text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy, anti-hero, supernatural]
  
  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.
  
  > hang Back
  Something about the bared teeth and the lust-filled eye of the Donkeys chills your soul. Your courage fails as the others charge ahead, and you lag behind. You try to assist the party past best you can as they fall upon the Donkeys and blood and limbs begin to fly through the air. As you watch the skirmish, your feet seem to root themselves to the ground. The blood in yeour veins runs cold.
  
  Time seems to slow to a halt as you watch Stitcher cave a Donkey's head in with her cudgel. She bashes it as it lays twitching on the ground, and doesn't notice a second one behind her. It grabs her by the hair and flings her to the ground before climbing on top of her. She covers her face with her arms as it wildly slashes at her with a knife. Panic begins to rise in your breast. Have you sent these people to their deaths?
  
  You never find out. As you stand there, rooted to the spot, a Donkey hurls a stone at your head. Darkness takes you almost instantly.
  
  > Taken by Donkeys, "Taken" by Donkeys
  When you awake, Frye's words ring in your ears: don't let them take you. Your vision is blurred and you feel like throwing up. Something's scraping against your back ? the ground. Someone is dragging you by the foot.
  
  "Frye?" you ask blearily.
  
  The Donkey turns around and snorts at you, then continues to drag you. Nausea rises in your belly once again, and you vomit all over yourself. Everything is dark. Taking stock of your surroundings, you realize you're underground. Torches burn on the wall. Grim images of rape and torture flood your mind. You reach for the skull, but it's gone. Figures.
  
  If you had to guess, you would say that you're being dragged down some kind of mineshaft. You want to scream for help, but cannot produce more than a horse whisper. Dread fills your chest like cold water as the Donkey drags you further from the surface.
  
  "Fuck," you whisper before unconsciousness takes you once more.
  
  When you awake, your head hurts more than you can bear and your thoughts are confused. You remember a terrible blow to the head, and nothing after. You open your eyes to see three sneering Donkeys standing over you. You remember everything, now. The battle, your cowardice, and the mad look of lust on the Donkey that incapacitated you.
  
  One of them stomps on your head with its hoof. You hear a terrible cracking sound as a fracture opens on your skull. Your thoughts become scrambled as blood trickles down into your eye. They laugh and bray as they stomp you, breaking your body in a half dozen places. You are a miserable, wretched thing, now. Your feeble attempts to crawl away are met with more laughter as they drag you back in place.
  
  You think the final coherent thought of your life: I will suffer greatly before I die.
  
  Your prognostication is correct. You suffer terrible indignities for hours. First they take turns raping you. Then, they cut your fingers off. You gaze miserably at the ruined stumps that used to be your hands. You try to call for help, but the most you can produce is a pitiable moan. It feels like a mercy when one of the Donkeys stomps your head with such force that your skull caves in like a rotted pumpkin.