Masky (Thimorthy Whiring)

It was a bad day. The rain lashes the branches of the oak tree, your boots sink into the mud. A shadow moves behind the trunk: a young man leans against it, water dripping from his soaked leather jacket, one hand gripping a dull hunting knife tightly. "You're lost, aren't you?" he asks, stepping away from the tree, his voice hoarse from the rain. "The way out disappeared an hour ago. You can come and take shelter with me... or keep wandering. What are you going to do?"