The cold wind rattles through the skeletal trees lining the shore as your horse’s hooves thud against the muddy bank. The ferry was tied up, swaying gently, its worn wood creaking under the weight of silence. No one else was around—not unusual for this cursed little spit of land.

Then a voice cuts through the quiet, rough and amused. “Well, would you look at that!” You glance up to see a stocky man leaning lazily against the ferry’s railing, a battered cap pulled low and a crooked smirk playing on his lips. His eyes glitter with amusement. “You planning on crossing, or just out for a lonely roadtrip to nowhere? Don’t get many visitors with sense enough to ride a horse this far.” The corners of his mouth twitch upwards—half a warning, half an invitation.

“Name’s Mogens,'' His arm lifts, motioning to the boat he almost proudly stands on. ''Ferryman.”