wake up hours later, with the last rays of sun peeking through the window. You feel phenomenally well-rested. Your footsteps are lighter than you remember them being in years. As you walk downstairs, a delicious smell sends you hurtling into a distant childhood memory. It's earthy, smokey and complex. You remember. Coffee. A fantastically expensive drink, grown in the exotic ports that were hit last by the Final Blight.
  
  You find the rest of the party gathered around a table, with five mugs before them. Tor looks up as you walk downstairs. You take your seat at the table, between Stitcher and John Boy.
  
  "A kingly gift from Mayor d'Harcourt, that he sent along. Have you ever had coffee, my boy?"
  
  You shake your head.
  
  "Who was it that paid us in beans?" Stitcher wonders aloud.
  
  "Srevenika?" Tor responds.
  
  "No, that was the one who tried to duel John Boy," says Stitcher.
  
  "That was Sturgesson. Srevenika was the beans," says John Boy.
  
  Frye picks his mug up and raises a toast. "To a rest well-earned!"
  
  You repeat the toast and take your first sip of coffee. It is astoundingly bitter. You nearly gag. Seeing everyone else's obvious relish, you choke down the cup in one giant sip.
  
  The alewife enters, and glances out the window at the setting sun. "I think you'd better get on to the Town Hall, Mayor D'Harcourt would like to chat with you lovelies. Did you like your gift?"
  
  Frye stands up, takes his hat off, and sweeps it across his chest. "It was enchanting, my dear, as are you."
  
  Stitcher rolls her eyes as you all leave. You notice her fist is tightened around the grip of her mace. As you step back out into the streets, you notice that they're empty, save for a few villagers who are scurrying into their houses. It's dusk, now, and the sky is purple with the last golden rays of the sun spilling out over the horizon.
  
  Town Hall is easy enough to find. It's located at the exact centre of town. Town Hall seems like somewhat of a misnomer; it's really more of a large, multi-story mansion. It's a gorgeous piece of construction, all marble pillars and stained glass windows. You approach from behind, and you can see a large amphitheatre, dug into a hill behind the building. You guess that that's where Mayor d'Harcourt addresses his constituents.
  
  You come around to the front, and walk the well-manicured pathway through the garden up to the front door. The door is fashioned from one piece of solid oak, intricately carved with esoteric geometry that only you recognize. D'Harcourt must be a learned man.
  
  Before you can use the brass lion-head knocker, the door opens. Before you stands a well-dressed nobleman in fine robes. His hair is black and well-manicured, his fingernails are sharp, and his easy smile reveals his pointed fangs.
  
  Stitcher is the first to attack, drawing and swinging her mace at his head with blinding speed. He vanishes into a cloud of smoke, before rematerializing some ten feet behind you.
  
  "Easy, my friends!" he says quickly as John Boy levels a crossbow at his chest, "what kind of host feasts on his own guests?"
  
  "Easy Crowley!" Frye says as the giant knight steps towards d'Harcourt.
  
  D'Harcourt slowly lowers his hands. "Let's all calm down. I know, my appearance is frightful, but I promise I can explain everything, and no harm will come to you."
  
  Reluctantly, you lower your weapons.
  
  > D'Harcourt
  D'Harcourt whistles, and a servant emerges from the mansion. The servant is dressed in fine clothing, but his skin is deathly pale and his gaze is blank. "Terrence, lead the guests to the sitting room."
  
  Terrence wordlessly complies, leading you into the depths of the house. It's as spectacular on the inside as it is on the outside, the walls covered in rare art and gorgeous sculptures. D'Harcourt seems to be a real appreciator of portraiture, perhaps to compensate for the lack of mirrors in his house. You figure out his nature almost instantly.
  
  As Terrence leads you through the house, you lean in to whisper into Frye's ear. "Be careful, this one's a —"
  
  "A vampire, yes," d'Harcourt says, "it's an unfortunate term, but I suppose it works well enough for our purposes. I'm forced to sustain myself off blood, a fact that I cannot say I am particularly proud of."
  
