text: It's been three days since you entered the forest. Already, the city feels like a distant memory. Spirits are high. Each night, you share ale, fire, and stories with the Fighting Men.
  
  The forest is disquieting. The trees, which have stood before the time of the Grim Harvest, seem to possess inhuman intelligences. The mist is always thick to the point of being difficult to breathe in. It's perpetually cold.
  
  You are crouched near to the ground with John Boy next to you. His crossbow is drawn. You're both staring at a muddied path with a half dozen tracks running over it. The tracks are unreadable to you, but he points one of them out.
  
  "Deer."
  
  You nod, and wordlessly follow him. Sure enough, the tracks break away from the muddle, and transform into the familiar split shape of deer tracks; not that you've ever seen a deer, but you've read enough books on the subject. You closely follow in his footsteps. Even with one leg, he moves with the practiced grace of an experienced woodsman. Soon, you come out of the mist into a clearing.
  
  On the other side of the clearing is a buck, dipping its nose in a puddle. Its pelt is shockingly clean and you can't see its ribs, making it the healthiest beast you've seen since your arrival in the wilderness. The skull at your belt hums as John Boy draws his crossbow and takes a knee.
  
  You place a finger on the skull. As soon as you make contact with the polished bone, the hairs on your neck stand up. Something is wrong.
  
  > attack the Deer with Magic
  You yank the skull from your belt and stare into your grandfather's eyes. You point your left finger at the deer and utter a quick string of cosmic blasphemies. Frost forms on the ground around you, and your surroundings become a little darker.
  
  The deer buckles under an unseen pressure as the air around it shimmers. A second later, it explodes, showering the clearing with gore.
  
  John Boy looks at you. "Why?" he grunts.
  
  "Watch," you say, pointing at the viscous puddle that had antlers a moment before. It begins to bubble and shift like water on a stovetop. Soon, an arm bursts from the puddle, followed by another. A bloody, humanoid form begins to drag itself towards you. It resembles a man, but its mouth gapes wider than your head and its skin has the consistency of tar.
  
  A crossbow bolt tears through the creature's head, finishing it off for good. You glance over at John Boy, and he gives you a single nod.
  
  "We'd better find something else for the camp," you say.
  
  Useless at hunting, you wander off to check the snares while John Boy enters the bush. An hour later, you reunite; you with a string of rabbits, him with some kind of wild dog slung over his shoulder.
  
  "Not bad," he remarks as you both head back to camp. Your campsite is a lively place, made all the livelier against the backdrop of the deathly stillness of the forest. The fire roars from the ample dead timbre scattered around. Frye, Stitches and Tor are seated around the campfire. Stitcher stares bright eyed at Frye as he recounts the tales of his adventures. Away from the rest, Crowley, still in his armour, sharpens his broadsword; under the helmet, you imagine him grimacing.
  
  As John Boy gets to work skinning and skewering the rabbits, you sit at the fire. You relish the heat against your fingers. Only as you begin to warm up do you realize how cold the forest is. Tor hands you a cup and a wineskin.
  
  "We were just telling tales, Mister Winter," Frye says. You stare into your cup and swirl the red liquid around for a moment, before taking a sip. It's shockingly good. "Well don't look so surprised. I'm far from a well-bred lordling such as yourself, but my tastes are still renowned."
  
  At that, you smile.
  
  "Tor, tell us the story of your funny gods, again," Frye says to Tor.
  
  > listen to Tor Talk About his Gods
  "I"ll need another drink to explain it to you foreign savages," Tor says. His accent marks him as a foreigner from distant lands. He enunciates every word carefully, as if terrified of being misunderstood. "My father was my tribe's Recaller, so I'll tell it as he did to me. At least, I'll try. I've forgotten some of it.
  
  In the beginning, there was nothing but Grass, Sea, and Father Sand. Grass and Sea were in love, but Father Sand would never allow such a union. So Sea came up with a cunning plan; she would wash over Father Sand, to meet her lover Grass. But when she washed over him, Father Sand turned to mud," Tor speaks low and slow. There is a moment of silence, broken only by the sounds of Crowley sharpening his sword and the crackle of the campfire. "Now, Father Sand was furious, so he cursed the lovers. 'Whenever Grass and Sea meet, Grass shall surely die!' he bellowed as he raged. Ages passed, and Grass grew lonely. So, when Father Sand was asleep, he took some of the mud from Father Sand, and fashioned it into the first men and gods," a small smile creeps across Tor's lips, "and that is why all men are dark like mud."
  
  "I should like to visit your barbarian land someday, my friend," Frye says softly.
  
  "It was gone before I was born," Tor says bleakly.
  
  Wine-drunk and tired, you retire for the night. Crowley takes first watch, as he always does. Stitcher and Frye hang back by the campfire, talking into the night, as is their custom. Tor heads to his tent, and sleeps next to his harpoon.
  
  > On the Road / Camped Out
  A few days later, you break out of the forest and into the countryside. What grass there is is grey and desiccated. Rolling hills comprised of soil that no longer sustains life stretches as far as the eye can see, dotted by rotted farmhouses. Old fence posts jut out of the ground like so many rotted teeth in a necrotising mouth.
  
  "There is scarcely bett'r picture, of what is lost and died," Frye says.
  
  "There surely is no sadness, like the dam-ned countryside," you finish the old saying. You never liked it, and cringe at the tortured rhyme. Frye grins.
  
