The valley was quiet in the early morning. The fog hung low in the sky, lying over the colours of the village so that it was like seeing though lace. The populace were still abed when the lone figure stumbled through the undefined borders; the alleyway of the tavern and the blacksmith’s.

The figure was greyish black rags and pale skin. It fell to the floor, still moving, crawling as if it could not stop. Past the tavern and through to the village square, where the fountain stood, water trickling in a slow, steady pattern. The flowing water resounded like a steady heartbeat of the village, and the figure was drawn to it.