Clutch/Loram’s story:

  Characters: Loram, the protagonist and High Inquisitor Captain of the 2nd squad. Priestess Ipsum, leader of the Calabra Cathedral and convent. Baker Jackson, a baker in Calabra proper. Seamstress Lady Van Gon, a highbrow practitioner of Spirit who assists Calabra via making high-value garments. Fred Bulge, the captain of the local guard.

  Prolog 1:

  It was a foggy August day in Torador; the summer heat from mid-995 had already begun to settle down into a low Fall zephyr that spun the low clouds of moisture like spirals. Everything the fog touched grew quickly ill, the wrath of a god spurned in favor of his sibling. Salus, oh great Salus, scaled of hide and sharp of fang, had scorned just as he had been scorned. The desperate wails of fathers and mothers rang out as their children began to grow boils and hives, only for those same screams to be cut off abruptly as their lungs filled with pus and a sickly, thick liquid.

  A single woman with a single child had boarded up the windows, and stuffed wax in the rims of everything leading outside. The plants kept indoors were the only source of air, and who knew how long that would last? So, the woman made a choice.

  Mother: “Clutch, my dear, sweet Clutch. You must listen, and you must listen well. You must go down into the cellar and not leave until it has been 14 days since you last heard an anguished cry.”

  The young boy hung onto the skirt of his mother’s red and blue dress, looking up at her with shimmering eyes. Even if he wasn’t old enough to understand what was going on, he could sense the gravity of the situation.

  Clutch: “But what about you? What would I possibly do without you? Where would I-“

  Mother: “Hush now, do as Mother says. It shall be as it shall be, and that is all there is. I love you, my dear, sweet boy.”

  And so, the child climbed down into the cellar below where the stores for winter had already begun to pile up. He heard the sound of something being hammered into the walls by the door, and then the sound of a hanging curtain, and never again did he hear a sound from his mother.

  Chapter 1:

  The date was January 9th, the year 1000. The recent festivities in the major cities had made some of the lower-down folk realize just how little they had, and so they proceeded to fall into banditry. Such a thing was unacceptable in the eyes of the Inquisition, a group of “Public Servants” based out of Holy Sither, the staging grounds for the resulting conflicts going forward. This report covers a battle near Calabra, the major trade city between Sither and Linosil, where Captain Loram and his team encountered a group of bandits to the West of Calabra proper.

  A group of approximately 50 men had bunkered down for the night in a bog, they apparently had a wizard who had control over the water, which was obvious from how the water seemed to make a dome around their camp made entirely from bog water. That would make this whole thing take slightly longer, but our heroes today weren’t just madmen in robes or pointy hats.

  Approaching the camp at around 2 AM was Loram and his party, calling out to the bandits from outside of their watery dome.

  Loram: “You have been found guilty of pillaging, theft, armed robbery, and assault on multiple accounts. Lower this dome and come silently, and you will not be executed.”

  There was a silence for a moment, before a few people poked their heads out of the dome, threw their heads back, and laughed.

  “Oi lads! There’s only focking 10 of them! Good stuff on em, too! Lower the bubble, boss! Let’s get at em!”

  As these words were not an unconditional surrender, Loram looked to his squad:

  “They have made their choice. Begin the cleansing.”

  And so, the bubble came down with a bit of grumbling. 25 of the 50 men immediately swarmed around the 10 High Inquisitors. It was a slaughter.

  The first wave of bandits slammed themselves forward, looking starved for wealth as for food, and they found themselves mashed down into mushy flesh faster than they could blink. Loram, at the lead of the wedge formation the inquisitors put themselves into, spun hisw hammer in his hand and crushed the first poor sod’s skull with a good arc. 9 other men of approximate speed and skill followed suit, sprays of red ice and bone falling into the bog below.

  Seeing this, the bandits immediately halted, realizing just how outclassed they were as 10 of them fell in short order. Too bad for them, their leader had watched and put the barrier back up with the remaining 15 of 25 men outside. They didn’t last long, as even when they did manage to not get parried, their weapons tinked off the full plate the men were wearing. So, the 15 men died quickly, their bodies splattered, and bones splayed out in the cool night air as bog water rushed in and infected any wounds which didn’t instantly result in death.

