The cold from the packed earth below me pushed up to mix with the bitter corruption pushing through my flesh. Many hands rushed over me and questions flew through the air around me like crossbow bolts, but they never seemed to land. One question managed to slip through the fog.  “That’s a lot of blood, are you hurt anywhere else?” “It’s not… mine…” I mutter as pain wells in my chest and hot tears push past the corners of my eyes.  It all happened so fast. Mousse had stepped a

TresLeches Gren lowered Poprock Gren to the ground, blood pouring from her neck as her hands tried in futility to keep it from flowing. Her eyes locked on him in confusion and horror. He lowered her repeating “I’m sorry, Poprock! I’m sorry, Poprock!” TresLeches didn’t know why, but after she had jumped on the Baroness he took Poprock’s knife from her and cut her throat with it. Now he sat above her, wondering what was going on. His mind tuned out the screams and cries going o

They didn’t pick the right Gren. I know that now. Mousse should’ve been the one to rise. Rumbaba had the grit and the mind. Mango could make the world weep and want to help. Hell, even Streusel could’ve browbeat death into retreat if you gave him two minutes and a podium. But not me. I was the wrong Gren. And I didn’t wake up. I got dragged back. When I hit the stones—face-first, ribs shattered, breath gone—the first vial on my belt cracked beneath me like a snapped tooth. I

Cold and dark. Poprock stood in the shadow of the manor. Or perhaps a memory of it. Translucent walls and doors not more than mist trailing into the void beyond. Some magic locked it in place, fighting against its nature to evaporate. And she was alone. No.  Not quite.  Figures drifted in the dark. A shadow in a sunbrimmed hat hummed softly as it wandered past. A large figure full of wrath charged past into the void. And darker things lurked beyond. Malice and hatred. But not