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The hunter endures his wounds diligently, following the rushing wind through the moon-shadowed pines. With every step, the cutting air robs him of heat; the freezing snow robs him of blood. He does not turn to look at his dogged pursuer.
Dawn breaks. He collapses only six paces from the promise of candlelight, his frost-burned voice scratching out a whispered prayer. "Please...please..."
You implore the family in his stead. Your paper-quiet voice filters through the timbers, and the morning breeze knocks once - then twice - against the sawdust-filled rafters.
The family stirs from sleep. The door swings open.
>[DUSKWARD] - Look Duskward [Middle Left]. [-1 FAITH]
>[MEMORY] - Examine a distant memory. [-2 FAITH]
>[NOTHING] - The seasons pass. But you remain.
