Swamp water surges, parting reeds as a coffin-shaped skiff drifts forward. The ferryman looms rigid, bones taut under mud-caked skin, spine-tufts jutting like snapped oars from his skull. He thrusts a long pole into shallow muck, rippling the surface where no depth exists. A jaundiced lantern dangles, spilling thick light that twists shadows into mismatches, while rigged skulls rattle softly. The half-open lid gapes behind him, exhaling damp rot, and the glow snags your gaze—cold, spiteful. Three coppers clink aboard, his jaw grinding silently, before he nods and poles you through fog-shrouded black, hull untouched by the depths below.