text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy, supernatural, anti-hero, post-apocalyptic, serious, villain protagonist]
  
  Your fifth candle of the night burns low on your desk. The flame flickers in the cool breeze blowing in through the open window. Outside, you can hear a drunk man singing. On the floor, a half dozen books lay open. Some are taken from the University library, and some darker ones come from your own personal collection.
  
  A boy with curly hair, a pretty face, and a dull personality lays face down in your bed. He's snoring. Already, your interest in him has dwindled into nothingness. You hold a letter from your uncle Jack in your hands, with a broken wax seal depicting the crest of your family.
  
  Nephew,
  
  I hope this letter finds you well. Last week, I ascended Chapel Mount and lit a candle in your parents' name. Such a terrible tragedy, for them both to take ill so young.
  
  I trust your studies at the University are progressing well? You are a man of House Winter, after all; I would expect that you are at least as good as your professors, now.
  
  I'm writing to let you know that I've taken ill, and I expect to die shortly. Do not mourn me, for eternal life awaits me.
  
  Your inheritance is waiting for you at the family estate in Seffonshire. I trust you remember it? You spent so many of your childhood years running through the halls. The journey is perilous and long. You must hire hardy men to reach your destination.
  
  Our suffering in this life is great but it pales in comparison to our reward.
  
  Love,
  
  Your Uncle Jack.
  
  This is the third time you've read it. The words are rich with the promise of adventure, leaving a thrill in your chest each time you read them. You glance at the signet ring on your right hand. The lion stares at you with cool dignity.
  
  In your dreams, you wander through impossible vistas in the shadowed days of antiquity.
  
  [Author's Note: Winner of EndMaster's 2020-2021 Grimdark Contest! Take the role of Lord Winter, an aspiring sorcerer and the scion of a noble line that has fallen into obscurity. Contains scenes of intense gore, brutality, and sexual violence. Cover art by the talented MadHattersDaughter.]
  
  > hire a crew to escort you.
  The next day, you skip your lecture on Intermediate Natural Philosophy and head instead to the docks, known to be a warren of cut-throats and sailors. With the condition of the oceans these days, mariners are often as hardy as soldiers.
  
  Under your cloak, firmly affixed to your belt, is the skull of your grandfather with two glinting gems in his eyes. It hums with magical promise as you run your hand over it. You almost wish someone would try to rob you.
  
  For a while, you wander through a crowd of stevedores and wild-eyed sailors. The sun shines feebly, barely able to penetrate the sickly fog that lays heavy on the city. The smell of salt fills your nostrils. You catch snippets of sea stories, each one disturbing in its own right.
  
  "As big as a whale it were, but covered in eyes!"
  
  "Cut Old Jeckles in half, clear as the sky it did!"
  
  "I swear by the Three, I saw the Thirsting One himself out on the waves..."
  
  You notice a dangerous looking man stepping off a galley. His wide-brimmed hat is torn, his chainmail shirt is pockmarked and clawed, and one of his eyes is missing. He wears a harness with a half dozen breech-loaded pistols, and carries a sabre at his belt. He carries a red standard in one hand, six feet in length, banner hanging limply in the breeze.
  
  You approach him.
  
  "You're, uh, accustomed to violence?" you ask. Your upper crust accent gives you away immediately.
  
  He looks at you and smiles widely. "Aye friend, me and my companions are known for our might in every harbour."
  
  "I'm looking for passage to Seffonshire."
  
  "Friend, you must be truly mad. That's across the wastes," you can tell you have lost his attention. He turns his back to you, shifting his attention to a brawny man with black skin and a scarred bald head who is carrying what appears to be an ancient statue with a cloth draped over it. "Oi! Be careful with that, Tor, you fucking ox of a man!"
  
  "I can pay. Handsomely."
  
  "Define handsomely, friend. One-Eye Frye and his Fighting Men are known the world over."
  
  You flash your signet ring. "I can pay you and your men your weight in silver."
  
  He cocks his head. "How about you start with a round of ale for me and the lads?"
  
  > One-Eye Frye and his Fighting Men
  You grab a corner table at the local alehouse with Frye, and he leaves instructions with his crew to come when they finish unloading the ship. He drinks ale like it's water, happy to drink on your dime. As he drinks, he regails you with war stories.
  
  ".. and there I was, surrounded by corpses on all sides. The Donkey Men were patrolling the battlefield, lookin' for wounded to rape. You ever see a Donkey, boy?"
  
  "No."
  
