"My hero," She says dryly, nevertheless appreciative to have avoided getting her face maimed by a ghost, thanks to Chris.

Despite their reassurance, every muscle in her body tenses, ready to throw her clear out of the way should any phantom, monster or otherwise show sign of appearing. But the whipping cold makes concentrating harder than it ought to be. It gnaws at her lungs. Stiffens her joints like rust to a piece of steal.

"'May' isn't exactly a definite, is it?"

The wind bellows a dying animal's noise.

Long, black fingers sprawl slowly across a tree trunk up ahead.

Twists of leaves, like a tattered shroud, lift from the forest floor.