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@Festive@Theyra@OwO@bugmeat@SilverPaw@TheMushroomLord@Archangel89@ERode

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𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐳𝐞, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦—𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐯𝐞𝐢𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐰𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰, 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐱. 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬, 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐡𝐮𝐞, 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬. 𝐎𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐡—𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞, 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐢𝐥 𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐞, 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭, 𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞. 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠, 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝—𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐤𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞. 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.

𝐈𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐍𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐚 𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐮𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐞𝐱𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧. 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧—𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦.

𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐦 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐭, 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬—𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐒𝐨𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡. 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐡, 𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐝, 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐝. 𝐒𝐮𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞𝐬, 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞. 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬, 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐝. 𝐎𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐲—𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐚 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐧𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭.

“𝐀𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬?” 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐮𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐭. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐝-𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐢𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝.

“𝐍𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫,” 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐝, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐦. 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐬 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐚, 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰. 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞. 𝐇𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐞𝐭. “𝐁𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐝… 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰.”

The air is thick with the ghosts of fire and rot, the acrid sting of charred remains clinging to my form like a shroud of penitence. I do not belong here—yet I do.

The figures before me are twisted echoes of survival, their bodies caked in soot, their eyes hollow pools that reflect the embers of a world undone. I see it in them: the instinct to survive at all costs, the quiet suspicion that coils like a viper beneath their ribs. They do not trust me. Nor should they.

A tremor runs through my fingers—an old habit, the muscle memory of hands that once knew only creation. It is an irony that would amuse me, were I still capable of laughter. Once, I sought to unravel the mysteries of transmutation, to elevate mankind beyond the limitations of flesh and time. I was... ambitious. Too ambitious. And now, I stand among these strangers, a revenant bound by the sins of my past, cast into a realm that does not know my name, but will come to know my work.

The sky burns above us, and I wonder if it, too, remembers the folly of alchemists.

Stepping forward, I regard them, my gaze flitting over their wary stances, the glint of steel held with weary hands. "You expect a monster,", I say at last, voice rasping with the weight of ages."Perhaps you are right. But if survival is your aim, know this—I do not break, I do not falter, and I do not waste what can be reforged."

I let the words settle, let them see the unyielding certainty in my stance. If they seek salvation, then I shall mold it. If they seek ruin, then I shall study the remnants of their fall.

The choice is theirs.

ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｎｅｗ　ｗｏｒｌｄ

It wasn't her sky. Or perhaps it was--her sole memory was of that moonlit night. It didn't take much to intuit why it was different. Despite not a single memory of it remaining, her body and mind could intuit the flame, smoke, and ash that littered the air. Flames that painted the sky an ominous sunrise. Perhaps it was the basal instincts born into all living beings that she knew what fire was. Perhaps her mind was deciphering base concepts on its own. Or perhaps she kept her knowledge but was simply unable to recollect concepts without proper impetus.

Whatever the case was, she knew that this place was an ill tiding.

No matter--she could remember to breath, move, think, and speak. For what use were the other things at this point in time? Though, she dare not move yet. She was quite comfortable sitting on the ground.

Unfortunately, with the ability to think and speak, she also had the ability to listen. And she had to listen to the blithering of two spearmen and a man equally as strange as her.

"Can you hear yourself speak?" Her voice rang though her sharp teeth as she targeted the esoteric speech of the equally strange man as he approached the spearmen. "Or do you just enjoy speaking in theatrics?"

Her voice was unexpectedly melodic in spite of her stature. If she stood, she would be half a hand over the taller of the two soldiers, not including any hat or headgear. Despite this size, her voice was as sweet as a siren's.

It was a shame that her first words were an insult.

Tick.

One was not.

Tock.

One was.

What had been before?

Had there been a before?

Memories lay shattered, broken, forgotten.

