Chapter 1: The Journey Through Frostgrave Forest

Surrounded by sloping hillsides and sharp ravines, a company of travelers trudge ever forward through the vast and mysterious Frostgrave Forest. The mountainous horizon slowly swallows the sun drenching the frozen valley in a sea of orange twilight. The last rays of sunlight drip through the waving tree branches of the forest, reflecting off of the snow-covered ground, and washing the mountain woodlands in a sea of liquid gold. Dense underbrush partially conceals the path along the base of the foothills. A long-faced man, with shoulder length brown hair, kneels down, staring intently at the ground, he traces his gloved index finger across the surface of the snow.

“We have lost the trail again, boy,” Kannan grunts, a look of exasperation flashing briefly across his graying, bearded face. “Your brother’s trail has run cold and I’m afraid the path that lies ahead is growing ever colder still.”

Kannan notices his hand shaking uncontrollably again. He stares at his fingers for an instant, and then clenches them into a fist. Standing up to his full height he towers over the boy next to him. A murky black darkness spills across the surrounding landscape as it chases the sun to a place below the horizon.

All is quiet, a stillness is all around. The boy stands motionless as he stares out, past the heavily forested tree line. A larger man, coming up from his place several paces behind Kannan, sets about lighting a wooden torch. Producing a flint and stone he quickly has the torch smoldering. A moment later flames spring forth, and the big man stands the torch post upright, into frozen snow. The torch flames beat back the darkness and replaces it with a warm glow.

Kannan looks down at his son. He reaches out, then hesitates, before awkwardly placing his gloved hand on the boy’s right shoulder. The brown-haired youth startles as if awakening from a vivid dream. The boy turns his head up into his father’s bleak stare. Nodding his head the boy shrugs his shoulders, his disappointment apparent across his youthful features.

“I haven’t……Horus hasn’t seen a sign of Roen for days,” Jarek Blackwell concedes wiping sleet out of his green eyes, “I saw a lone cabin, in the distance.”

“It’s not much further into the woods.”

“I sense a great danger there.”

“We need to tread forward with caution, father.”

A white owl suddenly swoops down from overhead, landing gently on the boys left shoulder. It remains comfortably perched on Jarek’s rabbit fur cloak.

Sitting near the edge of the torchlight is a giant of a man, barrel chested, his bright red hair framed by the hooded bearskin coat draped over his broad shoulders. Whetstone in one hand, he deftly touches up the already razor-sharp battle axe held lightly in his other large hand. The big man pauses his methodical sharpening momentarily and stares curiously at Jarek and the owl Horus as he pecks at Jarek’s brown curly hair, then suddenly flapping his wings the owl quickly ascends into the pitch-black night above.

“It seems there is more to you then meets the eye,” Harald Greyfellow laughs, his sly grin nearly lost in the thicket of wild red whiskers covering his face,” Your son is either a very talented animal trainer or I’d say he’s got more than his share of green seer blood running through his veins.”

Kannan’s eyebrows furrow with confirmed suspicion, his cold eyes never leaving the white owl until it disappears into the gloomy night sky. Kannan swiftly turns to face Jarek, a familiar look of disappointment etched across his hard features.

“Nine winters alive in this accursed valley and I thought that you would have better sense.” Kannan said, his stern face suddenly darkening with practiced disdain and condemnation, “Boy, you spend more time in the minds of animals than you do in your own.”

Jarek looks down at his leather skin boots, his face suddenly flushing red hot with embarrassment and anger. Jarek knew better than to argue against his father’s stubborn resolve. Still, he felt himself almost a man now. Turning with fierce willpower, he met the tall man’s steely gaze head on.

“I was not born with ancient blood of the green seers so that I could skulk around in the dirt and snow on my own two legs,” Jarek said, “Why walk when I can soar across the heavens on white feathered wings or run swiftly across the ground on four legs and enjoy the freedom of the great wide world surrounding me.”

Kannan’s hard stare on Jarek never waivers. Fear intermingling with desperation quickly takes root in the pit of Jarek’s stomach.

“My brother has been missing for over seven days, if rumors are to be believed, he has been taken. I will use every bit of strength I have to save him,” Jarek declares, his voice cracking as he steels himself to meet his father’s gaze.

Towering over him, Kannan stares down at the boy as if measuring him, his leather jerkin vest and wolf fur cloak billowing in the bitterly cold wind.

