As the dream continues the Darkwalker’s green breath curls from its three heads, sinking low and spreading across the forest floor, withering everything it touches. Plants curl and decay, animals wither away, and people - vague amalgamations of his men, the Netsilik families who cared for him, the people here - begin to rot from the inside out. Their teeth start to fall from their heads and their foreheads trickle blood like Christ’s crown of thorns. They reach for him, claw at him, mouths gaping wide as mandibles loosen and then fall away completely.

Crozier’s distress increases, brow furrowing as sweat pools on his brow. It’s still mild discomfort at the most, until something particularly horrific twists his face into a grimace and he exhales a soft, shuddering sob.