  Loram stepped forward towards the bubble and raised his hammer, a cool blue thrum of energy emitted off of the head as the blood froze, as Loram and his squad were wielding enchanted hammers. Ice hammers, specifically.

  Loram slammed his hammer into the water, and impressively, it deflected the hammer’s strike. It did, however, also freeze over. As it did so, Loram struck again, shattering the ice and making a pathway. The wizard, the bandit’s boss, on the other side quickly closed the hole, but his efforts were in vain. All ten men began to slam their hammers into the bubble, freezing it over and smashing through it in an incredibly efficient manner.

  The wizard’s energy wasn’t infinite, and the enchantments on the High Inquisitor’s hammers were going to last longer than the bubble was. So, in a surge of desperation, the bubble dropped and the wizard called out:

  “The men who survive will get a 10 times pay raise!”

  Which got the remaining 25 men to throw themselves forward. And once again, it didn’t matter. The 25 men attempted to pull down and beat the High Inquisitors to death, which worked on two of them, mind you. The remaining 8 proved too strong for that however, beating and crushing the hoard while showing no visible moral loss for their brother's deaths, only growing increasingly fervent in their will to purge these heathens.

  The High Inquisitors tore through the bandits like paper, their hammers crushing through armor and shattering bones into gravel as they swung, and swung, and swung as if mowing the particularly angry grass. They walked forward and began to close in around the bandits, surrounding them and crushing them in on all sides while killing anyone who attempted to make a break between the small holes the huge men left as they encircled their targets.

  Some begged for mercy, some pleaded surrender, and they were killed just as well. The time for mercy was over, and they already had the chance to give up. The Wizard at the center of the hoard attempted to launch high-pressure beams of water at the inquisitors, who were more than quick enough to grab a bandit and use them as a shield.

  Slowly but surely, the bandits were crushed, and as they reached the wizard, Loram offered one last term:

  “Heretic.”

  And so the wizard’s scream was cut short as his skull was crushed.

  Chapter 2:

  The clean-up was quick. The fallen brothers were stripped of their war gear and buried on the spot. The killed bandits had their heads mounted on wooden spikes, made quickly from roots sticking up and out of the bog. Each bit of war gear was fairly heavy, with cuirasses of solid steel engraved with runes and holy sigils meant to harden the armor even further. Above and over that was a hooded robe of black and silver with an iron mask. Below was a set of steel greaves and sabatons, also engraved with the same sigils and runes which kept the whole set more than capable of keeping up with even the most modern equipment.

  Loram offered up a prayer to Fate for his brother’s souls, and called out to his team.

  Loram: “It is time to move back home. We must gather two new brothers at the monastery and await further orders.”

  The other High Inquisitors gave solemn nods, knowing the price of their line of work. It’s been drilled into their heads for long enough. So, they walked. They were in the same countryside as the cathedral, thankfully, so it was only about an hour’s walk back home.

  Oh, Calabra Cathedral: it’s a small institution about the size of a small village, maybe 500 people, filled with inquisitors and high inquisitors only. They, and Loram, look over Calabra and the area around it, protecting it from treachery, bandits, and the impure. It was a large set of stone buildings, with flagstone pathways and small gardens where most of the food was grown. The Cathedral’s Head Priestess, and the woman who gave orders, was Sister Ipsum, a fond believer of Fate and having the convent grow its own food rather than rely on the nearby city. She was a smart lady, and maybe a bit of a prick, though Loram would never voice such a thing aloud. He likes being allowed to sleep on a bed.

