Harrowshade

The wind cuts sideways. The roads vanish into fog. Something watches from the crypt.

You were not meant to come here. No one is. Yet here you are, soaked through, shivering, bleeding from the same wound for 7 days now. Your last meal was a femur boiled twice and the broth still stank. The crows are following closer.

Ahead lies a place of withered fields, locked doors, and eyes behind curtains. The church is silent, the well speaks nonsense, and the lord on the hill stitches his guests together when they try to leave.

This is a solo slog through a town that hates you. Or bring others, if you must, but they’ll only slow the bleeding.