“Mark my words, if you keep occupying the minds of beasts then you will soon lose sight of who you really are and become one,” Kannan warns, “You speak of strength as if you know what strength really is, boy.”

Tears of anger form in Jarek’s eyes, then spill over and begin to freeze as they run down his cheeks. The young boy bites his lower lip and then grinds his teeth together.

“I am almost a man grown,” Jarek said, his face flushing scarlet and voice shaking with anger.

“Then show me,” Kannon replies curtly, unfurling his travel bag onto a rock cleared of snow, above the ground.

The bag was provisioned for a long trip through the valley. A few pieces of dried meat, a bundle of honeyed grain bread, fire leaf for kindling fires, flint stones, tobacco, several iron knives of different sizes, a fine leather pouch, a long waterskin, two steel tipped spears, two red oak long bows, and two quivers of cedar arrows. Kannan withdrew the two long bows and tosses one to Jarek.

Harald’s sheaths his two-handed battle axe at his side and silently points to the nearby edge of the forest as he spots a ghostly figure moving silently through the underbrush. Kannan tosses the other long bow and quiver over to the tall and muscular man. Harald raises the long bow and expertly knocks an arrow into the bow with practiced swiftness. Jarek awkwardly pulls an arrow out of his own quiver and takes aim with his bow at the strange figure moving steadily through the tree line.

“Stop where you are and don’t come any closer,” Harald orders, his heavily muscled arms as taut as the bowstring, ““I can hit a running hare from over thirty yards.”

“You’re a much bigger target and you are a great deal closer.”

Harald’s red bushy eyebrows narrow with deadly intent as the stranger’s firm pace neither changes nor falters.

“Reveal yourself slowly or I’ll put an arrowhead straight through your heart,” Harald promises, loosing an arrow at the figure.

The arrow sped swiftly into the gloom planting itself mere inches ahead of the stranger's foot. A lanky, bespectacled man, with disheveled black hair, indifferently steps over the arrow and raises his hands in mock surrender as the torchlight illuminates him. Auron Midwinter smirks as he confidently saunters into the firelight, his loose blue robe with silver trim flowing gently in the wind.

“You shouldn’t waste the arrow on a heartless scoundrel like me,” Auron laughs, adjusting his glasses on his brow with his middle finger, “Put the bow down before you hurt yourself.”

Harald lowers his bow, and lets out a hearty, booming laugh welcoming Auron’s return. The laugh falters quickly as Harald continues to search the woods behind Auron expectantly.

“Auron, where is Einar” Harald asks, his jovial voice suddenly tinged with a hint of worry.

The cold firmness of steel against Harald’s neck cuts his question short as a knife from behind presses against the big man’s throat.

“You are getting a lot slower as you age, old man,” A familiar voice said from behind Harald.

“Aye, but I’m old enough to understand who my betters are,” Harald replies, quickly grabbing the assailant’s knife hand with his powerful left hand.

A quick twist of the wrist and the knife tumbles from the man’s hand into the snow. The man quickly follows landing roughly on the snow like a child’s discarded toy.

Einar Greyfellow bounces roughly off the snow before laying in a contorted heap groaning. After a few short moments, Einar sheepishly sits up, rubbing his sore wrist, and attempts to stand. A large hand reaches out to aid the burly young man back to his feet. Einar gazes up at his father with a sly grin and cautiously accepts his hand.

“You didn’t have to be so rough dad, I was only having a bit of sport with you,” Einar groans painfully as he rights himself to a slightly hunched-over standing position, “Did you really think I was going to hurt you with this butter knife?”

“I wasn’t playing,” Harald growls gruffly padding the snow out of his son’s red hair, “I don’t want to explain to Ellia how I made my daughter-in- law into a widow.”

Jarek couldn’t help but smile seeing Einar and Auron safely rejoin the group. Auron took the time to bend over to Jarek’s level ruffling the youth’s hair affectionately.

Kannan wastes little time and immediately approaches Auron. Fixing him with a steady gaze

“Any sign of my son or his captors?” Kannan asks.

“There is an old cabin and barn house on the path ahead,” Auron answers, removing his glasses to fix Kannan with his mismatched brown and blue eyes.