  As the squad made their way through the arches and gardens, they finally made it to the front gate of the cathedral, where they were met by two guards. Without a word, the two guards nodded in unison and allowed the High Inquisitors through, offering no condolences for the fallen brothers

  The inside of the Cathedral was beautiful: golden-threaded tapestries lined the walls, reliquaries sat hung up next to ceremonial swords and armors, bolted into marble walls. The nightly sermon had already ended a few hours ago, meaning it was late into the night by now. Pews stretched out across the space, where kneeling mats lay beneath them. The carpet was plush, and the Inquisitors took off their muddied steel boots to not track muck onto it. In the walls were latched gems which gave off refracting light, casting a colored glow all across the room, giving it a dreamlike quality, which was only amplified by the holy wax seals and candles that illuminated anything not brightened by the gems. The entire space was holy, and woe be unto anyone who would drag even a speck of filth into it. Priestess Ipsum would surely force them to comb over the entire place with the smallest brush possible… Loram knew from experience.

  Each High Inquisitor kneeled before the lectern at the head of the space, before quickly walking past as silently as possible. Quickly after, they made their ways into the space behind the frontmost hall of worship; the heart of the convent, the barracks. It was a small wooden building, barely tall enough to allow Loram to enter standing up straight. The walls were lined with furs and a small hearth was at the north end, which only ever served to heat maybe half the room. Woe to the man on the south end, for no one would spare him a blanket.

  The men began to undo their armor with help from their nearest brother, managing to take one another’s armor off quickly enough. Everyone was tired, and wet, and cold from the bog. Half of the them wanted to go take a warm bath, and the other half silently urged the former to shut the fuck up and go to sleep. Sadly, there was no warm water, for it was 2 AM, and no one was willing to wake up to help them. So, the ladder won out, and everyone went to sleep.

  Everyone except Loram, who kept going back to the two men who died. He didn’t even know their names, he didn’t know anyone’s names, because they hadn’t been given any. Only Loram was given a name because he was the captain, something which had him questioning himself. Was he the right man for the job? What if one of the dead men had been in charge, would they still be around, and he dead and buried in a bog?

  Loram shook off these thoughts, and closed his eyes, praying in his head for swift sleep. Just then, he felt the nip of winter’s cold. Fate be damned, Loram was on the south side of the barracks…

  Chapter 3:

  Loram and his squad got about 6 hours of sleep, managing to groan through the first rooster calls, but not the next few. So, Loram called out very begrudgingly:

  “Everyone up. It’s time for food.”

  Which got a halfhearted:

  “Hoorayyyyyy…”

  From the squad. Regardless, it got them up at least. Everyone dressed from their nightly linens and into black and silver robes. Loram paused at his turn to use the communal mirror:

  10’3, 600 pounds of muscle, brown hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. He looked sculpted rather than born, and it put a pit in the bottom of his stomach to look at himself. The impatient grunts pushed Loram to shake off this funk and continue getting dressed. As High Inquisitors, it was their duty to look as close to perfect as possible. They were supposed to be the cream of the crop, the peak of perfection. That’s all they’ve ever been told, at least. So, Loram put on black robes, linen trousers, and boots. He put the robe’s hood up and stepped out of the way of the mirror and let the rest of his nameless squad get ready. This was the 2nd squad, not quite the peak of what the Calabran Cathedral had to offer, but damned close. In practice, you’d think this’d get them some respect. It didn’t, it got work that was “too hard” for grunts but was seen as “Too base” for 1st squad to take.

  2nd squad, with Loram at the head, began moving to the mess hall. That space, too, was overly opulent and expensive looking. It was near the barracks, which was right behind the frontal space of worship, essentially making the Mess Hall near the center of the entire convent. The space itself, as Loram and 2nd squad stepped in, was covered in incense and sacred, ever-burning candles. Wax seals with engraved sigils lined the walls along with smoked hides from expensive, rare beasts. Some hides were scaled, some were rough, and others still were surprisingly soft. Regardless, they kept the heat in during winter and insulated the wooden building during the summer.

  The inside of the building had a going hearth and a few runes along the roof meant to heat the space further. The hard wooden seats had furs stretched over and sewn in over padding to give some attempt at leisure, which made them prettier than they had succeeded in their original mission.