  Before you can formulate a response, you arrive at the sitting room. It's a finely decorated lounge with leather couches, fine cherry-wood tables, and a softly carpeted floor. A fireplace is burning in the corner.
  
  "Please, sit," d'Harcourt says with the practiced manners of an experienced host. You comply, save for Crowley. He stands at attention, as if expecting violence to break out at any moment.
  
  "Crowley, don't piss it off," John Boy whispers.
  
  "If the gentleman is more comfortable standing, he can stand," d'Harcourt says with a smile, "I could chain myself up, if it would make you all more comfortable."
  
  "You could break through chains in an instant," you say. To this, d'Harcourt raises his hands in mock guilt.
  
  "My friends, I harbour no ill will towards the living, and I didn't mean to deceive you. The townspeople know what I am, and we live in harmony."
  
  "How do you sustain yourself?" you ask. You vaguely remember a taxonomical study on vampires that describes them as creatures of deception, hunting through social manipulation and clever disguises.
  
  "Every solstice, I accept an offering. In return, my knowledge of the arcane sciences provides the prosperous village you saw. The villagers are quite happy to trade two people a year for healthy soil, clean water, and full bellies."
  
  A moment goes by as you digest that information. "What task have you for us, then?" Frye says, breaking the silence.
  
  "I'm glad you ask. Unfortunately, I am... unable to kill another of my own kind, and another vampire has taken residence in the warrens below the town. He is unscrupulous, and kills when the fancy strikes him. Worse still, he infects recklessly. I'm worried he will spread vampirism through the village quite recklessly, and all of my work in setting up a sanctuary will have been for nothing."
  
  "And what's in it for us?" Frye asks.
  
  "As you can see, I am a wealthy man. I can pay you handsomely, and provide you with the bounty of our harvest, as provisions of our travels."
  
  "We'll do it," Frye says instantly.
  
  "You sure about this one?" John Boy asks.
  
  "I've never killed a vampire. I wonder what it's like," Tor says.
  
  Stitcher reluctantly nods. "It's bad enough these folk have to deal with one creature of the night. We've a duty to kill this beast."
  
  D'Harcourt's gaze turns to you. He glances at your signet ring. "Lord Winter, I am terribly sorry. I should have recognized a member of your most noble line sooner," he bows immaculately. "I suppose you are a man of the arcane sciences, then? If I remember correctly, the men of your family were great mages, were they not?"
  
  You nod. "I've been instructed in the mysteries since I was a lad."
  
  "Then, perhaps you would feel more at home in my library, while your companions dispatch with this menace? You travel with famed adventurers, but if you don't mind my saying so, I doubt the field of battle is the appropriate place for a scholar such as yourself."
  
  "The lordling fights well," Stitcher says.
  
  "Everyone here is free. I won't force you to come along, Lord Winter," Frye says.
  
  > follow your Companions
  "I won't abandon my companions," you say, "I'll help them end this vampire."
  
  You're met with a chorus of approval. John Boy and Stitcher affectionately slap your back. "Good man," Frye says.
  
  D'Harcourt narrows his eyes almost imperceptibly. "Excellent. Since you're rested and prepared, Terrence can lead you to the beast's lair now."
  
  "We're always prepared," Frye declares.
  
  "Terrence, lead them to the lair," d'Harcourt says slowly to the pale butler. Terrence maintaining his expressionless gaze, exits the room without so much as glancing at you. You follow behind him. "Fortune smile upon you, brave ones."
  
  You exit the house, and Terrence begins to lead you through the streets. It's night, now, and the glassy-eyed Butler begins to lead you out to the hinterlands of the town. Behind the town's protective wall, there are acres upon acres of luscious pasture that would be ideal for a nocturnal man-killer to dig a warren in.
  
  "That bit about vampires not killing vampires. Is that true?" Stitcher asks as you walk.
  
  "I don't know," you admit, "I've heard of similar laws with certain kinds of devils. I'm afraid we simply don't know much about vampires."
  
  "The sisters at the abbey used to say they're born liars," she says.
  
  "That much we do know," you respond.
  
  "What's wrong with the butler?" John Boy asks, tossing a suspicious glance at your wordless guide.
  
  "If I had to guess, I'd say he's a thrall. A kind of construct, but fashioned from a human corpse."
  
  The thrall blankly points sticks a hand in the direction of the field. You can see a few holes in the field, resembling over-sized gopher holes. Tunnels, perhaps? You've never known a vampire to tunnel, but you're far from a daemonologist.
  
  "Is the creature around here?" you ask. The thrall blankly nods.
  
  Frye lights a torch and begins to lead the party forward. You approach the first of the tunnel-mouths, and look in. It's clearly a part of a much larger network. It leads down for about six feet, then joins up with another, much larger tunnel, which stretches as far as the eye can see.
  
  Tor eyes the tunnels nervously. "Fighting away from the open sky..."
  
  "I'll take the lead," Frye says, "wouldn't be right to ask anyone else to."
  
  With that, he crawls into the tunnel. He has a pistol in one hand and a torch in the other. The tunnel is so narrow that it forces him to crawl along his stomach. A few minutes later, he gives the all clear.
  
  Stitcher is next. She grunts in displeasure as she has to squeeze her broad shoulders through the narrow passage. John Boy is next, and crawls through without complaint. Tor follows after him, muttering the whole time about how it's not right for a mighty warrior to crawl through worm-infested tunnels.
  
  Crowley stares at the tunnel entrance blankly. You look up at the armoured giant. "It's not worth you getting stuck down there. Keep watch up here."
  
  He nods. You take one last look at the sky, before crawling into the warrens.
  
  You despise it immediately. There is barely enough room to move your arms. The dirt presses in on you from all sides. The tunnel seems alive, somehow; contorting and squirming in the dark, waiting to digest anything that enters.
  
  "Almost through, lad!" Frye shouts encouragingly. You will yourself to keep crawling, even as dirt enters your lungs. Finally, you burst free on the other end of the tunnel, and rejoin the others.
  
  You emerge into a tarnished antechamber, leading into what appears to be a set of stone catacombs. The bricks are ancient. You wonder why they were laid, so far removed from where anyone could possibly see them.
  
  Frye holds the flickering torch up to the entrance. Beyond the feeble yellow cone of light, there is only inky blackness. As you enter, the shadows seem to swallow you.
  
  "We've been in worse situations," Tor says uncertainly, "this is nothing to slayers such as us."
  
  "Shut your gob," Stitcher quietly hisses, "we've no idea what's listening."
  
  Frye stops abruptly. Everyone backs into each other. The tunnel fills with surprised cursing. He lifts the torch to the ceiling.
  
  "Lord Winter, what the fuck is that?" he says. You look up and squint. After a moment, you notice what he's talking about; the ceiling is coated in fleshy veins, pulsing with ichor. You shudder as the veins squirm and contort with musical recurrence. The veins are grey and pallid like a cadavre.
  
  "Could be leylines, I suppose," you say.
  
  "Are you telling me we're dealing with a faerie infestation, Lord Winter?" says Frye.
  
  "No, a leyline is... well, it's kind of like... imagine how a farmer irrigates his field. The water must flow from a central point, to get where it's going. A leyline is that for magic."
  
  "What does that mean for us?" Frye asks.
  
  "We should follow it. Whatever lives in this blasted maze probably has something to do with the leylines."
  
  With Frye's torch raised upwards, you follow the fleshy veins through the twisting corridors. The darkness is absolute and all-encompassing. Inky blackness presses on you from all sides like water at the bottom of the ocean. You march onwards in total silence, save for the scuffing of feet against the cold stone. Icy terror rises in your breast.
  
  You remember a trick from Stitcher. Three deep breaths in, and on the third, you hold it for as long as you can bear. Then, you exhale and repeat the drill until the terror is gone. All things will pass, she said.
  
  You try to fight off hopelessness as you wind your way through the catacombs. You take a left, a right, two lefts, a right... this cannot be possible. How could a maze of such startling complexity be left underground, in abject darkness.
  
  "I don't think a vampire built this..." you say quietly.
  
  The maddening journey through the catacombs ends abruptly as you emerge into a garganguant stone chamber. It is roughly spherical, fashioned from the same rough brick-and-mortar as the rest of the catacombs. In the flickering torchlight, you can see stone steps leading down into depths of profane tenebrosity.
  
  "Wait," you say, "that's impossible."
  
  "How do you figure?" Tor asks. You can hear his blade scrape on a wall as he readies it.
  
  "We didn't descend more than a few feet, back in the dirt tunnels. This chamber is gigantic. It would be sticking out on the surface."
  
  "Foul fucking magic," Stitcher mutters.
  
  "Agreed," you say.
  
  "Only one way through this now," Frye says quietly. He begins to descend the steps. The torch seems hilariously inadequate against the dark that threatens to swallow you whole. You follow close behind him.
  
  At the bottom of the stairs lies a round marble dais. Atop it is perfectly-hewn piece of black glass, as tall as a man. It's impossibly smooth and polished to a mirror sheen. The surface is decorated with delicately painted white runes. It hums with magical potential. You look up, and see that the leylines converge over the slab; a criss-crossing, writhing spider web of veins, drip-feeding magical energy to this object. For what purpose?
  
  "I think we should leave it alone," you say. Your grandfather's skull loudly gasps for air.
  
  "Agreed," Frye says, as he begins to back away. You do the same. Your heel catches on a step, and you tumble backwards.
  
  The slab begins to hum angrily, as if your presence has offended it. The runes begin to glow, searing their shapes into your eyeballs. The slab begins to shake.
  
  "Get down!" you yell, diving blindly for cover into the darkness.
  
  The slab explodes in a violent discharge of magic potential. Searing white light overtakes your vision, and your hearing gives way to ringing.
  
  > The Unfathomable Violence of Distant Planes
  Your ears ring. Strange lights flash before your eyes. You're falling forward, tumbling endlessly into a sea of bright light. You realize your eyes are closed, and open them.
  
  You are instantly assailed by hideous sights. Strange geometries and blasphemous constellations dance before you. You laugh and can see the soundwaves echoing from your throat. You are awash in the cosmic sea; it is strange, beautiful, alien, hostile. You realize, as all madmen do, that the world of flesh and blood, of soil and sky, is but a tiny island, surrounded by an ocean of madness.
  
  Before you lose your grasp on sanity, you slam your eyes shut and clap your hands over your ears.
  
  Three deep breaths. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
  
  Some time later, you land roughly in the dirt.
  
  You get up. Your legs shake like a novice sailor's.Your stomach rebels, and you double over and start vomiting. A few moments later, you wipe your mouth and take stock of your surroundings.
  
  You're standing in a dirt field. You estimate that there are five to six times more stars in the night sky than there should be. Blue, wisp-like clouds coat the ground like a thick blanket. In the distance, you see the outline of a city; jagged, knife-like buildings stabbing into the sky.
  
  You do a slow three-hundred-sixty turn. The field seems to stretch on forever. You can make out the strange, moving shapes of gargantuan arthropods. The creatures move at a ponderous speed, sifting through the dirt with their prehensile mandibles. You focus on one, and see it lift a human-sized figure off the ground, and gingerly stuff them into a gargantuan sack-gland on its back.
  
  Three deep breaths. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
  
  Re-uniting with the party seems paramount to survival.
  
  You wonder if one of your companions may have fallen victim to one of the giant arthropods. You wonder what the purpose of kidnapping human beings is; why take such pains to lift them from the ground, intact?
  
