BLOOD IN THE WATER

The heart of winter. There are a lot of missives, this time around. But things are kind of… different.

People die in the winter. It is no surprise. The missives come in quickly, and at times they pile up, requiring constant work and a lot of dilligence. Elaborate routes that allow for the fulfillment of multiple missives, month-long journies where tens of the Watch will simply vanish and those closer to home can be fulfilled by the remainder.

You are left, to tend the River, to help the planning. You’re not the adventurous sort, and they know as much. You gather everything they need, you sort their routes and you make sure they’re truly ready, and then you see them off. One by one, the Brook gets quieter, and the missives slow, until it is only you and a few others.

It is an eerie time, as much as you hate to admit it. Even you can’t help but fear death, at times. The frost builds so thick on the windows that you can’t see anything outside, and it becomes difficult to heft the snow out of the way of your door.

…

You emerge, one morning. You can hear your compatriots snickering as they watch you fight and fumble against the snow, clamoring out of your half-buried cabin. “Gah… you know, we might want to consider maybe a roof exit… if this is going to keep being a problem!”

“We’ve fought the snow for years now, we’re not going to give up and go around it yet!” retorts one of the two other Watch, waiting to visit the brook with you. Both are humans, though it’d honestly be hard to tell under all the snow gear, and both your senior. They’re some of the eldest, permitted in their distinction to stay behind while the more difficult missives are handled. “Gods, it’s cold out here… I can feel it even through all my gear. What’s going on?”

“Well, dead of winter and all that,” you reply as you finally manage to squirm out and get the door shut. “Ugh…”

“I don’t know. You’ve got all those feathers and all that blubber, maybe you aren’t feeling it,” he quietly laughs, though there’s a hint of nervousness you pick up.

“He’s right,” speaks the other. She clearly shares that nervousness. “I’ve never felt anything like this… no matter how much I wrap up, that chill still gets to my bones. I guess the Stag is being particularly harsh this year…”

“Hrm… maybe you’re right. It’s pretty chilly out here…” you tap your chin, looking around. The snow has piled fairly high, and when you look up at the sky, it’s… dull. The clouds have cleared overnight, but the sun’s shine is blunted and the sky is particularly colorless today.

“Well, let’s get to the creek,” she says.

…

You arrive, at the creek. The water is thick with refuse today, branches and muddy soil bunching along the banks of the usually crystalline waters. You crane your head, looking up the path towards the lake, trying to see if any of the trees have fallen in…

“By the Stag…” one of the elders mutters, and you hear a gasp from the other. You follow their gaze back down to the water, and watch a plume of crimson billowing down the creek…

All at once, surfacing from the creek is one, two, three, four, eight, sixteen, fifty bottles, rattling against each other in the dead air as you all look on.

Trailing them all, and settling among them, is a human corpse. Disfigured, broken, faceless and scarcely held together.

“No… no…” one of the elders drops to his knees, looking to the sky. The other places her hand on his shoulder, and they both stare, still, at the murky creek.

Suddenly, the chill starts to make sense. Hesitantly, you kneel, muttering a prayer under your breath as you draw one of the bottles from the creek.

It is empty.