  2nd squad sat down, and as captain, Loram sighed and walked up to the nice lady at the counter. He never learned her name, and he wasn’t allowed to ask. “High Inquisitors were only meant to be inquisitive outside of the convent”, that was what Priestess Ipsum had said during orientation. Yet, somehow, Loram felt joy when he saw this particular lady. Maybe it helped she was near his height, and didn’t seem scared when she saw him, unlike most of the other minor inquisitors.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Loram: “Excuse me, sister. May my squad and I receive whatever is being served?”

  Nice Lady: “Why, of course, sugar. We got lottsa eggs, home fries, and them little sausages. Turkey, which I’m pretty sure you said you prefer, right big guy?”

  Loram’s heart soared like that of an especially zippy eagle. For her to remember such a small thing, to him, was a kindness unexpected and, to him, undeserved. Loram had to suppress his smile from going giddy, instead allowing himself a slight tilt of the corners of his mouth.

  Loram: “Correct, sister. I thank you for remembering such a thing.”

  The sister smiled back at him and began loading 8 plates up high, Loram taking and ferrying them as they were completed to the squad. Well trained as they were, the squad waited kindly for the rest of their brothers to receive their plate, something instilled in them for a long time as “Basic Manners”, which was part of their basic training. Eventually, all 8 plates were at the table, and Loram and Second squad had their fill of eggs, cheese, home fries, and little sausages. Happiness indeed, a small comfort for their weary, tired hearts.

  And it didn’t last long, for the moment the last plate was finished, Loram cleared his throat and uttered:

  “Off to work we go, then.”

  And just like that, the plates were placed in their respective receptacle, and the whole team set out to do yard work.

  This, too, was part of their training. Working out was great, and physical education was always going to be part of basics, but helping to farm taught them how to use their muscles actively. The idea, also formed by Priestess Ipsum, was simple: “Teach a man to lift, and he will lift. Teach a man to work, and he will work. I expect you all to work.”. Wise words from a very scary woman. Each member of the squad was terrified of her, not because they expected beatings, but because going against her just made more work in the long run. Each man felt they had more than enough work, thank you very much.

  So, the men got to work on the gardens which lined the flagstone pathways. This mostly looked like clearing large roots, picking weeds, and watering what needed it while spraying down bonemeal and other such rot for the plants to feast upon. The process was spectacularly boring, but Loram couldn’t deny the effect it had on the Inquisitors. Everyone seemed calm, if dirty while doing such basic tasks. It was their own little responsibility, their own little mission. The best part, it didn’t involve blood or killing. Loram knew that the men liked that part the most. Yet, it was not to last. While Loram faced a particularly stubborn root, he heard a woman clear her throat.

  Chapter 4:

  Looking up, Loram found himself face to face with Priestess Ipsum. Immediately, he righted himself and stood up straight, dirt and soil spraying from his hands as the thick root snapped back down to the ground, all for the sake of him saluting in her presence as he was trained to do.

  Loram: “Mam! It’s my honor to-“

  Ipsum: “Why are there only 8 people in your squad, soldier?”

  Loram: “They fell in battle, mam! I have yet to gather two more brothers, as we have yet to be given new orders requiring them!”

  Ipsum sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.

  Ipsum: “That’s, not how that works… but you haven’t lost soldiers yet, so I’ll… let it slide. This time.

  Loram: “Yes mam! I thank you for your perfect patience and understanding in all situations.”

  Ipsum smirked:

  “I know you’re made to say that… but you’re right.”

  Loram blinked a few times, not sure what to make of that statement. Made? What did she mean by that, and why is Loram having a hard time even trying to consider the statement further?

  Ipsum: “Now then, I want you all to… Actually, now there’s an idea…”

  Ipsum got a smile on her face, one that just screamed “Collateral damage”. It was a look Loram had gotten used to, and it was the same expression she had when Loram and 2nd squad were sent out to kill bandits. It always meant she had an idea, it always meant there would be a cost, but it was almost always for the best. So, Loram forced down a sigh, and waited for orders.