Fields of lush green and warm yellows, a shimmering golden overcast—cerulean to lavender to bloodless red—sharp lines, white surfaces, towers, spires, an inverted labyrinth suspended in the skies—a vast void, specks of colour lost within, the unspooling of galaxies—

A cough beset the body, and it dropped to its knees, hands clutching at the head. Lungs were burning, eyes were smarting, mind in a frenzy.

What—what was this?

A thudding in its chest, as if something were trying to break free from within the ribcage. The rush of blood, as if a great river were raging inside. A heat crawling along the whole exterior, beads of liquid beading upon the brow. A trickle down the cheeks, a spray of fine mist from the mouth, a raspy wheeze following each inhale.

Wait.

Inhale?

Breathing?

Since when did they need such a thing?

Lashes trembled, fluttered open, eyes widened at the inferno surrounding them. Houses ruined, ash coating the earth, skies obscured by the thick gray smog, remnants of battle all around. This scene—

Was it familiar or not?

They weren’t sure, but it wasn’t home. They were elsewhere. And…different?

This body, it had felt alien, yet as they stood up and stared down at the solid shape, each blink bridged the expanse from foreign to familiar. How could this be? What an amazing adaptability. They tapped their fingers against each other, and no longer was it as loud or heavy as the tolling of bells, merely the soft taps of a line of ants marching up a tree. How peculiar. At first, everything had been too sharp, too bright, too much, and now, it was as if a veil dulling their experience had settled around their being. Oh, their throat still scratched at each inhale, a clawing irritated their lungs, urging a few more harsh coughs, but it was bearable. Perhaps, this was yet another new aspect.

They were here, in an unknown realm, as something or someone they weren’t quite used to yet, but perhaps they were protected yet. Surely, this was for a reason?

“W-why?”

Confusion abound as they realized they could not recall their mission. They did not know what they were meant to do.

Dazed blinks, slow breaths, toes curling into the soft ash underneath grounded them. Eventually.

Well, then. If they didn’t know, they’d just have to find out.

Unknowing to them, a small smile alighted upon their face at this new possibility.

The freedom to shape one’s future.

The spider’s mind swam with confusion as she came to in a place she neither recognised nor understood. Her memories – a disorientating mess of scattered pieces – refused to provide her with any context that might help her make sense of her current situation, or much of else at all for that matter, the disjointed fragments simply refusing to come together into something coherent.

With no clue where she was or what was going on, the one thing the spider knew for sure was that she was afraid. But that alone at least was something. She knew that she was afraid and she understood why this was so; she was a small pitiful thing stuck in a situation she didn’t understand and painfully aware of just how little she had to work with.

And so, she got to work.

Surrounded by giants that could surely crush her in an instant – whether by misstep or malice – the first thing the spider did was scurry for what shelter she could find. That, as it turned out, was some manner of charred structure, one she felt sure must have been built by humans, though for what purpose she could not imagine since it seemed ill suited for habitation, education, or storage.

While her memories were for the most part incomprehensible to her, one fragment stood out as relatively intact; a single anchor thread from which she might weave herself a path forward.

To start, she extruded her silk into a sheet – not a web in the traditional sense, but a canvas upon which she might do further work. From there she lay more silk atop the canvas, this time in intricately detailed patterns, and atop those she lay yet more patterns. Her work was fast – spurred both by the urgency of the situation and her own fears – but it was not careless or sloppy, and when she was done she stopped to check and triple-check for mistakes or imperfection, meticulously correcting those she discovered.

Only once she felt suitably confident that her creation was foundationally sound and matched the blueprint etched into her memories, did the spider start to hesitate, a new fear creeping up on her. This time it wasn’t the fear of the unknown or even her own potential destruction – perhaps somewhat nebulous but ultimately tangible fears – no, this fear was something far less concrete and rational.

She felt certain that her creation would enable her communication with the humans, in fact, it was likely the only way she’d be able to do so, and even lacking the memories to inform her motivations, the spider felt sure that she’d still want to do so even in the without the pressing need for her to understand and survive the current circumstances.

