WickedCadrach

(I'm a little tired, so if I get the Cortex mechanics side wrong, sorry!) Would it scratch the itch when we get to the Pathways step if we put in a specific NPC or location that was 'the one guy who really believes gliders are the future'? I'm just hesitant to drop them in here because this step feels more like 'These are the defining things about this setting; The things we want the game to be about'

Welcome @AsBloodTurnsEverCold! I love your character idea, and I'm on board with 99% of what you've put up there. I do have a quick question on the gliders. How do you imagine them in the world? I'm trying to picture it and the setups I'm getting are... A) It's just this weird novel technology that's more gimmick than useful so far, so only the wealthy and eccentric own them. B) It's profitable enough that some entrepreneur has set up Glider Posts in a few cities that either have natural hills or towers/scaffolds to launch them from. So it's a rival to trains in a very limited sense. You can send a thousand-times the cargo weight over further distances more reliably with a train, but only after you invest years of track-laying and engine building. C) The technology is out there, and yes there are legitimate uses (like B), but travelers have to watch for glider banditos swooping out of the hills and other such incidental encounters day to day. My worry with B and C is that I feel like we're getting further and further from the feel of the Old West with horses and wagons and long lonely trails. If I'm the only one, then that's ok. But I would exclude gliders and say airships are the only widely known way to travel by air.

That is the rumor. Though, from what I understand, it was likely just part of the smear campaign against him. Good fodder for alt-history though!

Just because I can never sit quietly and let other people figure out their own characters... If you're playing a European character knowledgeable in esoteric sex magic, you might also get some inspiration from the reputation of the Khlysty heresy, which would have been in its last decades around this time. The basic idea was "God is glorified by forgiving sins, therefore, the more we sin, the more God is glorified. Amen *start the orgy*" Other takes are that it was sort of the same logic as 'the Purge', "everybody get together and sin your hearts out for a night because we have to be godly the rest of the week." Ok. I'll try not to keep doing this, but I felt as if I might literally explode if I didn't send that, so there you go.

@IsabellaRose Thank you for putting what I was just working out how to express so cleanly and clearly.

I agree with this notion. It's a touch early for the Golden Dawn to be a thing, but it feels like Hermetic and Thelemic magic might be an aesthetic choice that makes sense for a character like that. EDIT: Oh! Also, if you want to go nuts with it, Google 'Thelemic sex magic'. Crowley was just... if I read about this man in a book, I'd say the author was stretching believability. EDIT 2: Eroto-comatose lucidity - aka, slow, tantric sex until you see the gods and spirits of the invisible world. Like I said... wild stuff.

The geography's actually super easy. Just remember two rivers and California. The Mississippi runs north to south and cuts the USA in half. In 1880, everything east is 'civilization', and everything west is wilderness, homesteads, and one-street towns (basically). The Rio Grande runs from the north-west to the south-east and divides the USA from Mexico. Mexico used to own a bunch of stuff north of the Rio Grande but lost it after people decided they'd rather be part of the USA, mainly because that meant they'd get to keep owning other people as property. The USA changes its mind on that idea a while later anyway. California is as west as west goes, and it's so rich and fertile that people are going to have serious talks about whether it should be its own country for awhile. ... In my rambling, I think I've stumbled on another Old West trope that might need figuring out. In real-world history, 1880 is only 15 years after the end of the American Civil War. There's a formerly enslaved population, and a bunch of former rebel soldiers dealing with the fallout (many going west to start over or do some very un-nice things as their individual personalities dictate). Since it didn't come up so far, I don't know if anyone's interested in playing with those elements. So if we want to just say 'none of that happened' (not the slavery or the civil war), I'm happy to roll with that. If we leave it in, it sounds like it might just be backdrop since no one went out of their way to bring it up.

Agreeing with this. The feeling of exposure and self-reliance when there's one lawman for your town and sometimes not even that (I'm thinking of Bass Reeves, the US Marshal who was the only lawman covering a frontier territory roughly the size of South Dakota and the real-world inspiration behind The Lone Ranger).

Just want to second @StarlitSiren's ideas of Balls and Horses. A gala ball filled with frontier opulence and barely obscured debauchery sounds delicious. And while I think planes go a bit too far, I think @Chiyako's idea a few cars as novelties of the wealthy or eccentric inventors fits well.

