A dull pain grumbled at the base of his spine. He groaned softly and the sound echoed round the still, dark air. His head felt light, fuzzy, and curiously empty – as if his thoughts had all been stripped away. Where am I? he wondered. Who am I? For a moment, it was a struggle even to remember his own name. ‘Quint,’ he whispered, the name rising to the surface of his mind like an oozefish in a dark Mire pool. ‘Quint, I must be Quint.’ And yet he couldn't be sure. His mind was as blank and featureless as the Mire itself. Another thought swam upwards. It floated there just below the surface, indistinct yet menacing. He had encountered something in the darkness; something evil and formless – something impossible to grasp hold of, yet as pervasive as a foul Mire mistwraith. Quint grimaced. It had attacked him. It had pinned him to the floor. Unable to move, he'd felt it probing, prising… With a mounting sense of unease, Quint became aware that, even now, there was something close by.
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