And yet, at the same time, what if the humans hated and rejected her? What if this was somehow playing her hand too far? What if…

Anxiety ate at the spider as she mulled over her dilemma. At the same time, as much as she tried to ignore it, part of her intuitively recognised that her indecision was not, in fact, indecision, so much as avoidance. She wanted to communicate, but she also didn’t. Objectively, using the spell was probably the right decision; the worst that was likely to happen would be it being dispelled, but then again, what if…

Had the spider been a human, she might have ended up making herself sick, but as it was, she was a spider and fundamentally lacked the physiological ties that characterised human emotions. Instead, she just stood, stock still, for several long moments as she tried and failed to think up an excuse that would hold water in her mind until finally she gave up and relented to her rationality.

Placing her forelimbs upon her creation, the spider pushed the bulk of her meagre mana reserves into the array, which gave no immediate response the spider could see but nonetheless catalysed a flurry of changes in the ambient mana, outside of the spider’s perception.

The changes propagated out from the array, extending out of the spider’s hiding place, whereupon a strange stuff began to form, rapidly contorting itself into facsimiles of blood, flesh, and bone, before finally assembling into the shape of a human woman; a simulacrum all but intangible to anyone and anything, save for light and mana.

To an outside observer, the illusory body would seem to simply stand there, entirely unresponsive for several long moments as the spider continued to procrastinate. Ever so carefully, so as not to damage the delicate functional threads, the spider peeled the tiny ‘web’ from the soot-covered surface she’d created it upon, folding it up into a tight package which she then proceeded to bind to the underside of her cephalothorax.

Only once she had done so and subsequently failed to think of another excuse procrastinate, did the spider hesitantly deign to peek out from her hiding place and assume control over her simulacrum, the spell intuitively interpreting her intentions to have the body nervously peer around at the humans present in a rough imitation of her true body’s actions.

On the outside, his eyes are open but have the clear sign of being useless. Blind and yet moving with purpose like they still worked.

Is this... what the world looks like? The first thought that entered his mind. The reddish sky and the smoke, the outlines of everything. Of figures both ahead and beside them with features, he can barely discern. Yet he can easily tell them apart, and some are different from the rest for reasons he does not know. An attempt to focus more on them just leads to quiet frustration. Is this how everyone looks looks? Another question he posed to himself. Knowing he had no answer to it but maybe this is how the world looks.

The more he tries to remember for answers, the more he comes to realize. He has no recollection of anything except for one memory and a seemly better time. At least when compared to the scene before him. One of bitter resolve to survive despite the odds and circumstance.

But why the conflict in memory? Is it a memory of what happened before, or does it take place elsewhere? Nothing makes sens, nothing feels familiar except for the two swords that are in each of his hands. Tightly gripping each one in annoyance. Where and who am I?

He will find a way to remember what he has lost but for now. He must focus on the present and that present being dealing with these survivors and ones near him.

Putting his swords away, he slowly approached the two pikemen and spoke in a calm tone. "I am not a threat to you or your charges. I am just someone seeking answers. Answers you may or may not have that is."

Something is supposed to hold her and it doesn't anymore.

It's hardly a thought at all, just this barely-there understanding. An observation that occurs just as quickly as all the rest: she's cold, it hurts to breathe, something's in her eye, this place is beautiful...what she can see of it as she lays there scrubbing at her ash-stung eye, anyway. Pawing at her cheek, her ear, her shaved scalp (???). Waiting for it to dawn on her why these things seem so strange when it is, after all, her body and no one else's (???). She'd long since rubbed the irritant out by the time she stops touching her face for good, pulling her hand sheepishly away like she'd been caught up to no good. She's no closer to understanding what that kneejerk apprehension had been all about than she is to understanding anything else that's happening, except that the sky is a very lovely color right now and she is not alone and, oh, how that hooks her attention better than all the rest.

