On Your Soul

It tears into your arm and sups on tendons. It drinks, gorging itself on heart-blood and memories. It rests, hunger not yet slaked, on the cold earth of your grave.

Panting, the beast's sick satisfaction, fills the air, and its chain-tail rattles behind.

{if Connected: The One-Eyed Captain > 8}A lone shade, the One-Eyed Captain has come to mourn you. She approaches, blinded by tears and blind to the danger. It growls and whispers and she, the flowers in her hand trembling, sinks to her knees.

You dig and you burrow, your fingers cold and red from mud. She needs your help, but your graveyard touch keeps her bound. Soon her muffled moans have turned to fevered screams.

{elseif Connected: The One-Eyed Captain = 3} A lone shade, the One-Eyed Captain has come to mourn you. She approaches, blinded by tears and blind to the danger. It growls and whispers and she, the flowers in her hand trembling, sinks to her knees.

You taste poison, oak and graveyard spices. A root grows and sap smears her soles. Branches tear her evening dress and she, gasping, grasps the tabletop.

{elseif Connected: The Younger Dustwell > 4} {if Connected: The Younger Dustwell = 11}A lone shade, the Younger Dustwell has come to mourn you. She approaches, blinded by tears and blind to the danger. It growls and whispers and she, the flowers in her hand trembling, sinks to her knees.

Your corpse twitches to a wretched semblance of life, staring at her with pinprick eyes. A finger, lifeless and limp like a string of old leather, touches her but you do not push her away.

You do not lie, offering quiet and treacherous shadows. She drinks jelly and brine, falling asleep with only her green sundress for a blanket.

{elseif Connected: The Younger Dustwell = 9} A lone shade, the Younger Dustwell has come to mourn you. She approaches, blinded by tears and blind to the danger. It growls and whispers and she, the flowers in her hand trembling, sinks to her knees.

Your corpse twitches to a wretched semblance of life, staring at her with pinprick eyes. A finger, lifeless and limp like a string of old leather, touches her but you do not push her away.

She is fallen, down on her back, raising her ass from the cold soil on shaking legs. Shudders pin-prick her skin. She dips low, legs atremble, but thrusts herself back up.

{else} A lone shade, the Younger Dustwell has come to mourn you. She approaches, blinded by tears and blind to the danger. It growls and whispers and she, the flowers in her hand trembling, sinks to her knees.

Your bloodshot eye opens. You taste ash and graveyard soil. Nectar drips from her lips, cherry juice and brine. A word is enough. Not a warning, because her hungry hole is slick with need, a hungry void that closes to swallow up her knuckles.

{endif}

{else} A lone shade has come to mourn you. She approaches, blinded by tears and blind to the danger. The hound growls and whispers and she, the flowers in her hand trembling, sinks to her knees.

Her featureless face means nothing to you, and you do not betray her. The trap is sprung and she is caught without your doing. You have forgotten – or you never cared – and you do not save her.

{endif}

Then the beast is atop her, drooling slaver down on her face. But she cannot see. Its tongue and teeth tear into her, and its howls invite you to the feast. And you wriggle your maggot fingers, a hungry traitor and a hungry corpse. Her flesh is pliant, fresh – and the two monsters eat well.

You have lost [1] Sanity

Your Sanity is now: 1 – THE TERROR

You wake, pumping your cock. The image, her body warm and willing, clings to your lids and stains your hands.