Once The Unbroken Circle deemed its creation complete, it seeded two stewards to watch over all it had wrought. Summer and Winter. Together they held creation between them, guiding all things from life to death and to life once more. An endless cycle, unbroken, forever and ever.

-The First Verses of Creation

A dead man hiked through the fetid remains of a fading swamp. Walking stick in hand, he followed a well-worn trail he'd blazed himself. Thorny brush and sickly trees crowded in, forming a tunnel of black and brown plant life gone brittle. After two hundred years of the Forever Winter, Belgaul Swamp was finally relenting in its decades-long struggle to cling to life. Finally, it was letting go. In the distance, a branch broke off from its tree, falling to the earth to clatter amongst an underbrush gone dry years ago. The sound echoed and there was only one set of mortal ears to hear it.

The deadman went by his given name, Jordan Mdu, but the rest of the world knew him by another. Tall and generously muscled, he followed the familiar path with long sure strides. His water bucket, hooked to a metal ring at the top of his stick, tapped against the quarterstaff in time with his steps. His garb was simple wool, layered against the ever-present cold. A black cloth masked his mouth and nose from the foul stench of his rotted environs, though the common smells have been muddled of late. A similar cloth tied back his gray dreadlocks. A single line of black cut a crescent down his dreads and beard, matching an old scar running from above his right eye to below the left side of his chin.

When I eventually met him, I thought he had to be one of the most handsome mortals ever created by The Unbroken Circle. But that would come later.

The sound of dried brush crushing under foot met Jordan's ears and he froze, scanning the woods for signs of movement. There was none and the sound didn't come again. He fingered the hilt of the broken sword sheathed at his hip. It had lost its tip long before he'd found it, but hours everyday against the whetstone had honed the edges to deadly sharpness. Even in the last throes of life, The Belgaul Swamp was a deadly place, inhospitable to mortals and immortals alike.

Minutes passed before he resumed his hike. The path wove around a hunk of stone that had once been the head of a statue erected to a long-forgotten hero of a kingdom remembered no more. Coming around the bend, he found a body seated in the dirt and slouched down so that his head rested awkwardly on broad shoulders. Sallow pale skin, blunt tusks, and slightly pointed ears labeled the man as an orc. The blood staining his pants and the emptied chest cavity marked him a corpse. Defensive wounds told the story of a struggle, one lost a couple of days ago.

Prodding the body with a small hunting knife, Jordan searched for clues of the orc's identity. He hadn't had neighbors for years. The unfortunate man must have been desperate if he was willing to gamble his life so deep into The Belgaul. Lady Luck must have been playing against him.

"Silver from Fearhold, a light travel pack, and a half-empty wineskin." Jordan spoke in a hoarse whisper as he rummaged through the bloody pack. He hadn't heard his own voice in weeks. "You've gone and ruined your rations and your bedding."

The orc's blood had soaked these items before freezing, rendering them useless. A small wooden box held a dozen well-crafted crossbow bolts as well as the tools and string for repairs. Rising up, Jordan searched the immediate area.

"Where's your weapon, friend?"

He found no sign of it, but he did discover the point where the orc had burst out of the brush. Torn fabric and dried blood matched the tears in his pants. Jordan studied his water bucket then the gloomy sky above. There was enough sunlight left to explore a little and still reach the river in time.

There weren't many who'd consider Jordan Mdu reckless, but he'd been bored and had recently begun to place a low value on his own existence. He wasn't suicidal, but the dangers of leaving the path seemed less important than a new crossbow that day.

He backtracked along the orc's wild flight through the brush, appreciating the opportunity to utilize his skills long out of practice. Eventually he came to a much less used path. The stink of the swamp was stronger there, forcing him to breath through his mouth despite his mask. He picked his footing more carefully here, his knowledge of Belgaul warning him of hungry patches of quicksand. It took him a while to find the trail, but it eventually became apparent that the orc had run along the path before breaking into the brush. With another glance skyward, he continued his hunt.

He found a second orc a half mile up the path, an arm savagely torn from his body. The tusks on this one were much smaller. Combined with the familial resemblance, this was likely a son. On the other side of a bramble hedge lay the remainder of their party. It was a testament to the state of Belgaul that scavengers had barely touched the rotting meat. Nudging aside a fat beetle larva as long as his arm and as wide as his foot, Jordan examined the biggest of the orcs, a woman with long braided blonde hair. Her long tusks and the horn peeking out from her scalp were signs of her age. Among the tribes of both Summer and Winter, authority was determined by age and size. She was likely someone important.

