Turnip stumbled down the cobbled streets, gangly knees barely keeping them upright. Behind them, an iron-faced guard kept pace, blood tricking from its eyes, rotten hand out-stretched, reaching, grasping, clawing.
The ground slick, bare feet sliding on blood and worse. Bloated corpses leaking onto bone cobbles. Flies with every breath, crawling in nostrils and invading throats. Turnip slipped, hand grasping hand, a warm living arm.
Change is coming
The arm gone. Ground cold, wet. Guard close behind. Scrabbling through viscera. Not fast enough. Black bag comes down. Darkness.
Naeris awakes, drenched in sweat. Shivering, they move closer to the fire and sob gently in the dying light.