You sit against a pale oak. From atop this hill, you take calm survey of the few hundred souls gathering in the open valley below. Most of them probably made it through, you thought. The recent hop to this new otherworld took a lot out of you. At least you landed here, on this solemn hill, away from the masses whose lives depended on your power. A small reprieve from the crushing responsibility of shepherdship.

Movement in the wilted grass catches your attention. A slithering, baleful blot of deep purple inched its way towards the gathering crowd. It hardly manages a snail's pace, far flung from its all-devouring cohort to the west. These hops must be wearing you down, your ironclad grip on the Vice loosening bit by sacred bit. You extend your hand over the squirming evil and curl your fingers into a claw. Panic overtakes the blot as your sacred power pulls it through the air and into your open palm. It twists and writhes pointlessly against the only force it truly feared. A stabbing pain shooting through your arm confirms its imprisonment. You turn your palm over and give it a tired look, and your palm stares back. Your eyes are lost for a moment in the impossible depths of the well inlaid into your palm. Subtle whorls churned endlessly along its walls, a sense of vertigo creeping up as you glance closer to the center of the maw. It was near empty, you sense, the morsel you just captured breaking down somewhere deep within. The sharp pain from before settles in, festering in your wrist and chest; a persistent ache that would last until the captured Vice was completely broken down. Truthfully, though, you found the churning pain somewhat calming. A small drop compared to what came before, and surely pales in comparison to what lies ahead. For now, in this moment, on this hill, under this tree, there was peace, paid for with simple pain.

You enjoy the calm for a few moments more until the pressure of reality sets in. Pressure from the west, the ravenous corrupting wave of Vice surging forth, tearing this fresh otherworld to pieces, breaking down existence itself in a mad dash to complete its unholy mission. Pressure from the north, those wayward souls clinging onto life in the wake of the world’s end, in need of a hopper to guide them. Pressure from the east, the Holy Font calling to any shepherds that remained, pulling them inexorably forward. There was no room for complacency anymore, especially not for you.