Hi, everyone! I'm alive. Sorry I wasn't around most of the week, but I'm back. Okie-dokie, first up, I want: Airships : aesthetically, I would prefer zeppelins and hot air balloons over anything more scifi or fantasy. Automatons : I think it could be neat to treat automatons the way trains are often treated in Westerns. They are emblematic of the blight of progress, pushing out simple folk and making their lives harder while the wealthy robber barons control their manufacture and use from distant cities. I'm thinking *The Octopus* but with clockwork track-layers, coal shovelers, and even steam-driven oxen pulling Union-Pacific branded plows while the simple farmer behind on his payments to the land baron can only watch in dread at the technology in the next field slowly tilling him under with every row. The tension with Automatons can also go into John Henry veins and even spur Luddite groups to acts of sabotage and explosive, dynamite-fueled arson to fight back. Gunfighters in dusty streets : particularly if their spurs jangle, their cigarettes are hand-rolled, and their calloused hands are surprisingly gentle (at first) The Invisible World : A la Lovecraft's From Beyond, I like the idea of a strange, alien dimension overlapping with the material world. As is the case in the story, perhaps some weird-science steam-tech has created a way to use the dimension for fuel, scientific study, or even the first stirrings of worm-hole travel (naturally drawing the attention of the wealthy railway barons eager to silence and bury the tech before it undercuts their monopoly). It could be that the folk magic of the era or the exploding Spiritualist movement of the late 1800s is actually tapping into this invisible world without realizing. Speaking of... The Fox Sisters - Crowley - The Spiritualism of the late 1800s : I don't mean to include these figures literally, but I do think that movements and figures akin to them add a presence that brings a certain spookiness to the Weird West that contrasts nicely and adds depth to the clockwork, steam, and steel. I also think that while there are surely a heavy number of hucksters and charlatans, it would work in the setting to have the general content based in some reality (minor supernatural stuff, as @Chiyako put it). Gold : We could use the almost magical ore mentioned in the original thread (coal that doesn't burn or burns with supernatural efficiency), or we could use actual gold, but I think having some resource rush (or the aftermath of one) gives us interesting tension points with desperate prospectors, sketchy land claims, and people who stand to win or lose fortunes on how quickly they act on whispered rumors. Missions : It's classically Western to have the Padre at the old Mission, and while we may want to eschew real world Catholicism, having an in-world religion that acts as both a refuge to the simple folk of the land as well as a source of pain and contention to the native cultures and folk magic traditions feels right. Whatever form it takes, some sort of religious outpost (perhaps devotees of the Ashborn?) would help round things out a little more. Secondly, I'm intrigued, but have caveats: Monsters : Chiyako mentioned minor monster stuff, and I think if could be fun to have monsters in the classic Universal Monster sense. What I mean is, there's not packs of werewolves in the canyons, but there's THE wolf man who haunts the old swamp. The government's official stance is that vampires are folklore, but people still hang garlic wreathes and draw crosses inside carriage doors because they know Colonel Widdershins in the old plantation house consorts with the dark powers. And the creature that's half-man half-fish dwells in the Rio Grande, ready to pull unsuspecting bathers to its subterranean grotto. I'm ok with them not being strictly 'evil', but think it works best if they are decidedly 'monstrous'. Minor Supernatural Stuff : I'm in favor of folk magic so subtle that most people (particularly city-folk) don't believe in it anymore, but it is very much real. The gris-gris the old rootworker gives you isn't just a placebo, it actually keeps ghosts away and might steer that bullet meant for you into the steel flask in your breast pocket. Thirdly, things I don't want: Full furries : I could get on board with there being a specific, small group of unique people who were experimented on with potions, surgery, and weird science to give them kemonomimi features and abilities. I think @WritesNaughtyStories idea of a military program to counter First Nation's seemingly 'supernatural' guerilla warfare tactics makes sense. I could see scientists from that program going rogue or independent as well. However, I feel like it stretches the setting if we have large groups of fully anthro furries out and about. Real Historical figures : I'm ok drawing inspiration, but I feel like it would (personally) take me out of it to have literal Abraham Lincoln showing up in the newspaper, things like that. Ok. I might think of more, but that's all I have at the moment. First impression, I like it a lot. I would gladly play this version if the group's on board.

