text: [Themes: fantasy, war]
  
  You awaken to find a pair of angry green eyes staring back at you, framed with unnaturally black hair. As you attempt to sit up, your face eats a punch from the woman, knocking you back down.
  
  "Did I say you could move, betrayer?" Morgan breathes. You quickly glance at your surroundings. The burned remains of the temple sit quietly behind her, charred, cold and ominous.
  
  "Joren?" you ask. Bringing up the man's name earns you another blow, this one, a kick to the gut. Morgan squats back down to peer at you closer.
  
  "Gone."
  
  "And the others?"
  
  Morgan utters half a laugh. "What others? There are no others. There's never been."
  
  The news causes you to sit up again, and this time, you don't get knocked back down. "But I saw other members about. Nathan, the portly librarian for one."
  
  "Tricks of the trade," Morgan answers. "Killian's specialty. 'Projecting,' he called it. In fact, your other 'friends' got to witness it first-hand when they visited the farm. This entire island is abandoned, save for Killian and I... well, now it's you and me." The sudden mention of Killian and her distracts Morgan for a few seconds, but you're soon sure to be the object of her wrath again. So that's his name, the man with the white hair meditating at the willow tree: Killian. Strange how you never learned that until now.
  
  "He's gone then?" you ask.
  
  "A lightning blast to the chest will do that."
  
  "So where does this leave us?" you question. "If you wanted me dead, you could have just slit my throat while I was out."
  
  "The thought did pass my mind, I assure you that," Morgan answers. She peers into your eyes still, sparkling green pupils locked with your dark brown. "But Killian saw something in you. In his memory, I will spare your life."
  
  Morgan not-so-gently steps on your chest with a black boot, standing fully upright. She towers over your prone body as if a lighthouse over a cliff. "I'm going after him," she says. "The spirit of vengeance guides me. Are you coming?"
  
  > No
  "No," you refuse.
  
  "What did you say?" Morgan peers down at you. "I urge you to reconsider your choice."
  
  "I'm sorry. But I have my own matters to attend to. I've spent the last few years as a slave. Now that I have my freedom, I'm not willing to trade it for a mad quest of revenge."
  
  "You're a disgrace, and you shouldn't bear that mark," Morgan answers. The heel of her boot finds your face, dazing you on the ground. Immediately, Morgan squats down forcefully grabbing your wrist, twisting your arm so the tattoo of the crow is exposed. With a flash, her knife appears in her other hand.
  
  "Wait, no--" you start. Then pain rushes through your arm.
  
  Like peeling the outer layer of a potato, Morgan's knife cuts into your skin, meaning to remove the entire image of the crow. You struggle, but she holds your arm firmly in place. As you attempt to strike at her with your free hand, she swats away the blow and sends the hilt of her dagger into your nose with a sickening crunch. On the plus side, the pain from your now-broken nose is slightly distracting from your arm.
  
  "Shh," Morgan hushes you as cries of pain escape your lips. "It'll be over soon. The more you struggle, the worse it gets."
  
  Pain. Sharp pain. Unavoidable pain fills your body. You try to focus on something else, to bring your mind to another place, but all you feel is pain. Then, it's over. Morgan releases your arm, triumphantly holding up a thin piece of skin like a trophy earned. She tosses it to the ground next to you and squats down, again, to stare into your eyes.
  
  "I'm going after that murderer. He'll receive a lot more than you did just now. Perhaps there's a small comfort in knowing it could be worse. In Killian's memory I won't end your life...but that doesn't mean I have to let you off easy."
  
  Morgan's dagger slams down into your thigh. Her face draws closer with her next statement.
  
  "You've brought destruction along with you. I can only hope slowing you down will, too, slow down that which follows you. Think what you must, but this truly is a mercy."
  
  Morgan stands, leaving her dagger in your leg. "And a generosity. Look, I'm not leaving you unarmed." A small laugh hangs in the air. Somehow, you imagine violence is the only thing to cause such an outward display of emotion from that woman.
  
  She leaves you alone, bleeding in the dirt. The only equipment provided is the dagger in your leg.
  
  > stay put and address the wound
  The pain continues. There's no use in trying to escape the island without addressing your wounds first. Morgan gone, you crawl in the grass, dragging your leg behind you, to a nearby boulder. Using it as a backrest, you examine the damage dealt. It's not good. Your nose makes a wheezing sound with each breath, and you can't put pressure on your leg. For the time being, you keep the dagger firmly planted in your leg. Until you find a way to stop the bleeding, it's better to leave it in.
  
  Darkness sets in for a moment. Panic sets in. You've lost a lot of blood. You're going to need to address your wounds quickly. Time is racing against you. Around you, there's plenty of scrapwood, remains from the destruction caused by Joren. Doing your best to ignore the pain, unsuccessfully, you crawl over to the pieces of wood. At the base of the temple, among the ruins, soft warm glowing shines through the rubble. Small embers still burn, a result of the fire Joren lit. With your newly found wood scraps, you coax the embers into a sizable flame.
  
  Now, the hard part.
  
  Taking a few quick huffs of breath in preparation, you grab the dagger's handle and pull out the blade in one smooth motion. Blood pools out immediately, running down your leg dying your trousers dark crimson. White hot pain shoots through your body, your vision becoming faint. Got to act quickly. You place the dagger in the fire, blade among the flames. There's nothing to disinfect the wound -- what you would give for a strong drink right about now, for both your leg and your senses.
  
  Confident in the blade's temperature, you draw it from the fire. Your vision fades for a moment, again, blood loss starting to affect you more severely. It has to be done if you have any chance of survival. You press the flat side of the dagger against your wound. Your vision, fading black, lights up for a brief second in a burst of pain. You release a scream from your lips, anything to help numb the pain. It doesn't help. It's too much.
  
  Your hand, losing its strength, drops the dagger from your palm. It lands on the grass next to you. The words from your dream echo in your mind. Death follows you, child. It didn't take long to catch up.