I am late, thought the Hunter, cresting a small ridge close to the edge of the forest north of Angfort. He could hardly see, but was unwilling to light a torch, finding it foolish, considering that he'd soon reach the roads, judging from the weakly flickering beads of light in the distance, which surely must have been his village. He'd been lucky and proud. He caught a nice rabbit, just as he had promised his twin daughters the morning he left, while they still lay in their beds. It hanged on his side, the rabbit, in the bag, a short sword next to it, and a quiver on the flank opposite. A few snowflakes fell, and then more followed, faintly falling upon his red cheeks and the bare tree crowns, the most peaceful of nights. One fell into his eye, and he flinched, cursing. His fingers were stiff: a sign he'd need to wear the winter gloves next time. Then it started raining as well. Raining warm and thick drops. Salty drops, iron drops. The cold winds blew through the trees, the north whispering silently in the dark. His shield of long experience as a hunter and a man born and raised in these lands could not hold against the creeping sense of dread he hadn't felt since the first time his grandfather took him out on a hunting trip. He knelt, the torch now in his hand and sparks cracking above the wet glistening ground. A crow's screech later, the torch was ablaze and in his hand. He spun around quickly, looking at the endless black columns of wood, noticing his wrist shake. Drops fell gently through the crusty surface of the snow patches, leaving tiny dark holes around him, and a red one on his outstretched hand. ”What...” he muttered bringing his hand closer to his eyes, just in time to see the second crimson spot appear on it, then the third, and the fourth... He immediately looked up into the twining branches, where instead of abandoned nests hung against a million of stars slain deer and wild dogs, blood dripping from their wounds. He would have run or screamed, but his throat ached and his vision blurred. He fell into the cold, and the last thing he heard was the flutter of winds and the blood gushing out of his neck.