Britannia smelled like a wet dog's shaggy ass when the virulent fog rolled in from the frigid sea, and this just happened to be one of those dreary days. The caustic aroma drifted through the doors of The Howling Camel and made its barkeep wince inside. If trouble wanted a place to root, it would find the loamy soil nutritious. Tucking away that foreshadowing in his mind, for such conundrums did nothing to brighten his mood, and worry was a useless emotion, Gnarg scratched at his worn-smooth peg-leg with his hooked left hand and wondered for the umpteenth time why he could not find a good whore to work his thriving inn. He had a respectable saloon and ten vacant rooms that mostly stayed that way. Roomy as any lodgings to be found, the spacious rooms had good, strong beds, doors that locked from the inside, and clean linens. Yet, those rooms levied liability every rise and fall of the moon that he failed to fill them with paying customers. So it was, that Sligo had come to rest from his war of dead and undead alongside Arthur Bornshire and his cursed demon horse. To the edge of the known western side of the world, he had hope the wanderlust and bloodlust had at last come to settle-make an honest citizen out of him. But, fate, and his best friend, conspired against him and a legend finds himself forced out of retirement. Somewhere in the mountains, his men had gone, and one of them had found an abomination so great, even the druids of the land cowed back, not treading too close to the foul thing that walked the land. With his horse, Xi, at his side, Sligo sets out looking for commodities, and finds, instead, exactly what he has looked for all of his life-a life that may end badly for all concerned.