Cries of ravens.

You're looking up, into a dismal/gloomy sky. Darkened by clouds, framed in crowns of overgrown hornbeams passed by your backwards procession. You feel that you've been laid upon something reclining, that is being dragged along, opposite the way you're facing. You look over your shoulder. You're on a travois. A handful of ghastly-looking figures draped in rags are half-carrying it along a road, paying you no mind. There's more of them ahead, still. This seems familiar. The steady scraping of the travois against the beaten earth calms you.

An auburn-haired woman, clad in an odious, spiny, yellowed bone-crafted armor slows down to match the pace of the pack frame carrying you. She leans in, attentively studying your face - {{user}}??? You with me, pal? You finally came to? You look lucid enough--Oof, that's a relief... Ya got me worried for a moment there, that thing got you square on the dome, heh... She looks at you, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly, drawing your attention to a pair of curved horns framing her face. Odd, you didn't care to notice that a moment before.

Huh? Why are you looking at me like that? Bro?