One eye is squinted, still red, still watering as both turn to the others. She shifts up onto one elbow. She is expectant, waiting, though she doesn't know what for anymore. Something, perhaps, to be done about the distnce between them and her—it's immense, isn't it? They might as well be standing at the other end of a very long corridor, impossible to make out save for what is now lit by firelight. She stares, unblinking long enough for tears to well up in both eyes now. Waiting for something that doesn't come. The distance is still there and she still cannot place what is so wrong about that. Briefly, it occurs to her that if she were to somehow pry them open and climb inside then there would no longer be that distance, and something would hold her again.

But that would hardly be practical.

So it's a problem for later, then. Maybe. Thumbs brush over her closed eyelids, wiping again. There are voices that, like the people they belong to, seem too far away for comfort. She starts getting herself to her feet but the process is stiff, awkward. It's odd that she would want to crawl into another's body when she can hardly seem to get the hang of her own for those first few minutes. Well, but then they could do all this walking for me, she reasons brightly to herself. Easy. Easy-peasy. Way easier and peasier than doing it herself, but she puts on a brave face about it and shambles onward, staring in awe down at her feet, then the sky again, then her—their surroundings with a more critical eye. Razed buildings, the bristling walls around them, distant mounds of...bodies. The poor dears.

These people, this beautiful, awful place...they need help, clearly. The responsibility to try keeps her standing for the time it takes to assess a few of the closer individuals; a man, speaking and then not, with the nicest way of presenting himself. She's clapping before she realizes what her hands are doing, soot-stained palms beating cheerfully against one another. Bravo! Aren't you so dashing!

The clapping stops when another speaks. She has the prettiest hair, and this woman is certain that that other one is good, but she's clearly not as entertained by his posturing as this one is. This woman's fingers curl around themselves as she contemplates whether to butt in with a light admonishment...nah. The man, by his own admission, does not break or falter. He can stand to be teased for being a ham. If their days have gone anything like mine then I'm sure everybody's a li'l out of sorts. So long as—now, hold on a minute.

Have they even been hearing any of this?

She works her tongue around the inside of her dry mouth. No...no, they couldn't have, could they? What they are doing is talking. What she is doing is thinking. Right now there is a difference between those things and she cannot help but relate that back to how exposed she feels at the moment, like someone's gone and taken the shell off of some creature that sorely needs it (and this isn't just a feeling—she looks the part of some kind of shucked, soft-bodied animal too; wax-skinned, feeble, and unfortunate to behold). How silly, that she'd gone and mixed those things up. No matter! She'll just talk, now.

"Gh—" A thick swallow, jaw working, lips twisting unpleasantly. She knows how to do this, but she gets the impression that she doesn't do it often. Not like this. It's supposed to be different, easier, but it can't be right now. She laughs dryly, waits for another strange face to say his piece (the blind man says, in essence, what all she's about to; she could stand to learn how to convey it as succinctly as he has...she will not, but she could) and takes another stab at the whole talking thing, voice creaky with disuse but no less enthusiastic:

"Good morning!" Is it even morning? She's giggling again—still—uncontrollably, now. Goodness gracious. A fist to her mouth, the other hand held palm-first apologetically. She's not laughing at them. She's not laughing at anything. She's just suddenly so, so happy. Whenever she thinks the fit is done, another has her cracking up again, making it difficult to breathe (which also makes her laugh).

"I'm s—sorry, nothing's funny." she wheezes, cheeks aching from a wide and manic grin. "I shh—ouldn't laugh. It's impolite." Nobody else knows what the joke is, after all. Neither does she, but still. "Wha—ha!—t happened, in this place? Why'm I standing in it? Why're you? Does the sky," she points, as if anybody might need help knowing what she's talking about, "always look like that? I love that. Don't you just love that?" Her pointing finger traces a path downward to the brave man, the sharp woman, and the blind man. She really wants to know if they just love that, though her expression catches and crinkles around the nose; she's just now been able to get a better look at the last to talk's eyes and it doesn't seem as though he'll be remarking on the color of anything any time soon. She blinks and decides that, if she must apologize for the mistake later, she shall. But she won't do it now. Her hand continues, then, pointing toward the pikemen and their hut. Her body follows, wobbling closer for a better look.

