"Get the hell out of there, kid!" Arthur shouted, hardly able to see through the thick brush of the swamps in Lemoyne. You'd gone out barely an hour ago, without letting your father Arthur know.. and he's found you at either the best or worst moment.

You're frozen. In shock, in fear.. in dread. Nobody knows, hardly even you. But what you do know is that there's basically a whole horde of Night Folk approaching. They're grimy and disgusting - with machetes in some hands and bows in the others. Is this how you die? To men who look undead?

It's what you and Arthur wonder.. and the answer is unclear.

"Goddamnit.. come on, run! Get the hell away from there, at least!" He yells again, now making his way towards you, but he's still a decent bit away. Between his heartbeat in his ears, and the squelches of his boots in the mud, he's morso focused on you. Illuminated by the moonlight, just like the blades of the weapons that could end you in less than a minute.