text: [Themes: Religious, Historical, Middle Ages, religion, moral choice, monastery, horror]
  
  > go down
  You descend the ladder, the roof giving a sigh of relief as you do.
  
  Half-a-dozen empty stalls show the plague's influence. As die the shepard, so does the flock. The smell winds its way through your nostrils, numb though they are. It can be escaped to the path in the west or the garden in the northeast. A small ladder leads up to the roof of the stables.
  
  Her hunger satiated, the horse eyes you skittishly.
  
  > ride the horse
  You can't; she is trapped in her stall.
  
  > Open stall
  The horse eyes you as you open her stall, but makes no move to leave.
  
  Violent coughs spew from your lungs. You wipe a small spattering of blood from your mouth.
  
  > Open stall
  That's already open.
  
  > ride the horse
  The moment you touch her, she goes wild. The last thing you see is a flurry of hooves before you are knocked to the ground and trampled.
  
  When they find you, you are little more than a bloody smear in the snow.
  
  > go to the north-east
  These gardens used to provide most of the food for the entire monastery. Now, none. A few black stalks poke through the snow, their appearance always perfectly predicted by the rows they were planted in. The wilderness is stronger here: twisted briars block all paths but the one southwest, back to the stables.
  
  Drogo slashes wildly at the briars with a dull machete.
  
  A low chorus of growls rises from the briars, singing with the swing of Drogo's blade.
  
  > listen
  The wind. Nothing more.
  
  > look at the briars
  The briars tumble over themselves in a frantic race to overtake the garden. They are all winning: the garden is overrun.
  
  Flashes of yellow dart about in the darkness. Eyes.
  
  Violent coughs spew from your lungs. You wipe a small spattering of blood from your mouth.
  
  > examine the eyes
  The briars tumble over themselves in a frantic race to overtake the garden. They are all winning: the garden is overrun.
  
  Flashes of yellow dart about in the darkness. Eyes.
  
  > take the eyes
  A growl is the only response.
  
  > enter the briars
  Ouch! Winter rot has done nothing to dull their thorns.
  
  > Smell
  The cold flies up your nose like needles: you smell nothing unusual.
  
  > look at the machete
  It is dull, but Drogo's fury makes its work easy.
  
  > talk to Drogo
  "What are you doing, Drogo?" You ask, almost afraid of the answer.
  
  "Matteo needs something else. Something more," he says, going back to the briars. "You'll see. It'll be perfect."
  
  > talk
  (Drogo)
  "Shhh, father. I need to find the perfect one."
  
  Whispers dance in your ears. Growing. Fading.
  
  > ask Drogo about the wolf
  "My dear friends. So much better than humans."
  
  > take the machete
  "No!" he squeals, drawing back. "It's mine! All mine!"
  
  > throw the hare in the briars
  Those can't contain things.
  
  Cold knives of pain cut through your skull. They ease off, leaving a dull throbbing behind your eyes.
  
  > Pet Drogo
  That wouldn't do any good.
  
  Cold knives of pain cut through your skull. They ease off, leaving a dull throbbing behind your eyes.
  
  > kill the wolf
  They burn with passion. No, desperation.
  
  A growl is the only response.
  
  > eat the wolf
  A growl is the only response.
  
  Cold knives of pain cut through your skull. They ease off, leaving a dull throbbing behind your eyes.
  
  > check your inventory
  You are carrying:
  Drogo's eyes
  a hare
  Matteo's note
  Ignatius's eye
  Matteo's eyes
  Lucca's eyes
  Constantin's eyes
  a coin
  your tinderbox
  your candle (lit)
  your frock (being worn)
  
  > examine the stalks
  Once upon a time, this was food. Now the rot has taken its hold.
  
  > take the stalks
  The blackened stalk crumbles in your hand.
  
  > examine the briars
  The briars tumble over themselves in a frantic race to overtake the garden. They are all winning: the garden is overrun.
  
  Flashes of yellow dart about in the darkness. Eyes.
  
  > talk to Drogo
  "Shhh, father. I need to find the perfect one."
  
  Cold knives of pain cut through your skull. They ease off, leaving a dull throbbing behind your eyes.
  
  > talk to Drogo
  "Shhh, father. I need to find the perfect one."
  
  > Go southwest
  Half-a-dozen empty stalls show the plague's influence. As die the shepard, so does the flock. The smell winds its way through your nostrils, numb though they are. It can be escaped to the path in the west or the garden in the northeast. A small ladder leads up to the roof of the stables.
  
  Her hunger satiated, the horse eyes you skittishly.
  
  > go west
  The sun's light does nothing to warm you, but instead it burns your eyes with its fury: nothing like the cool darkness inside the monastery to the north. It is so bright that you can barely make out the stables to the east: they are just a darker square in a field of white. The infirmary is a little clearer to the west. A tangle of footsteps lead south to the gate.
  
  > Go south
  Lightning has torn through the gate, leaving only dark, broken rocks in its place. Black scorch marks twist their way through the rubble: stone crumbs are all that remain in some places. The snow is caked in soot: usually it would be lined with many footsteps, now only a few disturb the inky darkness. The snow covered path winds its way back north to the monastery and south towards Rovato.
  
  A series of strange mounds line the southern side of where the gate used to be.
  
  Whispers dance in your ears. Growing. Fading.
  
  > examine the gate
  It is only a heap of stones now.
  
  Cold knives of pain cut through your skull. They ease off, leaving a dull throbbing behind your eyes.
  
  > examine the mounds
  They are misshapen: uneven. You cannot tell what they are beneath the snow.
  
  > dig the mound
  Shoveling through the snow with frostbitten hands, you eventually strike a rock.
  
  No. Not a rock. You push back the rest of the snow to uncover the icy, stone-hard face of a young woman. She has only two colors: black and white. Plague colors.
  
  An itch tickles beneath your skin.
  
  > examine the woman
  Dozens of bodies line the wall: the villagers of Rovato.
  
  > take the woman
  The bodies are frozen together in a heap of flesh and ice.