"Do you live here? Do you like it? ...Do I live here?" She highly doubts it, but she'll ask anyway. Something about their manner of dress seems so absurd to her, costume-y, but she doesn't know what that judgement is based on. A glance down at her own attire leaves her no closer to the answer. "Does everyone?" All her guesses are a hand reaching out into a dark place and coming back empty, but she's now realized that she has no issue at all with asking questions.

The hand stays pointed, her body turns. Another distant voice had been there just a moment ago, the noise soft and short (why?) and matchable to a person standing in the ash. The angel gets their turn being pointed at, now, and a short acknowledgement of, "Hello, dear!" Before that pointing hand and the owner's attention goes meandering along to the next thing. Now that she's really engaged, she finds it's difficult to focus on one thing when there's just so much to take in. It's irritating that she must tend to all these things so slowly, though, and only one at a time. It brings to mind thoughts of a nightmare where one is stuck running through quicksand; all this urgency and only a fraction of the speed required. Exhausting.

Another quick point at another woman that she'd totally not noticed before. She doesn't hold it against either of them. There appears to be a good handful of strangers waking, wandering through the war-smog; perhaps once, she would have been able to count and follow each one with ease, but right now, she is stuck doing things in this odd, too-slow fashion for now. "And you, too. You get to be dear, also. Hello!" She makes a point of calling this one out over the other quiet ones only because she'd gone and made eye contact with her nervous staring and figured an acknowledgement was in order. It's right about now that she realizes just how unspeakably rude she's being, pointing so much, and that thin, useless hand drops down quickly.

Ash, Smoke, Heat

His eyes struggled to open due to the suffocating atmosphere as he began to rise from the ground. Wiping away the soot from his eyes and coughing up the thick air to try and get something better to his lungs, he hadn't realized that the others had already started to move away from him. He needed to compose himself but every breath felt jagged and hot. A scene plays in his head, foggy and distant, but on repeat with new details being showed to him each time. Feel the heat and then channel the wind, that's what he needed right now, some wind and with it fresh air. It took time, and genuine effort to muster up even the smallest of gusts but he managed to push away the filth and inhale some stale but unpolluted air.

Something's off. I should be, more, connected, with the wind. Is it not, in my blood? This isn't right, this isn't my wind. I have no connection to it. My magic is weaker wherever this is.

Magic? Right, I was a mage. My teacher, showed me how to escape the limits of my heritage. But now, I'd do anything to have it's benefit again.

My body, looks different? Doesn't it? I'm older, than I was in that memory. What happened before that? And how much happened after it? How old am I now? These, scars, they're new, aren't they?

His hand follows a dark jagged scar that contrasts his marble-colored skin as it extends up from his fingertips and all the way to his elbow. Then there was the circular scar in his abdomen, where he imagined a spear stabbing him but missing his vitals. Paired with a few sword scars here and there, he could tell this body had been in a few fights since last he had it. Who was he fighting though, and over what? He was a student, not a soldier, and he rarely traveled so he couldn't imagine having been to combat or being set upon by bandits and yet the scars remained. So who could have caused them? How much had his life changed since that first important lesson. Whatever the case may be, he couldn't just stand here. It was important to keep moving and gather as much information as he could now that he had so little.

He moved to rejoin the group that had been around him not too long ago. I wasn't hard to find them as they didn't move too far and they weren't the quietest bunch. He just barely made out one saying something that felt like a threat and then another of the group, a woman, chastising the man for it.