Whatever had killed the orcs had toyed with them, crippling them before chasing down the one who'd found his way to Jordan's path. When it returned, the orcs were waiting to make their last stand. Bones reduced to splinters, huge furrows torn into muscle and flesh, heart and lungs missing. Jordan looked around for signs of the creature that had torn through a family of orc hunters. He needn't have bothered. The only footprints belonged to the orcs. The only blood was theirs.

The Forever Winter had birthed things of Darkest Winter. Deep in The Belgaul Swamp, there dwelled entities that killed without leaving a trace, beings who fed on terror and preferred to eat the hearts of mortals.

A search revealed they'd had packed light, carrying the bare minimum. There was almost nothing to salvage. For Jordan, the only things of interest were the absence of the first man's crossbow and a bloodstained bounty bulletin. The orcs had been hunting someone when they entered The Belgaul. A young woman and a little girl.

With the whimsical disregard for his life gone like a shifting breeze, Jordan became acutely aware of his vulnerability. His broken blade, nicknamed Wyrm's Tooth, could wound any but the most stubborn demigod, however, he wasn't in the habit of betting his life on a blade. The devil may cry mood had left him and it was time to get moving. Following the first man's route back to his own path, Jordan continued on his way to the river.

He smelled the sour waters long before he heard the splashing rapids. Brown from sediment and other detritus, the icy river flowed southeast from the distant Cyclops Tooth mountain, breaking off from the One-Eyed River to slowly slog through miles of fen before joining with other such tributaries into a raging rush of foul waters. White caps topped the crests as the muck belched up rotted and spoiled things. Hunks of ice from up north bobbed on the surface, crashing into one another and shattering in the violent rush. Angry flies buzzed as Jordan approached the water's edge. His closest neighbors, some were as large as his hand. Swatting them away, he used his quarterstaff to reach over the treacherous muddy bank and dip his bucket. Something heavy was caught and nearly dragged stick and bucket from his hands before breaking free and continuing down river. Gritting his teeth and adjusting his grip, he risked getting a bit closer and tried again. This time he filled his vessel.

Something seemed to move against the current further downriver. Jordan tracked it with his eyes long enough to gather his things and begin the trip home. The darkening gray sky marked the passage of the elusive sun, hidden behind thick overcast. The burning orb in the sky was a rare sight and bitter cold nights had become the norm. It didn't snow often in Belgaul, but in some places it had snowed for months without end. He imagined there were regions to the north that had been all but buried in the endless barrage.

In his mind these places were far off, unseen during his decades of isolation. Unbeknownst to him, there were areas much closer already entombed under the relentless blizzards of The Forever Winter.

As he passed the rock with its bloodstains and dead orc, Jordan spoke a prayer to The Unbroken Circle and promised to return with digging tools during his next trip to the river in order to give the body a proper burial. Returned to the earth, the deadman could then rejoin the cycle of life and death.

The tapping of Jordan's bucket had become a persistent thud as its stinking contents swirled around inside. He caught sight of his small ramshackle home as the bright spot in the gloom touched the horizon. Long shadows began to form beneath the brush and at the base of the crooked trees. Dark shadows and other, less tangible, things.

The advance of crunching footsteps made his hair stand on end. Jordan scanned his surroundings frantically and, just when he'd attributed his reaction to heightened nerves, he caught sight of a stumbling maiden. Jarred by the unexpected, he was struck momentarily speechless. His feet, however, continued to carry him towards his sanctuary hidden in the middle of the swamp. Watching him draw away, her large doe eyes widened.

"Wait! Please!" Her voice was both vulnerable and breathy.

Shaking his head, he turned away, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Giving his attention to the path and the sloshing of the water spilling from his bucket, Jordan quickened his pace.

"Please! I need your help!" Her footfalls matched his own, gaining in speed and urgency. "You can't leave me out here!"

His quick walk broke into a run for the last yards, until he burst through his gate. He slammed the portal closed behind him and only then did he dare to look back.

She ceased her chase at the fence with a shriek of frustration. The woman, human in appearance with beautiful brown skin and artistically braided locs, glared at him for the briefest of moments before her expression became meek and needy. Her doe eyes were even larger than he'd thought, captivating yet lacking a certain brightness, a certain life. She reached towards him, but jerked her hands back just shy of passing the barrier of the rickety wooden fence. Jordan took a few steps back, hand resting on the hilt of Wyrm's Tooth.

"Help me. I'm lost and it gets terribly cold here at night."

"It's cold everywhere," he responded, his voice weak from disuse.

"I'm asking for shelter, sire. Please." Those doe eyes became orbs of seduction. "I will be free with my gratitude, I promise."

"Be gone from this home, duppy." Calmer now, Jordan took two more steps back. "I do not bid you welcome. I do not offer you shelter."

As the last words were uttered, the woman's features buffeted as if blown by a sudden unearthly gale. Her countenance shifted, her aspect deformed. Her maiden's shape filled out, shoulders slouched. Her hair hung heavy with the bones of small animals. Two sets of arms hung from broader shoulders, each hand tipped with long talons. Those huge eyes were the same, but sat in misshapen sockets. She shook her head like a wet dog and lunged forward only for her hands to char the moment they crossed the fence. The spirit hissed in hate and pain.

The crooked trees cackled. Jordan scanned the darkening tree line as she cursed his existence. Barely discernible figures watched from the shadows. Two more duppy hoping to share in the kill.

Jordan turned his back on them, knowing his attention gave them power. Pointedly stopping to greet the single struggling tomato bush in his yard, he walked to his door. Something whizzed past his ear to smash into the old wood with a thunk. A crossbow bolt worked into the style of orcish hunters. Ducking, he shouldered the portal open and hurried inside. The grotesque caricature of a woman shook her stolen crossbow threateningly as Jordan slammed the door shut.

He spied her stalking the perimeter of his fence through the windows as he set his gear out on the old table in his cooking area. A single dried meat ration, a small box of crossbow bolts, a vial of maroon liquid, the bounty bulletin, his hunting knife, a dozen silver coins, Wyrm's Tooth, and an old bucket of stinking water. He'd lost a fourth of the bucket's foul contents in his rush for the safety of his home, but he still wouldn't need to make another trip to the river for a few days if he was careful.

Jordan went to his meager bed and retrieved the small pouch tucked under his mattress. It was light, possibly the same weight as a small bag of copper pieces, yet he regarded it as if he held the weight of the world in his hands. Back at the table, he glanced out the window to ensure himself that the duppy had not found a way in. Satisfied, he opened the pouch and poured its contents into his palm. A single chunk of gold, unrefined as if recently mined from a vein within the earth. It was warm to the touch, chasing away the unyielding cold of the Forever Winter.

Reverently, he let the ore that wasn't ore drop into the bucket of sour water and watched as a miracle happened. The water bubbled and boiled as if sitting in a cooking pot, gold-tinted steam hissed as the violent reaction shook the bucket and the table. After a few minutes the bubbling stopped and the water went still. Gone was the putrescence from the disgusting river, leaving pristine water behind. Reaching into the warm liquid he retrieved the stone, the dirt from his hands burning away like the other filth. Jordan returned the chunk of gold to his pouch and placed it back in its hiding place.

Putting everything away except from Wyrm's Tooth, he split the contents of the bucket between his canteen, his cookpot and a pitcher he stored near his tiny potbelly stove to keep it from freezing. He made an uninspired stew from the roots that grew in and around his garden and flesh bugs he'd found on a dead gator by the river on his previous water run. It was gamey, but fortifying and all he could manage so deep in The Belgaul. A part of him knew that he'd have to move on in a few years, once the death truly set in and the swamp succumbed to the unending cold.

In his youth, Jordan had heard stories of unrelenting winters that lasted years and pushed mortal survival to its limits. He'd thought them just stories, sure such a thing could never happen in his lifetime. He'd been naive, and unaware of the bleak future awaiting him.

Fitful sleep eventually found him in his bed, alone in a dying swamp. A deadman, lost to time and his own regrets. He dreamt of her and the gold he protected, he dreamt of duppy and murdered hunters. He dreamt of a winter without mercy and without end. He dreamt of his dying world and the terrible thing he'd done to bring about its demise. Jordan deserved isolation, to die alone and forgotten. It was only fair.

His tormented mind settled into its normal rhythm and a semblance of sleep settled onto his slowly rising and falling chest. Of course, that's when the thunderous banging shook the door on its hinges and rattled the foundation of his rickety shack.