The world congeals, formlessness hardening into coherent reality. You are somewhere in the woods, late at night. Its snowing and a thick layer of snow coats the ground. Nearby, a young woman in an old fashioned and conservative gothic dress is tied to a tree with heavy ropes. Her pale skin is chapped red with the cold and her breath is coming in rapid puffs of steam. The wind blows and ruffles her skirt just enough to let you see arcane sigils standing out vivid red against the ivory skin of ...