He awoke to a black forest, shrouded in night, the trunks of the trees twisted, slick and sinister, wet with something neither snow nor ice. It was slime, and it glistened under the shining cat’s eye of a sickle moon, sparkled like gross and dirty diamonds in the grave mud of Death’s bony palm.

He heard breathing, harsh and rasping, and when he turned he beheld a great wolf.

Its eyes glowed a baleful shade of amber, the colors of malt liquor and grass killed by frost, but its fangs were very white. Its hackles were up and it was growling.

He had just enough time to think It’s huge before it leapt, its jaws flashing as they closed warm and sharp around his throat.