prøtotypê

A lanky young man with claws for hands. At one point he was me.

But I still see him.

I thought he was gone. I stopped. “No more cutting,” I said. Why is he still here?

M

The butcher in Whitby? Is he bringing it back? I don’t understand. He’s dead, that’s not possible.

“One more morsel.”

For a single Gil?

Morsengyl? I don’t understand. The yearly census. The ships taken overseas. The harm they did…

💀👻😈👹🖤

And the gang’s all here…