  The party comes to a halt ahead of a bridge, which clearly once forded a substantial river. Looking left and right, you see the remains of a watermill and a few boats. Now, though, it scarcely amounts to more than a few rotted planks scaling a filthy ditch.
  
  "Reckon we ought to cross one at a time," Stitcher says. She goes first, followed by Tor, then Frye and Crowley, leaving you alone on the embankment. "Say, lordling," Stitcher says as you take a few uncertain steps, "I hope your books aren't heavy."
  
  "Not as heavy as your fat fucki?" your foot goes through a rotten plank, quickly followed by the rest of your body. You slam into the mud and immediately start to sink. As you struggle to arise, a piece of timber falls on your head, sending you sprawling. The mud gurgles and laps at your clothing. You struggle to keep your face out of the mud.
  
  Something seizes you with a grip as cold as ice and as strong as iron. You scream through a mouthful of mud, before a hand clamps over your mouth. You feel hot breath on your neck and smell the stench of death.You ball your hand up and drive it upwards and behind you, scoring a hit on something. You feel rotted flesh tear underneath your knuckles.
  
  You whirl around to face your assailant. You see a creature that resembles a man, but with double-jointed knees and arms longer than its body, and a mouth full of rotted fangs. The remains of a tattered pair of trousers hangs limply off its frame. You put a leg in front of it just as it leaps for your throat, holding it off long enough to grab the skull from your belt.
  
  There's no time to cast a spell. "Sorry, grandfather!" you hiss as you drive his skull into the creature's face. Dark blood coats your hands. With the creature dazed, you whisper a few dark words. Your grandfather's eyes glow. You seize it by the neck with one hand, and press the ornamented skull into its face. The beast wails in inhuman agony as its flesh sears away almost instantly. The monster tries to pull away as its skull slowly disintegrates, but you push it forward. The monster's skull simultaneously caves in and burns away. The wet, gooey mass of its brain superheats and it goes limp.
  
  Stitcher charges down a second later, mace drawn. She stops in her tracks, as Tor and Frye stumble to a halt behind her. Her eyes go to the dead monster, then to you. "You beat that thing to death? Not bad, lordling."
  
  As you push it off of yourself, a metal gauntlet closes around your arm and hoists you into the air. Crowley stands knee deep in the mud. He easily holds you in the air with the strength of one arm. For a moment, he stares into your eyes and you into his. You see that behind the helmet, the skin is wrinkled and cracked, and his eyes are milky white. You cringe in pain as his grip tightens and his fingers dig into your arm. He wordlessly deposits you on the embankment.
  
  Deciding not to correct her, you wordlessly nod as a rising tide of nausea swells in your stomach. You fall to your knees and start retching.
  
  You pitch your tents in an open field, the kind where cows might have grazed. The night is cold, drawing everyone into the flame. Crowley sits apart from the party as he obsessively runs his hands over his armour, looking for damage. His helmet makes his mood inscrutable, but you get the sense he's staring at you.
  
  "Aren't you cold?" you ask uneasily, noticing the layer of frost that's accumulated on his armour. It doesn't seem to bother him.
  
  "Best not to bother Crowley, lad," John Boy says quietly.
  
  "Is something the matter with him?" you ask, "most men wouldn't want to sit on the cold and freeze."
  
  "Most men wouldn't keep their armour on their entire lives, either," says Stitcher.
  
  "Listen here, and listen well. Crowley is among the finest of men I've ever fought with," Frye says, tossing a glance over his shoulder, "but he's not at all like you or I. I've never seen him eat or drink, and I've seen him shrug off blows that would kill a lesser man. Hell, I think they'd kill a greater man, too."
  
  "So he's unkillable. What is he, then? Some kind of mutant? Cursed?"
  
  "Don't you say that in his presence. Ever," Stitcher snaps.
  
  Frye nods. "Crowley hates magic like no man I've ever seen, and he kills demons like an archangel sent from on high. We've all seen that trinket at your belt, lordling; best you don't do any magic in front of him."
  
  "I'm paying for this expedition, Frye. I've a right to defend myself, do I not."
  
  "You speak true. I can't say I'm thrilled about escorting a mage, but it's your immortal soul you're gambling with, lordling. Crowley on the other hand..." Stitcher trails off.
  
  "He once ripped a mage's head off with just his hands."
  
  You whistle. "I'll keep it to myself, then."
  
  "Aye, lad. You will," John Boy says softly, tossing a log into the fire. You retire to your tent and sleep takes you quickly.
  
  > A Crossroads
  You awaken suddenly to an armoured gauntlet clamped over your mouth. Before you open your eyes, you know who it is. You reach for your skull but Crowley produces it from his belt, and waves it in front of your face while shaking his head.
  
  You stare at his armoured face. He shakes his head as if to say don't scream, and then takes a hand off your mouth. He jerks his head to the flap of your tent. Follow me.
  
  > Scream
  You open your mouth to scream. With blinding speed, Crowley punches you with two fists. Your ribcage is instantly sundered as his gauntleted hands tear through your body and reach out the back. For a brief second, you uselessly try to scream, but all that escapes your lips is a hoarse whisper.
  
  As the knight drags you out of the tent by the foot, your head lolls down and you stare into your own ruptured chest cavity. Your mind wanders to the anatomy lessons you received as a child. You recognize your own heart and lungs. Those two spears jutting out of you like boar tusks? Why, those must be your ribs!
  
  You feel a faint sense of intellectual accomplishment. You barely notice as Crowley lifts you over his head and rips you in half.