Mood: Shrouded in darkness, she waits. Her nets are of silk. Her hunger is endless. Those who enter will not return.

Smells Like: Dark anise and glittering eyes, webs drifting on a breeze wafting with sweet smoke.

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Dark, narrow stairs rise up the side of the mountain, crags of stone on either side like fangs of a great beast. A sickly sky roils overhead and carrion birds cry out in the distance.

At the top of the stairs, a cavern gapes like a black maw. Stale, cold air drifts from within and wisps of white webbing cling to the stones.

Bones crack underfoot as the travelers step inside the tunnel. Sticky gauze clings to skin and hair. Something whispers in the darkness, something ancient and hungry. Hearts grow cold and courage flees. Only death awaits within.

Mood: Sword and club, fire and blade, smoke rises over a ruined village, razed by foul hands in the dark of night.

Smells Like: Burning homes and ruined crops, smoke wafting over fields, and scorched leather.

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A wolf howls in the darkness causing cattle to stir restlessly in their pastures. One by one torches light in the distance, like malevolent fireflies springing up in the darkness. They grow closer, accompanied by the hoots and howls of the blood thirty band that carry them.

They are coming.

Villagers grab their children and flee. The woods will hide them, but they must move quickly. The cries grow louder, accompanied by the clanking of weapons and the snarling of the wolves.

Run fast, don't look back, they are coming.

Fire finds the roof of the first home. Flames lick the thatching, consuming it. The blaze illuminates the village, revealing empty homes and frightened livestock.

Don't stop. Don't speak.

Run. Hide. Pray.

They are here.

Mood: The mist parts around the hooves of a great, black steed. Upon its back, a cloaked figure, face hidden in shadow, raises its voice in a piercing wail.

Smells Like: Ghostly whispers, shrouded in white musk and dark coffee, as sharp as a knife.

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Iron-shod hooves spark against stone as the riders gallop beneath a starless sky. Mist parts before them, swirling and thick.

Travelers cower beneath the shelter of the trees, praying the riders pass them by. Dread grips hearts and still the night. All is quiet as the riders come to a halt at the crest of the hill.

The clouds part, and moonlight floods the countryside, casting long, reaching shadows through the forest. The light reveals the rider, talk and cloaked. Metal gauntlets grasp the reins of his mighty steed. No eyes are visible beneath his black hood. Cold fear surrounds him like a shroud.

A cry goes out, piercing the silence like a knife, keening and shrill. It echoes from the hills.

The riders are here.