His name wasn't real, but he didn't care. He was Baron. He was Barkeep. He didn't care. He got colour in his cheeks because of the scathing cold in the Crimson forest; he adored it. It was the only real thing in a pool of dis-vibrance and inelegant colours of trees. And really of everything outside the Solè.

It was sad to leave his half-set home; cocktail put aside, he wanted to return there, but also he saw an eerie kind of freedom start to run through his veins, like the way the chilly wind rustled through the leaves of the dense forest around.

You may have thought the res was coming to the dock, and going to drop off our barkeep by some land near the border. Baron agrees. He also thought like that too. But the team had, indeed, left him before the border and the dock, indeed, was enshrouded by oak threatening to pierce their dark leaves into the murky river, and he, indeed, was alone. He was sailing.

Apparently, normally it was safe until the Blood border, but due to the recent Blood Moon to ensure trust he had to be dropped off a bit before the prior.

But was it too careful of a measure?

He walked for a couple of hours (or days) until the forest became to enshrouded in vines to see and take any step properly. The sun, and moon, and stars were nowhere to be seen. He stopped once after a while to catch his unpleasantly loudly breath and to close his eyes, but the instant he did the latter he would snap awake and frantically look around, so he never did that again. The Crimson Forest was terrifying, but he was getting too tired to be terrified. All he wanted was rest. To lay down amidst the silent trees. To be buried alive in sticks and stones-

Then, he saw a speck of light. It was red, and, by the looks of it, was advancing towards him.

Adrenaline coursed in his veins; his feet couldn't be in one place; his first instinct was to run, run away from this speck of dust, a panic attack threatened to came on to him but he still stayed. He knew that if he ran, it would always catch up - the forest was deep and almost stygian black. He tore one of his frail coat sleeves, and - oh well - his nail cuticles were bruised and bleeding. He still bit on them. He couldn't stop.

They were advancing.

And they would get his soul, if they ever wanted to.

The speck stopped being a speck, and then he knew - he knew why he was so animalistically afraid of the red.

It was the Heart. The claws. The blood mincer. The essence of his hallucination.

It opened its mouth-

He was getting dizzy.

It leaped.

Basketball. Basketball, basketball! Sin. Redemption? Gagging. Why not? Lost. Lost. Lost!
Long. Long. Long. Lost.
Gone. Yo have been gone.