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?
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…