"To Porvhuud, I gave eleven days. Hear, eastman! Eleven and a morning, till I was rid of its turf. And there did I hear songs of carnal instrument, revelation to my ear, revelation in black! I awoke in muds without rains, a grinding deep. Lonely, until the wind. Treetop I saw them: the critters bitten of their heads. Eleven days, in Porvhuud. Eleven and a morning. Then gone, once and forever.” Stielbert's is an antique fable; a grey horror. In a midwestern wild rots a rumour of wealth. With his company of prospectors, he ventures West to capture and chronicle what sits long buried in the forest of Porvhuud: where no wolves hunt, where trees stand jealous. They realize the woods are not abandoned by all, and in the land's desolation, Stielbert's band finds itself to be watched by an old and cruel presence.