3, 5, 8, 2, 4 would be my top five in that order. I'm still very interested in playing. Just haven't been feeling well for a few days. I'll be on to read the examples as soon as I can.

I somehow got more excited with every word of that setup. I'm in! Love the premise, and you already know I'm interested in giving Cortex a try.

Yes! Echoing what WNS said. Welcome back!

Nude beaches

Third Sword Draw: Nine of Swords Prompt: Someone is having an argument in the street. Does this remind you of an argument you've had? Major Arcana: Strength Crashing into the street, I stumble against the brickwork wall, pulling away with a wince as the damp sizzles against my skin. I have no time to collect my thoughts before I start at the sound of a man's voice. "I'm just asking you to be honest with me. Why can't you do even that?" My head lifts and I see him at the fork in the alleyway ahead of me. He is clearly no stable hand or field worker. His clean tunic is dyed red with embroidered swallows at the cuffs and collar, but the wear in his sloping cap and pewter jewelry mark him as no nobleman either. His expression is exasperated, and the woman he has hemmed in against the wall is clutching at her wrist, tugging the faded blue of her smock as she looks down and hugs her stomach. She murmurs a reply too faint to hear even in the close echo of the sparse stone alleyway. "What was that? Speak up. You know I can't hear you when you mumble?" She obliges but only barely, the answer less than half of what she seemed to say before. "Are you afraid?" The man in red sleeves scoffs, looking offended and shaking his head as he turns his eyes up to the narrow gap in roofs above them. A long-suffering sigh escapes his lips, and I feel my limbs trembling as anger and fear boil inside me. I try to urge my legs forward, but they feel as heavy as lead, rooting me to the spot. My own weak voice dies in my throat as I try to form the words 'leave her alone'. "Stop that." The man frowns then repeats himself more firmly as the woman in blue pushes her hands to her face, rubbing at her eyes. "I said stop that." He's scolding her like a child, his movements sharp and forceful as he grabs at her wrists and pulls her hands away. "I didn't do anything to you. Why are you crying? You want to make me look bad?" "I want to go home." They are the first words that come out clear, and I feel my heart sink as I hear them. "We can't go home." My mouth moves in time with the man's as if he's a character in a play I've seen a dozen times. I smell it again... the wine. I feel the echo of the jewelry that once pierced my flesh and hung around my tattooed neck and bare, pale wrists. I feel the ache of the scars and bruises concealed beneath my shift and linen cloak. We can't go home. We're already here. Yes, you can, I want to tell her. I want to scream it at her. I beg my legs to move while my shaking hands clutch the wall as if some great hurricane were trying to suck me away. Run if you have to. You can. "I went to a lot of trouble," the man was saying, his teeth clenched in a growl. "We're already late. And you didn't say anything until just now. Why would you lie? Why would you waste my time? Pull yourself together. Now. Stop that. Stop that." The clap of his palm against her is like the snap of a branch. I can see it then. Despite the way her dark hair hangs over her face, I can see it in the stillness of her body. I can hear it in the way her soft crying stops. For just a moment, the man looks down at her with a look like a kennel master judging if the bitch with heel. There is no shock at what he's done, not from either of them. "Are we good?" the man in red asks coolly. She nods, her head shifting in a simple drop that is neither too fast nor too slow, too exaggerated or too curt. It is the very exemplar of what a 'nod' should be. No more no less. I pull my improvised cloak around me, curling against the wall. For the first time since leaving the undertaker's workshop, it feels like corpse shroud again as I watch the man and his mannequin disappear into the fog, their footsteps clicking along the cobbles for a minute more before my straining ears lose them.