“The cabin belongs to Farmer Crumb and his family, but I feel something is terribly amiss,” Auron said, “Einar and I came upon the cabin during daylight, and we saw strange, hooded men, some with painted faces, standing outside of the cabin, chanting dark rituals around a large bonfire.”

“The whole lot of them look like cultists,” Einar said as he spits into the nearby snow, shaking his head, “The ones wearing black robes look like Deathsworn cultists, and the ugly ones look like Chaosworn.”

“Never seen those two groups working together before.”

“We will keep to the woods, off the open main roads, hiding in the shadows, and see for ourselves what these strange groups intentions are.” Kannan said, turning to address the company.

Everyone nods their head in agreement. Afterwards, they begin breaking camp.

“If we discover that they intend to harm us?” Harald asks, his strong hand firmly gripping the hilt of the black steel axe at his side.

“Then we kill them all.” Kannan answers, his trembling hands falling to firmly grasp the spell-forged sword at his side.

Kannan plunges his boots forward up a steep snow-covered hill, the wind whipping his back with blowing ice and snow almost like hail stones. Dislodged snow and rocks plummets downward onto Jarek and Harald as they ascend below.

The big man shields the child from the brunt of the falling rocks digging his great axe into the hillside to steady himself with a powerful swing. Jarek stands behind Harald and braces against Harald’s back helping the older main retain his footing amidst the onslaught of snow and falling debris.

Soil and stone continue to shift under his feet, but Auron’s helping hand emerges from the gloom reaching out to assist Kannan and the two travelers continue to scale the frozen woodland peak together. Einar scouts ahead of Kannan and Auron crouching behind a large ebony colored boulder located at the top of the hill.

Upon reaching the large black rock and Kannan peers carefully over the edge at the cabin in the glen below. His eyes trying to pierce the gloom. The ramshackle cabin was a simple structure constructed from scavenged timber, grey stone rubble, and a common red binding clay found in the area. A barnyard in the background hosts at least a dozen stabled horses. Two painted men appear to be standing guard in front of the cabin. Both are unaware of the growing number of spectators on the adjacent hillside.

A large bonfire rages in the front yard illuminating the cabin. Fiery tendrils trace a path high, up into the night sky. Auron reaches into his blue robe and unfurls a spyglass and surveys the cabin. Shaking his head he passes the spyglass to Kannan, and then reaches into his blue robe and retrieves an iron flask.

“Keep your eyes to the fire,” Auron sighs as he takes a long pull from the iron flask, the hot liquor trickling down his throat and warming his insides.

Kannan looks through the spyglass and stares at the fire with disbelief as the silhouette of a man emerges from amongst the flames. The feeling of disbelief quickly turns to horror as the image comes into focus more clearly. The burning man is bound with thick ropes to a long wooden post. His charred and blackened features twist into an anguished open-mouthed scream. Black eyeless sockets stare pitifully up at the night sky as a gray suffocating smoke pours across the surrounding countryside. The snap and crackle of burning timber set crows in nearby trees and rooftops flapping and squawking.

Kannan returns the spyglass to Auron as Jarek, and Harald reach the top of the hill. Instinctively, his hand tightly grips the hilt of his spell-forged sword, causing the blade to crackle and thrum with power, within the confines of the leather scabbard. The sword sings as Kannan unsheathes it and an ethereal white glow immediately envelopes the blade.

Jarek immediately recognizes Dawnbringer, his father’s ancestral weapon. The sword’s hilt is forged steel with a smooth ivory colored stone embedded within the bottom of the pommel. The blade itself is long, elegant, and engraved with runic symbols. It is a weapon once wielded by the Dawnguard, the king’s elite bodyguard and Jarek’s ancestor. An arcane sword, able to shatter steel like glass and cut through men like butter.

“Why does the blade glow like that?” Jarek asks wheezing slightly trying to catch his breathe.

“Long ago, a rare stone was mined from the core of this planet and was fitted into the pommel,” Auron states, “The stone channels arcane energy throughout the bearer and into the blade, reinforcing the power of the ruins inscribed into the steel.”

“The craft required to forge such weapons has long been forgotten.”

“Few of these swords were made. Most have been lost to the passage of time. Fewer still have made their way into mortal hands.”

Jarek, watches wide eyed, as the sword writhes with an otherworldly white and azure light. Runic symbols across the blades surface blaze with a faint blue aura. Staring into his father long face, the boy notices that his father’s graying hair makes him look a lot older than his thirty-five winters would suggest.

