text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy, serious]
  
  As you enter, you notice a thick coating of dust. You spend a few moments wandering through the mansion. You pass through a sitting room; next to the armchair lies a half-smoked cigar and an open book. You idly flip through the pages, only to find them stuck together. Has this book been resting for years?
  
  You continue wandering. Lion tapestries hang from the walls. You find it odd, to see the sigil of your family displayed so openly. It reminds you of your childhood, when your father still instructed you in the hermetic traditions. Your grandfather's teeth begin to chatter at your belt, as if overcome by familiarity.
  
  You wander through a few more rooms. The whole of the mansion seems as if it was abandoned in the middle of a perfectly normal day. As you walk through the dining hall, you notice that the impressive table is entirely furnished with plates, cutlery, and drinking goblets. A bottle of wine sits, still corked, in the middle of the table.
  
  You contemplate this mystery as you head downstairs to the cellar. Going off hazy childhood memories, you roll an oak cask aside, revealing a concealed mechanism within a brick. You insert your signet ring, and the brick depresses into the wall. A section of wall swings open, revealing the hidden treasury inside.
  
  Gold ingots are stacked to the ceiling. They are all coated in a thick layer of dust, which spills out to greet you when you open the door. Each ingot is stamped with the lion of House Winter. You grab four ingots, balance them on your forearm against your chest, and walk back up the stairs to the front door.
  
  You exit the house, and hand the ingots to Frye. "Payment for a job well-done."
  
  His eyes widen. "That's a fair bit more than we agreed upon, lad."
  
  You shrug. "The journey was more difficult than I imagined."
  
  "Aye, it was," Stitcher says, approaching the both of you. She takes a gold ingot in a gauntleted hand, and turns it over. "Still, you were a fine traveling companion."
  
  John Boy is seated on the ground with Tor. He snaps his fingers in front of the man's eyes, prompting the giant to flinch in surprise. He nods approvingly. "Still in shock. Will recover."
  
  "Glad to hear," you say. You turn your eyes to Frye. "What's next for One-Eye Frye and his Fighting Men?"
  
  "Well, we're down a man. And we've a score to settle with that bastard d'Harcourt. Think we'll try to link back up with Crowley, and mount that devil's head on a pike."
  
  "Think Crowley's still alive?"
  
  Frye snorts. "I doubt anything could kill that big bastard. What's next for Lord Winter?"
  
  "I need to settle my affairs here," you notice Stitcher's face darken. "Then, I might begin my studies again. I've learned so much of magic, though, it seems almost pointless."
  
  "Don't do it," Stitcher blurts. "No offence, lordling, but it seems like everything to do with House Winter is best avoided."
  
  "What would you have me do instead?"
  
  Frye shrugs. "You could always come along with us. A man well-practiced in the occult is a valuable asset."
  
  You ponder this, for a moment.
  
  > embrace your Destiny
  You shake your head. "I'm where I should be," you say. You close the door on them, before they have time to try and convince you otherwise. Leaning against the door, you expect to hear a knock. It never arrives.
  
  You unclip your grandfather's skull from your belt and stare into his garnet eyes. His jaw is opening and closing rhythmically. The only sound in the house is the faint scraping of his teeth. His garnet eyes seem to glint more than usual.
  
  You walk up the stairs. You have a faint memory of Uncle Jack's study being located on the second floor. You remember being a child, clinging to your mother's legs as you watched your father and uncle argue. These memories are fresh in your mind as you approach the study. As you walk down the hall to the study, you notice that the long carpet on the floor is the same as when you were a child. You were always perplexed by the intricacy of the symbols, and the fact that the weaver had painstakingly woven mathematical formulae into the rug.
  
  You enter the study. The walls are full of artwork that disquiets the mind. The room is dominated by your uncle's gargantuan desk. He was always enormously proud of it. "Family relic, that's what it is," you remember him saying. Atop the desk is a brass cube with one face removed, revealing its complex clockwork innards. There's a large circular receptacle resting on the cube.
  
  Before fiddling with the box, you first pick up a note from the desk.
  
  Nephew,
  
  You've come so far. In crossing this barren waste, you have already shown the strength of our family. You have but one task remaining. Lay your grandfather to rest on the box, so that he may rest, as I do now. Then, and only then, go downstairs to the vault and claim what is yours. You remember how to get into the vault, don't you?
  
  Love,
  
  Your Uncle Jack
  
  You smile as you read the words. Strange as he was, your memories of your Uncle Jack are fond; his moustache tickling your cheek when he kissed you as a child; him sending you forbidden magic via courier, so that you could excel over your peers; him teaching you how to read the Glyphs of Harm, so you could always defend yourself.
  
  You place the skull on the box without a second thought. As you do, you scarcely feel the poisoned needle slide into your hand. You fall backwards into a sea of nothingness.
  
  > The Lich
  You remember the old times, before the People put crops into the ground. You remember when nights were cold and beasts preyed upon men. You remember how fire would scare the wolves, but not the One-Who-Walks-At-Night. No. The only thing that would stop him was magic. The font of creation itself. When men used spear and arrow, you used the power of the stars. They mocked you, at first. Now, you are the village's protector and king, and no one mocks you.
  
  You are a mighty king. Your father overthrew the previous king, after years of planning. While others know the ways of magic, your family's bloodline has always been the strongest. Your father was a giant of a man, who dismembered a whole phalanx of terrified troops with the might of the cosmos.
  
  He was also a warrior. In the end, when a knife was driven into his back, no one was surprised. You will not die the same way. You have gathered all of the wise women and warlocks you could find, and given them refuge in your keep. There, they will learn the secret ways; the ways of life and death. You will teach these ways to your son. This way, your family will always be secure.
  
  You are a man of science. Your whole life has been spent continuing the Great Work; the ancient project of your forebears. Every man of House Winter must do his part. The world is in flames, and the screams of the dying echo down into your bunker. It matters not. The work continues, as it always has. Your golem can deliver you supplies.
  
  You will die down here, away from the sun. You have made your peace with this. You are devoted to creating the perfect soldier; a beast of a man, nigh unkillable, who will serve House Winter for generations to come.
  
  You are Jack Winter. The Great Work is almost complete, you can feel it in your bones. Your brother's son, your nephew, is only five years old, but is already a prodigious user of magic. For his birthday, you presented him with the polished skull of his grandfather; he knows it only as a magical fetish, and is ignorant of his true purpose.
  
  Your brother does not understand. He grows reluctant, every day. It's understandable, you suppose; no man wants to sacrifice his child. You stand outside his bedroom. It is a trivial matter to release an infected rat, loaded with the most virulent plagues you could conjure. You hear his wife scream from within. It's grim work, but family must come first.
  
  You are all these men, and more. You are the culmination of the most powerful bloodline of occultists ever to walk the earth. You are a terrible secret, passed from father to son since time immemorial. As your heart stops, thousands of souls enter your body, filling you with unimaginable strength. Arcane power courses through your veins. You are dead, but you are immortal.
  
  You are a lich. As you rise into the sky, surrounded by a pestilential mist, your dreadful arrival is heralded by the cawing of crows. You can see townsfolk dropping to their knees. Good. They are the first to serve, but they will not be the last.
  
  Your reign has just begun.