Second Swords Draw: Eight of Swords Prompt: You pass a place of worship. What is this place? How do you feel when you look upon it? Major Arcana: The Lovers I'm not sure how, but my feet know where to carry me. And as I cross the misty street into a stone archway, my bare foot claps against a wide step leading down. The sound of that last footstep is loud, the abrupt halt of the missed step as I stop myself from tumbling making the impact shiver in my shin. Ahead of me, the space opens up as if I'm staring into a valley, a crater that has been dug out of the middle of the town. As if sensing my stare, the mist parts and I feel an odd familiarity that makes me look closer. The wide stone steps are flanked by wooden benches, each row descending lower in concentric semicircles of amphitheater seating. A hexagonal stage sits at the bottom, its boards gleaming with waxy polish speckled in the ubiquitous dew. My breath catches and I find I can hardly draw another as the feeling of absolute silence wraps around me. I am on holy ground. A place of sacrifice. Empty oil lamps add a tinny edge to the echo of my soft footsteps as I slowly descend. And turning around, I see the honeycomb of box seats edged in carvings of chubby cherubs, voluptuous nymphs, and grimacing gargoyles. People watch from them, but the individuals don't matter. It's this place. It's a temple of perception, of sense and sensuality. It's a banquet table for voice and flesh where people cease to be and toys—objects in skin and rouge,—perform their roles. To be enjoyed. To be consumed. Mechanically, I step onto the stage, turning to the empty boxes and ringing pews. My linen cloak slips from one shoulder, baring an upraised arm as I feel my shoulders straighten and my chin rise. Words come out of me. More than that, a cadence—portentous and bold—drives them out. "Lo, tis a gala night within the lonesome latter years. An angel throng bewinged, bedight in veils and drowned in tears, sit in a theater to see a play of hopes and fears, while the orchestra breathes fitfully the music of the spheres..." I stop. My heart is racing. I was here. I've been here. Stumbling back, I feel the floor give way and with a sharp cry, I stumble to catch myself. A trap door. The skylight above falls through that dark gap, past my dangling leg as I brace myself on the edges of the opening. Below me, half-shadowed in the sickly daylight, dozens of corpses look up at me, glassy eyed and covered in the same cool droplets that coat everything. I see their hair clinging to their porcelain pale skin, their unmoving unbreathing bodies lying with limbs akimbo around each other, discarded as carelessly as the bones of an evening meal. But that isn't what freezes me in place. Each of their faces is identical. Each of them the very same face as the one I saw in the shaving bowl mirror I used the night before. My face. I scurry back, the boards creaking as I regain my feet. I blink, wiping at my face and pushing away the cloying mist that has already begun to prickle and burn on my skin as if I'd been too long in the sun. When I open my eyes again, I see the mannequins for what they are. Blank wooden dolls piled in a heap. No more no less. And forcing my own wooden limbs to remember the blood running through them, I stiffly retreat, my footsteps setting clipping out a brisk allegro melody on the stone as I flee back to the streets.

Not Guilty. Some know some. One knows all of it. The next person has gone through someone else's phone without permission.

ACT II: Swords After getting your bearings, you walk around town. You know this town. You know it well, but you cannot remember it. First Swords Draw: Seven of Swords Prompt: You find yourself walking through a market. Which stall are you drawn to? Major Arcana: The Wheel of Fortune The rain has stopped. Through a gauzy haze connecting the grey clouds above to the fog swirling in little eddies around my ankles, I can see the pale light meekly dividing the day from the night. The undertaker spared me a couple yards of corpse linen for a crude cloak after I refused his offer to stay the day with him. There is too much about him that burns. His words, his expressions, his gentle touch. All of it is too warm and leaves me with the wincing, sharp feeling under my skin of having come in too suddenly from the cold. Following broken cobbles, wheel ruts, and the murmuring commotion of voices in the mist, I find a plaza. The space is alive and respirating with colors that feel flat and paled by the dewy air. Grey wood like exposed ribs hold aloft striped stall canvas while men and women with shrewd eyes and insane grins motion to those shambling between to inspect their wares. There's a desperation in the air that leaks out between the boisterous laughter and chirping calls, and the small space makes my stomach turn as an image rises in my mind's eye of a dead hare lying on bare, dusty ground while ants teemed over it. Closing my eyes, I draw a breath that's half a sob as I wonder if the image is a memory or merely an impression conjured by the spirit of the market. The merchants ignore me or cast suspicious looks as I pass through the rows. It's clear I have no money, and so even the false smiles disappear. At best I am just some animal that is taking space where a real human with coin to spend could be standing. At worst, I am a thief here to take what I did not pay for. And that is the greatest crime in the market. The one who does not exchange, who takes but does not give, is little more than a ghoul deserving of death. Just as the one who gives without taking is a traitor, a treasonous pirate who steals from every vendor at once by valuing something more than the coin... one deserving exile. A shimmering chime catches my ear. Pausing, I see a jewelers stand beside me. The metal links of necklaces catch the little light there is, sending cold blue sparks back as the dangling charms twist on the arms of the displays. My throat constricts, my eyes widening. I feel my chest tightening as it struggles to rise against a phantom pressure that seems to squeeze the air from my lungs. My hands shake as I feel the echo of where rings weighed them down. My ears also seem to go deaf, ringing in a whine that drowns out the market as I reach up and feel the small indents where they have been pierced. I remember the weight of intricate metal around my throat. I see myself in torch light, the smell of wine and the sight of my body in a mirror, shining like a constellation as the ornaments mingle with the glistening of sweat on the bare skin emerging from my dress. Bundling my linen cloak against my chill body, my bare feet clap freezing water against my ankles as I hurry away from the stall.

