text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy, anti-hero, supernatural]
  
  You awaken suddenly to an armoured gauntlet clamped over your mouth. Before you open your eyes, you know who it is. You reach for your skull but Crowley produces it from his belt, and waves it in front of your face while shaking his head.
  
  You stare at his armoured face. He shakes his head as if to say don't scream, and then takes a hand off your mouth. He jerks his head to the flap of your tent. Follow me.
  
  > go with Crowley
  Lacking options, you follow the knight. In the moonlight, you can fully appreciate the man's gargantuan stature; he stands easily six and a half feet tall. His sword is the length of both of your arms put together, and he wields it comfortably with one hand. Where did they find this beast?
  
  He grabs a pitch-covered torch off the ground and thrusts it into the smouldering remains of the campfire. It ignites easily, and he hands it to you with a nod. He takes a half step away, and then turns back, and tosses something to you. It's only after you catch it that you realize it's your grandfather's skull, and he had disarmed you.
  
  > kill Crowley Immediately
  You don't give him a chance to realize his mistake. The second you catch the skull, you point it at him and shout an incantation. He lunges towards you, but you strike him in the chest with a beam of negative energy. His breastplate buckles, and the force of the blow sends him reeling.
  
  He draws his gargantuan sword and holds it like a throwing axe before swiftly launching it at your head. It whips through the air at blinding speed. You narrowly catch it in a shimmering field of light. It strains in the air as you strain to stop it from cleaving your body in twain. Cracks spread through the blade and it shatters loudly.
  
  You dodge shards of metal shrapnel. Crowley seizes his opportunity, covering the distance between you almost instantly. You dive into the dirt. His fingers close around the space your skull occupied a moment before.
  
  You roll, avoiding two stomps in rapid succession.
  
  "Crowley! What the fuck are you doing?" Frye shouts, emerging from his tent, half asleep. One pistol-bracer is slung over his shoulder. Three shots.
  
  Crowley waves at him dismissively, before advancing on you. Three loud cracks resound. You watch as three holes open up in Crowleys chest. Black ichor pours from the wound. You don't give him a chance to regain his footing. With both hands, you form a sphere of withering darkness around Crowley and lift him into the air. You scream with exertion. Blood trickles from your left eye.
  
  You collapse on the ground, gasping for breath. You look up, expecting to see Crowley standing over you, preparing his murder-stroke. To your surprise, you're not greeted with an angry knight.
  
  As you stand on unsteady feet, you gaze at Crowley. His armour is rusted and buckled. His helmet has been torn off, revealing the leering skull within. His empty black eyes stare blankly at the sky, no trace of their former fury within.
  
  "Crazy bastard," Frye murmurs ruefully as he approaches the corpse. The rest of the party emerges.
  
  "And where were you lot, a moment ago?" you hiss. No one responds. Your compatriots stare at Crowley's ruined corpse, then at you. Their narrowed eyes tell you all you need to know.
  
  . You shift uneasily, and then look down at your boots. The hilt to Crowley's sword is resting at your feet. On a whim, you pick it up and turn it over. There's a small carving on the pommel.
  
  The Lion of House Winter stares at you with cool dignity.
  
  > Down a Man
  The next morning, you depart without Crowley. You try to speak, but you are met with stony glares. Self defence or not, you killed a member of the party.
  
  Hours turn into days. You break out of the forest, after a while. You cover miles of dead scrubland, passing dessicated farms where cattle once was kept. You are surrounded by the bones of civilization, wherever you go.
  
  At night, the light of the campfire is no longer a source of comfort. The eyes of your companions begin to take on a wicked glint. One night, when asleep in your tent, you catch Frye and Stitcher arguing.
  
  "It's not right," Stitcher says. "We're not perfect, aye, but we're not fucking bandits either."
  
  "I'll not escort Crowley's murderer anywhere. We know the Winter estate is somewhere in Seffonshire, and that's got to be where he's stashed the gold. We finish this bastard off here, and help ourselves to as generous a reward as we please."
  
  You hear the rage in Stitcher's voice. "I won't support this, Frye. I've followed you this far, but I won't let you murder the lordling."
  
  You burst from the tent, skull in hand. "You're not fucking killing me!" you snarl.
  
  Frye draws his pistols and turns. "You weren't supposed to hear that," he says. You're in a true standoff, now; you with the skull brandished, him with two pistols leveled at your head. Either could end the other in an instant.
  
  Stitcher draws her mace, and steps away from the both of you. The air shimmers as she charges the head with divine vengeance. "Calm down, both of you."
  
  "I'm not letting you treacherous fucking mercenaries do this!" you hiss. "Your insane friend tried to kill me!"
  
  "You butchered Crowley in the night!" Frye yells. His fingers tighten on the trigger. Violence feels inevitable.
  
  "Fuck you!" you yell, as you dive into the dirt. Frye's first shot misses, and the second tears through your shoulder. You scream as you fire a searing beam of negative energy into his skull. A perfect circle opens up in his head, and his spill onto his armour. Stitcher wails in grief, a guttural sound that chills your heart.
  
  "He made me do that!" you say uneasily as you back up. Tor emerges from his tent, harpoon in hand. "Stay the fuck away from me," you warn.
  
  "You killed Frye, you traitorous worm!" Tor shouts. He hurls his harpoon, but you deflect it with a well-placed burst of wind. Stitcher charges, but you hurl her against a tree with dizzying force. You strike her harder than you mean to, and her spine snaps in half. You turn to Tor, who is charging you with the fury of a lion.
  
  Before his gargantuan fingers wrap around your throat, you set his clothes aflame with a wave of your hand, and dive into the dirt. He stumbles towards you, but collapses into a smouldering wreck before he has the chance to reach you.
  
  You wonder where John Boy is. As you turn, he looses a single bolt from the underbrush. It hits you directly in the eye, piercing your brain and jutting three inches out the back of your head. You topple to the forest floor, twitching.