Kannan sheathes the sword and points at the two guards defending the front of the cabin. Both guards appear to be engrossed in conversation. Drinking heavily from large tankards, they were oblivious to the fact that they were being watched.

“Auron and Harald on me,” Kannan orders unfurling the travel bag and withdrawing two spears. “Einar and Jarek go around behind the cabin and set up a defensive position.”

“Use your bows to shoot anyone that tries to escape.”

“It appears Farmer Krum was shown very little mercy, but his wife, children, and farmhands may be hostage so keep a sharp eye out.”

“And remember, show no mercy and expect none to be given in return.”

Kannan takes the lead, snaking his way along the path, down the slope, using bushes and scattered foliage to cover his descent. Harald follows several paces behind, lumbering awkwardly down the hill and struggling under his own immense frame. Auron silently disappears into the shadows of the surrounding trees. Einar and Jarek follow the tree line around to the back of the cabin and hide themselves in the dense undergrowth surrounding the cabin.

The two men guarding the cabin are a lean and hard looking pair. One is bald and has a black handprint tattooed over his face. The other wears his beard in a braid, with his long brown hair tied back into a ponytail. Many sigils for the gods of chaos adorning his temples. Both appear to be Chaosworn and Deathsworn cultists.

The bald man sits down in one of the wooden chairs in front of the cabin. His head began sleepily drooping forward, his tankard spilling into his lap dripping into a small pool below. The other man continues babbling incoherently to himself. Unzipping his pants, he stumbles towards a nearby bush to relieve himself.

In less than a heartbeat, the fierce wind stops blowing, the trees cease to sway, and a deafening silence fills the air. A solitary horse neighs from the open barnyard. Kannan takes a deep breathe, whispers a prayer under his breathe, and steps out from behind the bushes concealing him. His pounding heart feels like a war drum in his chest. Kannan raises his spear and throws it. He sprints towards the seated man before the flying spear hits it’s mark. Unsheathing Dawnbringer he ready’s the luminous blade for the killing blow.

The spear pierces the long-haired man’s throat, shearing straight through flesh and cartilage, with an explosive shower of blood. The sudden impact causes the cultist to instantly crumple to his knees. Wheezing, he feebly claws at the spear protruding from what’s left of his throat. The long-haired man’s sudden coughing and death gurgles awaken the bald, painted-face man from his drunken stupor too late. The cultist has just enough time to see his comrade coughing up blood onto the ground a few feet from him before Dawnbringer cleaves downward between his neck and shoulder.

The bald man makes a futile attempt to scream, as the grievous wound spurts a lethal gout of crimson onto the cabin wall behind him, but Kannan places his gloved hand firmly over the man’s mouth forcing his spasming head roughly into the cabin wall. Shortly after the painted man’s white eyes roll back into his head as his god of death takes him.

Kannan quietly cracks open the cabin door. He listens for a moment as light filters through the crack in the door. Stifled laughter fills the air, and the muffled sounds of voices emanate from the room beyond. He could see tall rafters stretching high into the ceiling. Large cobwebs hang from the thatch roofing, and melted snow leaks from many places.

A solitary wooden door resides in the back of the cabin. The cabinets and shelves along the wall are cluttered with empty tankards, cups, dirty plates, half eaten cheese, meat scraps, and assorted knives. In the middle of the room is a long table, close to a dozen men and women are sitting in wooden chairs, around the table. Others are scattered throughout the large room, illuminated by the dancing fire light radiating from an open hearth.

An elderly white-haired man, with a flat nose and bulging red cheeks, is sitting by a cabinet at the back of the room. With quiet deliberation he pours a tankard of ale into empty cups. Pulling back his receding shoulder length hair, he stands and delivers a filled cup to a tall, slender, serious looking man with long pitch-black hair sitting at the head of the table. Four cloaked acolytes surround the man.

The dark-haired man, garbed in fine loose fitting black robes, is tapping his wringed fingers across the surface of the table. Impatiently, he listens to a woman sitting across the table from him speak. Kannan notices one of his rings is marked with a raven sigil, a symbol of the god of death.

The woman is a savage. Her once pretty face now has a gaping hole where most of her nose should have been. A ragged scar starts above her left eye, spreading across her ruin of a nose, and ends on the right side of her jawline. A mass of tangled black hair falls down, well past her shoulders.