  Ipsum: “Don’t gather two more men, I want you to go into Calabra City itself. There are whispers of someone raising the dead and using them for… “escapades”. Some items have been stolen, some people have gone missing, the works. So, a less-than-maximum capacity group is perfect. People would whisper if a full set of High Inquisitors was sent in, so just 8? They’ll think you’re on leave, or are waiting for reinforcements. Perfect job, Ipsum. Your genius will save more lives yet again~”

  Ipsum continued to prattle on about how smart she was for a few minutes, giggling to herself and muttering things that would have gotten Loram yelled at to question. She was always like this, though to her credit, she was a genius. It was she who gave orders against the bandits. That plan killed 40 armed bandits and displaced 10 more at the cost of two men. So, Loram waited patiently, still saluting while his men finished up garden work.

  A few minutes later, Ipsum blinked and looked to Loram.

  Ipsum: “Oh, you’re still here. Right then, I’m going to go write up orders for your “Leave” in the city. Be prepared to leave by tomorrow morning, you’ll be staying up in an unused church. Don’t worry, it’s not infested or anything like that, we just opened a new, shinier one that became more popular. Have fun, boys~”

  And so, just like that, Ipsum gave Loram new orders. Flighty as ever, that one. Loram sighed, and got back to ripping roots out of the ground. This would be a long set of orders, more than likely. As such, Loram, the moment farm work was over, ordered all of his men to relax for the rest of the day, and, thank Fate, they were on time to get baths. This may be the last bit of comfort they get for a while, so Loram wanted to get as much of it as possible.

  The baths were nice, they had large, sealed wooden tubs they’d lay down in, and simply allow the runes at the bottom to warm the water. The tubs were even in separate rooms, allowing some of the only private time the High Inquisitors ever got.

  Loram commonly used this time to try and think, to try and figure out what exactly was going on in his head. Little things like “Where am I?” and “Is this where I’m supposed to be?”, which he had a hard time even considering while around Priestess Ipsum. Thinking about it… “Made”. Ah, that must be it. Loram and his crew were simply made to be here, like how the plants were made to be eaten. Of course, that made sense.

  Loram allowed himself to relax in his tub of warm water, feeling the warmest of the water rise against his massive, muscular back. He sighed, feeling a sense of peace wash over him. He was exactly where he was supposed to be. What more could he possibly ask for?

  Loram went to sleep happy that night, in a set of clean linens, content with the knowledge that, whatever the case, things were the way they were supposed to be.

  Prolog 2:

  Clutch had been down in that dank pit for far longer than he cared to know, but he stayed true to his mother’s instructions. The first month was painful, the need for light to stretch out beyond the 4-by-5 space gnawed at his mind and he grew bored quickly. There were a few books down there, a few old, leather-bound fairytales his mother used to read to him when he was 7 and below. That was 6 years ago now, making Clutch 13. He read them over, and over again, for a very long time. He read them until he began to run out of candles, so he instead sat in the dark and slept for as long as he could. The air began to smell foul, the scent of an unwashed boy and his filth hanging heavy in the stagnant, hardly breathable air. Yet still, he waited.

  The second month went by much more quickly, Clutch growing used to that dark, the absolute pitch which was cast by covered windows and the earthen dug-out which neither sunlight nor starlight could reach. He slept and ate, and slept, and ate. He did this for as long as he could, making down how many days it had been with preserved jam dried onto the pages of those old storybooks. Every time he heard another cry, he would rip out the page he had marked and began again.

  Soon, his sleep grew interrupted by the sound of skittering and shuddering. He dared not light the candles, he didn’t want to see what was living in the space with him. It was an excuse, a cowardly venture which he hoped would allow him to live in peace with whatever it was.

  So, he continued. So, he waited.

  Chapter 5:

  The next morning was a blur: Loram roused his men and moved them into their gear, personally ensuring everything was perfect. They didn’t even have the chance to work the soil before they were all tossed into covered wagons and told “Not to cause any trouble” by Ipsum, and then handed sheets of paper.

