Monday, January 9, 2017

100 Words a Day 993

The walls of the dining hall dripped with fresh, crimson blood. Limbs were haphazardly strewn about, torsos resting on the floor with entrails spilling.

The lone survivor was a man who looked like a hodgepodge of the sentient, monstrous races of the continent. Swiveling eyestalks topped his head; one arm was large, purple, and bulbous. He swayed through the room, looking closely at the slippery piles of gore. He examined each limb with a careful eye. Selecting one from soupy mess, he held it against the red, running stump of his own arm.

“Drat, that’s not the right one either.”

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