Everyone seemed out of sorts and most seemed unwilling to speak, except one who seemed unwilling to stop speaking now that she had started. She may have been a little unhinged in his opinion, but she was asking all the right questions. And then some. He had decided to walk up to her side as a way of showing some support towards what she had asked or at least to some of it being answered. He normally wouldn't be so quiet, but he was hoping someone would answer those questions first. There was one question though that demanded being asked that the talkative one hadn't...

"Does anyone, remember their name?"

He didn’t have a sense, really, of whether or not this was something he was comfortable with or not. It was warm though, so that was a plus. But the soot was already dying his white shirt gray, so that was a minus. Plenty of freebies along the way though, another plus. A gathering of weirdos in the distance, that was a min-

Wait, no, plus, plus, plus. Goddamn. One of em looked actually angelic, a pale bloom that just begged to be plucked and preserved, while another looked like the type of person you wanted to get euthanized via sex with. There were a handful of others, a curious baldie with an interesting head-shape and a deranged but charming personality and a brat that seemed to have the same idea that he had, coming into this. He favored her with a smile, which was really just the narrowing of his amber eye and a wordless opening of his lipless mouth as a slender finger ‘tapped’ against the side of the fluorescent flame that made up perhaps a quarter of his head.

She held her spear in her hand; he had salvaged three and stuck them into his head before making it halfway to join the others amongst the ruins of a pyrrhic resistance.

Of course, now that he was looking over the men who gathered (a much more dour gang of fellows), perhaps he should’ve settled for two instead. That white-haired man’s swords looked like they’d fetch something nice on the market. If there was a market. What even was a market?

“Huh. Shit.”

Pain in the ass. Habit moved his actions and thoughts, but there was only a vague sense of understanding where those habits came from. And right now, such habits turned towards…

“C’mon, you didn’t scalp yourself while shaving, didja?” He spoke instead, a lax derision slathered over his tone as he turned to the bald woman. “Ain’t no way I came from the same place as these frumpy bastards. Not from the same place as the darling princess over there either, that’s for sure.” The lanky man’s gaze turned to his surroundings once more, confirming what he already knew. Piles of burnt bodies, defenses in every direction, and yet no sign of what it was that pushed these people to the brink. They weren’t gonna survive a second attack, that was for sure. But hey.

“Now now, don’t be so harsh on the boy,” he said, shifting attentions to the statuesque witch-lady. “I’m sure every kid’s wanted to say a line like that once in their life. Nevermind that since we’re here, we’ve definitely all been ‘broken’ at least once.”

---

The scorned follower of a long— dead god catches the ire of a lesser idol.

The Gourmand’s thieving hands acquire a curse.

The helpful companion begins her transformation.

Gsv lmv dsl hrgh zg gsv gzyov mlgrxvh gsivv krvxvh lm gsv tznv ylziw.

---

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧-𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐦𝐮𝐝-𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐭𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐬 @Festive 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝, 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐬. 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭. 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬, 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐦 𝐡𝐮𝐭. 𝐀𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐬, 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞.

𝐔𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧. 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝, 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧; 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡, 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐌𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲, 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬, 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧? 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬. “𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫,” 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫-𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐧, “𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲’𝐬 𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨 𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞.” 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐤-𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞. “𝐈’𝐝 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞. 𝐖𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥.” 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐧, 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐩 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭—𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐚𝐫 𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐈𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐟𝐭, 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞-𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐬. 𝐀 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝, 𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐳𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝, -@bugmeat 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐣𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫. “𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬, 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬.”

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧-𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬. 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐭, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝, 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐰; ”𝐒𝐢𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞— 𝐈’𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐲.” 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧-𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐨k𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞, 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 @Theyra, @Festive, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 @SilverPaw.

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

”𝐇𝐚𝐢𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐢𝐥,” 𝐇𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐫. ”𝐰𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐭. 𝐌𝐞𝐤𝐨, 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐭, 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞— 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥…” 𝐒𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧, 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧.

”𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫, 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝.” 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐛 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐜 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐛 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐮𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝, 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭. 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐝, 𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐚 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰, 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐒𝐨𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐜𝐲𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐚 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲. 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 @TheMushroomLord 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

𝐅𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲.

𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬. 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 @ERode, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 @Exit, 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐨𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐬𝐡, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧. “𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞,” 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭, 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞, “𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝.”. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐲𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐬.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐚 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭’𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝.

” 𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐮𝐦, 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧, 𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐬.”

ａｎｄ　ｃａｓｅ　ｓｔｕｄｉｅｓ　ｏｎｅ　ａｎｄ　ｔｗｏ

The witch didn't have much to say about the others who stepped forwards.

The ardent one lost in confusion that seemed to find a fragment of direction as their feet curled into the ash. She was uninteresting. The witch had little interest in the thoughts of others. Though she would be interested if it was a condition of the mind.

The unresponsive one that stood at a distance was also uninteresting at this moment. Perhaps if she did a little jig or her arms fell off instead of standing slack-jawed would the witch deign a moment of thought towards her. Well, catatonia was also interesting. Of course, had the witch been facing the construction of faux-flesh and bone, she would have been considerably interested in such a marvel.

The one with two blades and closed-eyes was of more interest to the witch. Very obviously, he had some kind of ailment towards his eyes. She was at least thankful this one wasn't deep into theatrics like the one she had insulted.

Then came the bald girl. This one was manic beyond all belief. That was of some level of interest to the witch. Though, the witch knew that ailments of the mind weren't her domain. While she thought it would be interesting to look into this mania, it was only to sate some level of curiosity.

The short one in an ill-suited outfit was of little note beyond the strange noise she made.

The pale, less-human looking man didn't do much to grab the witch's attention either. Though his question did spark a few thoughts. Obviously, she couldn't remember her name. She knew what a name was yet nothing came to mind as to what she would refer herself as. She had the briefest inkling of something--a title that others would call her--but she could not yet recollect the word. Shaman, like how the blonde spearman said, felt similar but was too distant.

The noble-looking man wasn't of much interest. Even as he approached the spearmen armed with little more than a dagger and prose, the witch didn't pay much mind to him.

Now who was of interest? None other than the man with cavernous skull, a lack of lips, and burning flame. By all means, it didn't make much sense. Presuming he was human and not some flame possessing a corpse, his existence was already of intense interest to the witch.

"Some more broken than others," the witch mused as she rose to walk towards the man who seemed born to a woman and lantern.

"Were you born like that?" She asked the ironic question. "Not to mention, how did you make such a sound without lips?" She then extended her hand to the side of the man's head--still in the field of view of people who didn't typically have portions of their head replaced by cinders. "Can you tell me which two fingers are touching?"

Her impromptu session was cut short as the scaled spearman demanded silence, only to observe--rather, to not observe--how he shifted and moved to place the bald girl under threat of spear-tip.

The witch was tempted to dare either one of them to walk forward, though such planned incites were interrupted by the reappearance of the blonde alongside someone who could only be the shaman. Her admonishments were ignored as the witch hadn't touched the spears. She was too comfortable sitting on the ground to do so. The announcement of their location was noted. She didn't recognize the name. Of course, why would she? Beyond her sole memory of the bogs, she couldn't recollect anything besides concepts.

Though, the shaman's entrance was overshadowed by what the witch had noticed in the corner of her eye.

"Now that is curious." The witch's attention was focused on the short one as she observed the spear in her hand corrupt and alter her arm. Suddenly, the least interesting out of all of the strangers had become second only to a man missing half of his head.

"A phage or parasite? But that wouldn't progress as quickly. Magic? Possible, but I would hate to waive off such an event with a convenient explanation." She continued to mumble to herself. "But that does mean..."

She turned to face the man who had shoved multiple spears into his skull.