"Hey there, Malcanthet, how is it that I died?"

The corpses like to ask of me as I drain them dry.

"You fell upon a flail, your chest was near ripped out."

"You tripped upon a rock, my foot crushed in your snout!"

They plead and cry and moan and groan, as I prepare to feast.

Begging me to tell their tale whilst I chew them, piece by piece.

The dead, they are so curious, with unending litanies.

As if the world will stop for them and all else cease to be.

"An Imp has got to eat," says I, tending my victuals.

"Is that Dhar a-callin?"

(A sigh)

Cadavers can be so difficult!


Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 15th of Variach, in the year 495 MA.