Wheeling Gull Isle Cloaks of Mist

it happened during a younger moon.

in the depths of the cave, all that had once taken soft root in the corpse had been expunged.

roots and stems. caps and crystalized sap. memories to be assorted by flies.

and while the corpse had indeed experienced the winddown of withdrawal, it still felt the pull. it was not the want for life - an impossible irony - but another symptom of internal rot.

the corpse wished to be intimate with that which would someday claim it anyway.

it disturbed the fields of lavender, flattened snout to the ground. the scent was pungent, hiding any other herb which might grow therein. the growing frustration made the oncoming fever worsen.

the corpse raised its head barely above the flowers, its pushed out tongue same shade as them.