  The papers read very simply: “You are ‘on leave’ as far as everyone is concerned. You may assist others where needed but remember, the priority is defending the city and its property. If you catch wind of the undead, destroy it. If you find the necromancer, kill them and come home. You will not return until the situation is stabilized.”

  Direct as always, she was, and Loram wasn’t about to question things. It’s not like his fellows were going to either. Loram had started keeping an eye on them, trying to gauge if they were aware as he was… and as far as Loram could see, they weren’t. Loram was the only one of them who was “awake” if you wanted to use that term. He decided to try again, one last time, just to make sure.

  Loram looked over at the High Inquisitor next to him and asked:

  “How are you doing today?”

  The High Inquisitor didn’t even blink. He just continued to stare forward, waiting for further orders. It was equal parts disappointing and relieving, in that if they were to die, they likely wouldn’t feel pain. On the other hand, however, Loram slowly began to realize exactly how alone he was. He essentially had a pack of man-shaped weapons at his side, ones that would only follow his orders, regardless of what they were.

  Loram’s mind wandered as the caravan moved, the sound of rocks and gravel crunching underneath wooden wheels as he began to think. How had he not noticed the others weren’t really… there? They always did exactly what he said, even if it wasn’t to the letter. They’d said “Hooray” just two days ago, so why… why did they only react sometimes?

  It was upsetting to Loram, that they were in there somewhere, but under a blanket of malaise and brain fog. Furthermore, Loram was feeling frankly rather indignant at being the first and seemingly only one to “Wake up”. He couldn’t tell when it happened, but suddenly, he went from being just like them to being himself.

  Loram sighed and ran a hand across his helmet, these thoughts were too large for him to handle. He’d have to take them a bite at a time. So, he would, and he’d be in the perfect place to do it. The city, Calabra, was A place where he wouldn’t have orders. A place to think.

  The ride ended soon, as the convent was in the same stretch of land considered to be “Calabran” in nature. It took less than half a day, and the entrance to the city was… rather nice. The small caravan Loram found himself on stretched itself forward as the head cartman showed off a holy sigil, causing the guard’s eyes to go wide and let the entire set of carts into the city instantly.

  The walls were made of large hewn stone blocks which were held together with a thick mortar, and blessed silver rods along the center of where the bricks met, so as to guard the weakest points from a direct magical assault. The walls themselves stretched for miles to the sides, wrapping all the way around the large town in a granite embrace. Each stone block was yards tall, easily taller and wider than Loram himself, then stacked in rows and columns to ensure nothing could get past the wall without great force, magic, and effort.

  Loram and his squad made their way into the city proper within minutes, being pushed out of their carts and told to move north. The city was sprawling, almost reckless in its immensity. For miles, slate roads stretched out, held to a wooden pathway with yet more mortar and other such bonding agents binding the stone to the wooden guide. It had an odd effect on the landscape, turning what were once large fields and bulbous hills into a seemingly never-ending “Main Street”.

  The street was lined with stalls, buildings, homes, and houses, all made with various materials dependent on their species, their place of upbringing, and other deciding factors. Some buildings had thatch roofs and wooden bodies, the bulk of which were either rundown or recently renovated, seemingly the eldest of the buildings here. The newer sets were made with wax paper walls and fallen-out feathers, no doubt the result of Sither’s personal allied city-state, the Featherborn. Other buildings still were made with hewn stone and mortar, something of Linsosian make, Sither’s neighbors to the east. All these buildings had stalls outside of them, most of which were made cheaply to quickly sell various goods.

  And oh the goods: sprawling amounts of gear, of tools, of food, and of men and women buying them. The sound was immense, a market miles wide with people filling every inch of it. The scent of salt and butter and spices filled the air, and Loram found himself overwhelmed with the sheer volume of things and people. He had spent his entire life in a small convent, or on battlefields. His instincts threatened to take over, for him to grab his hammer and scream at his men to charge in some unfortunate direction.