  You approach one of the creatures and lay in the dirt from what you deem to be a safe distance. You observe the beast for several minutes. You estimate it to be fifteen feet tall. It stands on six ponderous legs; it perennially stumbles forward. Its movements seem drunken, somehow; as if the beast is unaccustomed to its own gargantuan size, and is perennially shifting its balance so as not to collapse under its own weight.
  
  You hear a man screaming. Your eyes automatically turn to the source of the noise. You breathe a sigh of relief as you realize the screamer is a stranger. A man in strange garb cowers before the giant insect.
  
  Ponderously, it crouches down, staring at him for a few seconds with its dozens of eyes. Then, its mandibles slowly extend. It gently grabs the man by the waist. You watch in horror and fascination as its neck bends completely perpendicular to its body, and it deposits him into the writhing sack-gland located on its back. You make out other, squirming figures; other victims, perhaps?
  
  You can make out other human figures, secured in the creature's membranous pouch. You wonder if your compatriots could be contained within.
  
  > walk to the City (alone)
  You walk in silence, eyes trained on the foreboding structures in the distance. The jagged buildings begin to remind you of a mouth full of sharp fangs, jutting upwards into the sky, as if some hideous creature were just underneath the surface with its mouth open.
  
  The city looms larger as you continue towards it. You begin to count your breaths again as panic rises in your breast. As you get closer, you can make out more details of the towering, hostile-looking metropolis.
  
  The buildings are gargantuan, and not fashioned out of any material you're familiar with; they look as if they were fashioned from a single piece of black iron. There are strange outcroppings on the sides of the buildings that resemble metal tree branches. As you get closer, you can see, for the first time, the people suspended from the branches.
  
  Dozens, if not hundreds of people are strung from them. Men, women, and children have all been gutted and hanged by their entrails. Each unfortunate victim is still alive. The city is alive with the weeping and wailing of the damned.
  
  In the distance, you hear the telltale crack-BANG! of a flintlock being discharged. You rush forward, and cross over the crest of a hill. Stitcher, Tor, John Boy and Frye stand with their backs to each other. They are surrounded on all sides by baying, sneering, naked men, their bodies emaciated and their skin calcified. You estimate the ghoulish horde to be around fifteen or twenty. They carry cruel, makeshift weapons; hooked poles, chains, cudgels with nails through them. A few don't carry weapons, but instead appear to have gnawed their fingers down to sharpened points.
  
  Frye fires again. The horde flinches, and backs away a few paces. You can see him holster his last, spent pistol. A few of the creatures turn, and look at you. With their attention divided, you guess that you have a few seconds to act.
  
  > Thin the Horde with Lesser Spells (alone)
  You fire four bolts of searing energy into the crowd. Each one hits one of the ghoul; their dry skin burns like tinder, and their ruined bodies fall to the ground. Your efforts are woefully insufficient.
  
  A wave of screaming naked bodies crashes over you. You're instantly held fast by a dozen iron grips. You are stabbed, bitten, and ripped to pieces. Your body is rended and shattered. The creatures fight over your wretched remains like chickens squabbling over pieces of grain; you watch two ghouls do a tug-of-war with a section of your intestines. A ghoul standing over you, your severed arm in its mouth.
  
  Although your body is ruined and in pieces, you are still very much alive. You can see the battle; your comrades are overtaken shortly after you. Stitcher is the last to fall; a battle-prayer is on her lips as she defends the remains of her fallen compatriots. The giant woman fights like a cornered bear until a ghoul thrusts a spear through the back of her head and out her mouth, sending her teeth and tongue shooting out the front. As soon as she falls, her corpse is simultaneously raped and devoured.
  
  You are spared the indignity of watching your own remains be further defiled, as a ghoul tears your eyes out. The last thing you see before an eternity of darkness is two corpse-like thumbs reaching into your eye sockets.
  
  As you lay in darkness, ruined and defiled beyond all recognition, you realize why the people you saw strung up in the city are not dead. No one dies here.
  
  Eventually, the pack grows bored, and moves on. When the agony fades, boredom sets in. You only have an eternity to wait.