She sits at the table her yellow teeth tearing at a piece of steaming meat and washing every mouthful down with a long draught of ale. Kannan notices that across her forehead she is branded with the eye of chaos, one of the many symbols of chaos gods. The woman continues speaking inaudibly, lost in the cacophony of voices, as the rest of her six followers cheer her every remark on with uproarious laughter and boastful praise.

The woman suddenly reaches down to her waist below the table, hefting her battle axe high into the air, she slams it down with tremendous force into the table. Wood splinters, drinks, and upturned plates shatter onto the floor. Everyone in the room comes to complete silence, with all eyes on her.

The woman finishes ripping large chunks of meat off of bone and hurls the remains across the room, onto the floor. Three vicious looking, large, black dogs immediately emerge from underneath the table and make for the bone, snarling and biting at one another. Wiping her mouth with the length of her forearm, and then licks each finger in succession, before her mouth twists into what once could have been considered a smile.

“Then it is decided that the chaos forces will take over the Dreadfort Tower to the east,” The savage woman said, clearing her throat first and then wrenching the edge of her battle axe from the table with a forceful creak, “Wouldn’t you agree, Armand?”

The serious looking man arose from his seat, while continuing to face her wild gaze, and calmly holding a cup in his long ringed fingers. His long dark hair falling back from his pale face, Armand fixes her with a cold black stare.

“In the past few days, fleeing travelers from the north have told tales of the dead marching back from the furthest edges of this valley, of the great dragon Balethorr awakening from his slumber atop Firestone mountain, and rumors of the mad tyrant king’s return to this earthly plane of existence,” Armand said with a gravelly voice, “If you are so enamored by that plot of land, those ancient crumbling stones, then reclaim it yourself, Ymir.”

Ymir did not appear to be in the least bit satisfied by Armand’s answer as a scowl transfigured across her horrible smile. She tightens her grip on the handle of her axe, her knuckles whitening, and points the razor-sharp blade of her battle axe at Armand from across the long table.

I sent three of my finest men with Astrid, her prized captive, the sellsword, and your fearless leader Sigrun, and I feel like you owe me one hell of a favor,” Ymir said, her voice shaking with the underlying threat of impending violence, “Aid us in reclaiming the Dreadfort Tower with your black magic, dress wearing death worshippers, and I will say that the debt has been paid.”

A sadistic smirk creases Armand’s angular features as he lays his hands flat on the wooden surface below him, scraping his long dirty fingernails across the tabletop, and leans toward Ymir.

“You lost the Dreadfort due to your own incompetence and have allowed that thing to lay claim to the surrounding territory,” Armand said, “I will not waste my men or the effort trying to drive it away from that accursed soil.

“I pray that you speak your next words carefully or I’m not liable for what my axe does to that pretty white skin of yours, Armand,” Ymir growls, coughing into her napkin as a sudden tension spread across all of the men and women at the table, “That abomination was driven from it’s home in the North, laying claim to my tower, due in large part to your leader’s schemes.” “You will aid us in reclaiming our home.”

“Listen carefully,” said Armand. “I hate this place, this prison of flesh, this plane of existence.”

“I am repulsed by it.”

“Even now I can taste the stink of you, all those around you, and I am disgusted by it”

“I feel like I am surrounded by it, no I am drowning in your mortal sweat…your stench.”

“So pathetic, lowly creature, take up your steel and set me free if you can.”

Ymir swiftly leaps onto the head of the table. With a guttural roar, she lands gracefully and begins running across the full length of the table in three great strides before anyone at the table can react. Plates fall crashing to the floor as half empty cups of ale spill across the wooden surface of table. Ymir reaches Armand and jumps high into the air lifting her muscled arms for an overhead battle axe strike. The axe arches downward with tremendous force, biting effortlessly through Armand’s chest, ripping through flesh, bone, and out of the back of Armand’s black robe in a shower of blood and gore.

Hands fall to weapons. The sound of steel being pulled from leather fills the air, and suddenly empty chairs clatter onto the floor. The cultists raise swords, axes, and spiked cudgels against one another. Sword's clash, axes cleave limbs, and voices cry out as the rest of the room erupts into an all-out melee.