  Instead, Loram shook his head and forced down the unpleasant warmth that spread through his chest and up his neck. He looked to his men and bade them north along a less populated road, as to avoid the more populated path. It was best this way, as it would avoid drawing attention to him and the squad, as well as help Loram get a handle on this strange choking feeling that threatened to overwhelm him. So, he made his way north, and very quickly at that.

  Chapter 6:

  Prolog 3:

  Finally, after what felt like a short eternity, upon the 14th day of the 3rd month, Clutch hadn’t heard a single cry in the promised two weeks. So, using his last candle, he lit it, used to the darkened space and knowing exactly what and where everything was, and saw for the first time in weeks what had become of that cellar. His skin was stained black and brown with grime and sweat, most of the food had rotted from the humidity and smell he brought with him, and he had grown gaunt and pale. The floor was covered with pages, all the books torn apart with jam and grime in a pool of maggots. Ah, so that was the terrible, shuddering sound that kept Clutch awake most nights.

  With a shivering step, he began his way around the piled insects and flies, and up towards the main room of his family home. The home his father had stayed in before he went off to war, the home his mother spent all day cleaning while Clutch studied. The home with a thousand good memories he knew were likely going to remain memories, or perhaps even less than that once he stepped out of that cellar.

  His hand reached forward, and he felt a sudden surge of anxiety. Had it truly been as he had thought? Was it truly 14 days of nothing? He checked his book again, the last one, and he read 14 dashes of strawberry jam across the surface of those pages. Dried as they were, it looked almost like brackish tar, or unsightly, dried blood. Crusty and peeling, awful and grotesque. The smell made Clutch drop the book the moment he had confirmed what he thought was true.

  He slowly opened the door, where the outside world smelled no better than his little cellar. The smell of death lingered through the whole house. He slowly made his way towards the living room, where he saw a humanoid shape under a blanket, where brown and black liquid stuck the fabric to the remaining skin. Clutch looked down, and his worst fear had come true right before his eyes. The skirt of a blue and red dress poked out the bottom of the sheet. Clutch walked past the body of his mother, still sitting on the couch as if waiting for him to return from a day at school. He stepped outside, where a litany of bodies in much the same decayed, melting state his mother shared was his only greeting.

  Prolog 4:

  Clutch slowly walked along the streetside, grey brick and shale marking and denoting where a pedestrian could walk and where a wagon would go. He still followed the rules of the road, even when he was the only one walking them. He knew not where he was going, only that he couldn’t stay here.

  He walked for a while, until his gaunt legs, unworked for three and a half months, finally gave out before the city gates. He began to cry, to wail, to scream. What else was he to do? His father was never coming home. His mother was never going to smile at him again. His neighbors would never again offer a joint dinner. The garden would never again grow food. Misery was the boy’s only companion, as was warranted a reaction as any.

  “I want it all back.”

  The boy sobbed the words out, trying everything in his power to will them into reality.

  “I want it all back. Please.”

  He begged. He prayed. He screamed.

  “I want it all back!”

  He said it over, and over, and over again. Until the moon came up, he sat there, and he sobbed, until no more tears would come, and all he could do was sob and stifle wretches.

  “You have nothing.”

  The boy heard a voice. Clutch looked up, and saw a road stretching out. The grey bricks and shale were lined with dried pus and leaking bodies. No one had lit a lantern in months, and yet standing there under a street lantern was a shadowy figure. It had 4 eyes and long claws, a large brimmed hat and flat feet with no toes. It stood there, and looked at him with pity.

  “If you would give that nothing to me, I will replace it. Give me everything you have left, all that nothing, all that potential. I will turn it into something else.”

  The boy jumped at the offer, begging:

  “Please. Anything to feel anything else.”

  So the figure nodded, and Clutch felt something cold rend through his chest. He looked down, and saw the man’s hand dipping through and into his heart. In an instant, the overwhelming despair was replaced by an all-consuming want.

  “Say it with me now, dear boy:”

  The apparition said the words calmly, and somehow, Clutch knew exactly what to say:

  “I will get it all back.”