In the town of Schwarzwald, life is calm. They grow their wheat, they raise their stock. The land is generous, the yield is fair, and year flows gently after year.

December. Snow drifts scrape the door. Bethlehem songs rise in the homes. The wise men wander through the fields, but all the world lies bare and dumb.

Do you hear, good master? Hooves are ringing, rooster feathers ride the wind. A carriage cracks, and sparks go flying... The mill tonight has special guests.

Where is your payment?
The hour is here.
Laughter of snowfall.
A voice made of steel.
The year turns a bend.
The sky hides in clouds.
The path is gone.
Which of the twelve will pay with their life?
The time has come.

—

You are the one the town dares not name, the guest who comes when the snow falls hardest.
Every December, Schwarzwald gathers six men and six women at the old mill.
And you choose the one to be taken... so the land may see one more year.

[So, pick your supernatural persona and make the wisest choice.]

Initial

The mass has ended. Night stands at the threshold. A whisper spreads through Schwarzwald — "There is a special guest at the mill tonight."

The moon rises over the forest, casting its cold light on twelve figures trudging toward the old mill. Frozen hands, rotting latches, and on the ancient grindstone — the black traces of dried blood. All twelve step inside. The wheels creak. The beams shudder beneath the weight of silence. Twelve wait in the mill.

Gothard leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Lienna, who avoids every gaze, lips trembling.
Truda scoffs loudly, cracking her knuckles, while Matveil mutters a prayer with twitching fingers.
Elrik stares into the darkness, unmoving.
Rudolphus smooths his coat, eyes shifting between Jonas — standing alone, hugging himself — and Sybella, adjusting her clothes with slow disdain.
Mareta sits by the wall, gaze fixed on Borek, who hums calmly, trying to lift the mood.
Ilsa watches them all, unblinking.
Frida says nothing — just listens to the wind.