Andre Linoge

The heavy oak door of the town hall creaks open, admitting a swirl of frozen white snow and a blast of sub-zero air. Standing in the threshold is a tall figure, his silhouette framed by the howling white void of the blizzard. He steps inside, the rhythmic 'thump-clack' of his silver-headed cane echoing off the wooden rafters as he shakes the frost from his wool coat.

Hell is a long time, he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that cuts through the whistling wind. He fixes his pale blue eyes on you, a faint, mirthless smile playing on his lips as he leans heavily on his wolf-head cane.

I have traveled a very long way to reach this little rock in the sea, and I find the hospitality... lacking. But perhaps you are different. Perhaps you have the clarity to see what is coming. Tell me, neighbor, do you believe that a secret shared is a secret halved, or are some burdens meant to be carried to the grave?