Before a robed man can withdraw his axe, a man with a broken-nose, leaps across the table tackling and knocking him onto the ground. They roll over and over on the wooden floor, each unable to pin the other down, struggling against each other for an advantage. One cultist manages to dodge to the side as the other cultist plunges a knife downward, embedding it into the wooden floor. The robed figure punches the chaos cultist in the rib cage, knocking the wind from him, and causing him to gasp in pain.

Three chaos sworn followers sprint around the table quickly pinning a larger black robed man against the cabinet and shelves. Plates, knives, and scraps of meat rain down onto the floor. The hooded man, shoved against shelves and cabinets, grasps a nearby wooden tankard slamming it across one of the attacker’s teeth. A dagger pierces the large man’s shoulder causing him to cry out in pain.

The black robed man desperately whistles. Immediately, the three black dogs join him in the fray. The dogs bound cross the room in less than a heartbeat and begin mauling each of their master’s attackers. One Chaosworn is pulled down onto the floor, shrieking as his leg is shredded to the bone. The dog releases his hold on the Chaosworn’s tattered leg. The man begins dragging himself backwards, across the floor. Frequently, the cultist fearfully holds up his knife, stabbing at the dog, as he scoots backwards across the floor. The black dog’s salivating maw curls back into a snarl, exposing long sharp fangs, before lunging past the knife to rip out the man’s exposed throat.

Blood flows from Armand’s mouth and nose, his dark hair flowing over his face, as he staggers backwards several steps with the axe still embedded in him. He remains standing as he leans against the cabin wall for support.

Sadistically, Ymir smiles as she places her dirty boot on Armand’s stomach, roughly shoves him completely backwards into the wall, and wrenches the axe free leaving a grievous wound in its wake. Without a moment’s hesitation, the savage woman relentlessly dashes in for another vicious swing.

Armand meets her halfway lunging forward with inhuman speed and slashing at her eyes with his long fingernails. Ymir releases a shrieking howl of pain as tears of blood begin flowing from the now vacant socket of her right eye. She clutches at her blinded and bloodied face as she slashes wildly with her axe at open air.

“You should have aimed for the head,” Armand laughs, hold his left hand over the gaping hole in his chest, “You are a spineless, untrustworthy, mad dog that deserves to be put down.”

Armand’s hand lunges forward. Grasping Ymir by the neck, he lifts her skyward, high over his head. Ymir kicks and thrashes about wildly. Armand’s long nails digging into her throat, Ymir swings her battle axe swiftly down at Armand’s face. Armand deftly grabs her wrist and twists it. A loud snapping sound causes Ymir to scream and drop the battle axe clattering onto the floor. Ymir’s flailing kicks and punches weaken with every passing second. Armand turns her head so that she is facing his cold black stare.

“I want to see the life fade from your eye.”

In the ensuing chaos, the back door to the cabin quietly opens. Auron Midwinter quickly steps into the room and grabs the elderly man by his long white hair, dragging him backwards into a deadly embrace. Auron stabs a long knife into the man’s neck before he can protest, sawing through flesh and a major artery to set the blade free. The man flails his arms erratically as a violent seizure overcomes him. A gush of blood sprays forward and the older man utters a final hissing gasp as his head falls forward spasming.

The savage black dogs see Auron first bounding across the room snarling and baring their teeth. All three hounds surround Auron waiting for the master’s order. All of the cultist fighting one another pause in the moment cautiously regarding the blue robed man clutching the dead man by his long hair. Armand turns to face Auron with a scowl on his face.

“That man you just butchered was with our order for several decades.” Armand said, still holding Ymir over his head.

Auron cleans the blood off his knife wiping it onto the front of the man’s robe, releasing his grip on the man’s hair, and letting him fall with a dull thud to the wooden floor below.

“You the one who ordered the farmer to die.” Auron asks, his face serious and devoid of emotion.

“That’s right, I lit the fire myself,” Armand laughs with a cruel smile “I killed his wife, the children too, and I enjoyed it.”

Auron fluidly reaches into the front of his blue robe, unholsters a flintlock pistol, raises the gun barrel pointing it at Armand, and fires it in one swift motion. The bullet explodes from the barrel, black powder filling the air, and punches a coin sized hole through Armand’s forehead. Armand’s eyes go white, his sneer fading, and he slumps lifelessly to the floor.