Description

I lost count how many times the whip-master let us sleep since I last saw my children or wife. I do not know if they yet still breathe. I do not feel the lash of the whip anymore. I wonder… do I even live?

Each day, they drag us into the fields. There is no light to work by. We work until our fingers are stained crimson from the thorn-lacerations and splinters driven under the nails. Today, a worker triggered a cloud of spores. I envy the joy they expressed as their head cracked against the stone and their last gasp of air escaped. They are fortunate. We are fed the rotten scraps of what we gather. If we do not gather, we do not eat. I wish I could offer my children my share.

One of workers speaks of the Moon Maiden whispering to him. Ha! What moon!? The fool. No light reaches us down here. We are doomed to die in our own filth before she finds us in the dark.

As reviewed by Runeforeged: