You carry on riding, past the tavern, determined to ride out the storm. The path starts to rise up the cliffs, the route you remember well. It is sodden mud and empty of any other travellers. The mist and sea fret rise up from below and cover the path, now barely visible.

You rise another few hours, you think dusk might be falling but the grey of the rain is so thick it’s hard to tell the hour. You consider finding a hollow in the rocks to shelter, build a fire, and rest.

Suddenly the horse falters, you’re tossed up slightly before everything seems to be falling.

The cliff edge was closer than you think. You’ll sleep with the fishes tonight.

YOU DIE