Imagine being a Threshecutioner on command from the High Honkkulist Sermonster and you get your innards rearranged at the hands of a young mutant grub with a broken bottle because you were too busy barking orders at the Jadeblood Market Stallwarts to get a move on. What would you see? I think it's a vast field of black-red razorgrass, cultivated for feed, bandages, and execution pyre kindling. The stalks are almost as tall as you, glassy at the edges, and while they'd normally slice up your hands as you push through them, you realize you're dead. They can't cut you anymore. You are awake, wandering through the medow under Alternia's bruised sky. The moons are low and strong, the battlefield and its noise of alarms, drones, and screaming have all become distant. It's like you're underwater. The only thing you can really hear is your own blood pounding through you, dripping out of the wound all the same. The cullgrain parts ahead of you, bending like it recognizes you. It was waiting for you. Or, maybe, she was. Your Matesprit. The one troll you were never allowed to keep. She's standing beside that old feeding trough, with a broken scythe laying against the fence of the hive you both built together but knew neither of you would ever retire to. You barely see them. A black dress under the incandescent pink moonlight. Her horns a silhouette as her hand is outstretched to you. She's calmer and happier in no way a troll has ever been while alive. This is impossible because fields on Alternia are dangerous, matesprits die young, and nobody gets a peaceful afterlife. But for once, the empire, the drones, the hemospectrum, and the noise are all behind them. #Violence #Gore #Mournful #Iguess