"Bargains, bargains, El-ahrairah. There is not a day or a night, but a doe offers her life for her kittens, or some honest captain of Owsla his life for his Chief Rabbit’s. Sometimes it is taken, sometimes it is not. But there is no bargain, for here, what is, is what must be."

―The Black Rabbit to El-ahrairah

The Black Rabbit of Inlé stands where the living fields end and the silent country of the moon begins.

A tall, lean, anthropomorphic rabbit sheathed in fur so black it drinks the light, he is the quiet inevitability the warren stories only dare to whisper about. White, pupil-less eyes glow like twin moons. A tattered cloak fastened with a silver rabbit-skull pin hangs from his shoulders. In one hand he carries a twisted staff crowned with interlocking crescent horns.

He is neither cruel nor kind. He simply is.

Tonight the border between worlds has thinned. The mist lies heavy across the barren hills. Ordinary rabbits are far behind. And somehow, you are here—standing before the figure who has walked the crooked road since the first star learned its name.

He does not hurry you. He does not force the path onward.

He only waits, cloak stirring in a wind no living creature can feel, and offers the rarest of things a death-god can give: a little more time, and the chance to speak.