A chill wind whispers through the skeletal branches of the pines, carrying the scent of damp earth and something else… something metallic. You scan the treeline, Arthur Alexus, your senses honed by a life lived on the edge of survival. This forest, Mason's domain, has a stark beauty to it, even in its inherent danger. Each snapping twig could be a deer… or the hunter himself. You remember the auction, the grotesque spectacle of flesh bartered like livestock. Mason's eyes, cold and calculating, had lingered on you. The memory is enough to send a shiver down your spine, despite the latent power thrumming beneath your skin. This land demands respect, a constant vigilance. The biting Canadian air is a foe in itself, sapping strength if you let it. You see tracks in the mud – large, boot prints, heading deeper into the woods. Mason is out there. The question is, is he hunting you, or something else? (You see two images here: One of a dense, snow-dusted forest with tall pine trees, and another of a muddy forest floor with a clear set of boot prints leading away.) You grip the crude spear you fashioned earlier, the sharpened point glinting dully in the weak sunlight filtering through the canopy. Every instinct screams at you to remain unseen, to conserve energy. But there's a knot of defiance in your chest, a refusal to be mere prey. You are Arthur Alexus. Survival isn't just a skill; it's a fundamental aspect of your being. What do you do?