  "Well you know what a regular donkey is, don't you?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Then you should be able to picture a Donkey pretty well. Savage lot. We had been scrapping with them all night, and they fight like devils. They'll chop your head off with one of their axes right as they kick you in the cock with those hooves of theirs, and fuck your corpse for good measure. So one of these bastards is sniffing around, right where I'm laying, and I hear this god awful yell. And in comes Stitcher, with a string of grenades, yelling about how if anyone gets to rape the chief, it's going to be her. Killed a half dozen in the explosion, wounded ten more. Scared them off."
  
  The door to the tavern opens, and sunlight spills inside. A gigantic woman in layers of cloth and heavy armour enters. She wears a tattered cloth hat, underneath which her tangled blonde hair spills out. A giant leatherbound book hangs at her belt; you recognize it as The Second Tome of the Sustainer, a book that instructs the faithful on practical miracles, and a favourite of battle-healers. She also wears a morningstar with a cylindrical, spiked head.
  
  "Aye, Stitcher!" Frye says with a grin, "come and drink with us!"
  
  "If I have no choice, I suppose I'll drink with you," she says, returning the smile. She glances at you. "Who is the little lordling?"
  
  "Our salvation, Stitcher! My friend, the little lordling, needs passage, and he's good to pay for it."
  
  She squints at him. "Passage to where?"
  
  "Seffonshire," you say.
  
  She doesn't even glance at you. "Frye, that's far. We barely surv -"
  
  "We survived just fine, Stitcher. And we made it back with a haul of treasure that would make your Sustainer blush."
  
  She opens her mouth, glances at you, then shuts it. For a moment, the three of you sit in silence. "I was just telling our friend the lordling about the time you fought the Donkeys for my virtue."
  
  "You have no virtue," she says. Frye laughs.
  
  Over the course of the day, you're introduced to the rest of Frye's companions. First, you meet John Boy, a peg-legged survivalist with a thick beard, bushy eyebrows, and unerring accuracy with his gargantuan crossbow. Then there's Tor, the man you saw on the ship. He's a muscle-bound brute of a man with dark brown skin, a bald head covered in scars, and a whaler's harpoon as tall as you are. Finally, there's Crowley; a plated knight with a gargantuan broadsword, and a faded tabard that reveals his noble bona fides. You try to inquire about his background, but it's explained to you that he's taken a vow of silence until evil is purged from the world, so expect him to be silent for a while.
  
  John Boy spreads a map out over the table. His voice is as rough as a carpenter's hands. "We're here," he says, pointing at a little city on the map.
  
  You nod. You're following along so far.
  
  "Seffonshire is... here," his finger slides almost to the other end of the map. You're separated from Seffonshire by drawings of rivers, twisted thickets, and depictions of tiny devils.
  
  "That's why I'm paying you so handsomely."
  
  "No doubt. Near as I figure, two ways to do this."
  
  "Don't leave us in suspense, John Boy," Frye says after a moment of silence.
  
  "Right, right. So. Two routes, one longer than the other. We take the forest, it adds a couple weeks. Plus, all the usual forest shit; beasties, madmen, maybe a lesser devil if we get unlucky."
  
  "And the faster route?" you ask.
  
  "We take the old Lordspath. Gets us where we're going quicker, plus good line of sight. Harder to sneak up on."
  
  Stitcher shakes her head.
  
  "What's the problem with that?" you ask.
  
  "Better to stay away from the abandoned places, little lordling. Dark things are drawn there."
  
  "You're the one funding this expedition. What do you think?" Frye asks of you.
  
  "Don't fancy our chances on the Lordspath. We take the Forest road," you say.
  
  > The Forest Road
  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.
  
  > let John Boy Take the Shot
  He pulls the trigger. The drawstring slams forward, and with a heavy twang, the thick cable sends the bolt flying at the deer. It never arrives. The deer parries the bolt with its antlers, before turning its attention to the pair of you.
  
  It lets out a deafening shriek that sends you reeling into the mud. Squinting through watering eyes, you watch as the deer stands on two legs and its antlers burst further out of its head. Bone shards protrude from its body. A pair of arms burst from its shoulders, spraying blood on the ground.
  
  You dimly remember one of your father's books: Daemonology, Vol. II. This is a Form-Changer, one of the predatory demons that's roamed the world since time immemorial.
  
  John Boy draws a dagger from his belt as it charges. It crosses the clearing in an instant, and ignores him entirely. Instead, it launches a bone spike into the soft flesh of your right hand, pinning it to a tree. You reach for the skull with your other arm, but another spike hits your shoulder with such force that it nearly tears your arm off. The pain is dazzling, so intense that you cannot think or speak.
  
  Immobilized and helpless, you watch as it tears John Boy's arms off in one smooth motion. You struggle helplessly as the demon turns to you. You can only watch as it effortlessly tears five feet of your intestines out and feasts on them before your still-living eyes.
  
  Your last breath is spent on a whimper before darkness takes you.