coffee flavored

A tremble ran through Robin; her fingers shook as they hesitated on the edge of the desk, Dylan's eager pressure adding a tension that felt like clinging to some woefully insufficient rail on the edge of a cliff. Her tongue slipped over Robin's, and the wet slip of the skillful organ set a ripple up her spine like the trace of some phantom fingertip. The heat melting in the bowl of her hips and the burning rush of fear and desire in her drumming arteries pushed Robin to clumsily reciprocate, her own tongue pushing back into Dylan's mouth and moving in uncertain fits and starts as the girl with the poet's eyes taught her by example what that slick, pink muscle could do. Robin had not forgotten Selene was there, but as the moment stretched, she found the only thing she could do about it was blush and close her eyes. A part of her told her how bad this was... how whorish. A mild panic still tumbled in her chest, the girl she'd been for years terrified of what was happening while the girl emerging tonight held onto every second of contact like the harness of a rollercoaster. If she made Dylan stop, would they ever kiss like this again? Would the moment be gone for good? She didn't know. It was such a wild, unexpected development, and since she didn't know what had brought it on, it felt as fragile as rime on a winter pine. A hot pressure met Robin's own burning heat through the front of her bikini bottoms. The initial contact made her gasp, her lips parting from Dylan's as her thighs tightened to resist the fearful urge to retreat. She wanted this. The sparks Velvet had kindled in her had burst into incandescent flame at the volatile pressure of Dylan's desire. She felt the fabric of her bikini bottom folding in, just a little. Pressure like a fingertip sank against her concealed folds. Robin started. Confusion rising both from the unexpected sensation and from Dylan's sudden withdrawal as their eyes met, the shallow breath mingling between their parted lips. Looking down, Robin's eyes widened at the sight of the small bulge in Dylan's own swimsuit. "What...?" Her brain was short-circuiting. There was just no point of reference to be found. She knew intersex people existed. But it was more of a theoretical knowledge, not something that happened in real life. Not something that happened to her. And so for a full three seconds, as Dylan spoke, Robin could only half-hear her secret love's words, her mind consumed trying to understand if Dylan was a boy or a girl. She had breasts like a girl. He had something that seemed like a penis poking her. At least... she thought so? Confusion boiled off, leaving a gritty residue of fear that made Robin's mouth dry and her eyes scrunch up as she blinked and tried to understand. Her hand was in Dylan's while his other roamed up her exposed midriff and over her ribs. The sensation brought a soft moan to her lips but in the same moment she felt her heart folding like a hand was closing around it. She didn't know how to feel. The boy she'd pined over this last month had just transformed again, twice in the same night. The image she'd had was crumbling, and yet... she was getting everything she wanted. They were holding her... kissing her... It was so much like the blushing fantasies she'd had lying in her bed, quietly stirring under the covers as Charlotte scrolled on her phone across from her in the cramped bedroom. "I-I've really wanted that for a long time... too..." Robin replied, pausing partway through to swallow and lick her lips as she fought the rasp of a dry throat that threatened to choke off the words. As Dylan asked if they could do it again, Robin pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, her dark eyes glancing to Selene and then shyly to the floor as she felt the repressed embarrassment she'd put off coming back in a tidal wave. "Do-You mean, like, now?" It was the wrong question. Her racing heart told her it was, and before allowing Dylan a chance to answer, Robin's voice dropped. Sotto voce, she said, "I'm sorry, Dylan. I'm... I'm really confused. And I'm—I'm really sorry. It doesn't matter. I just... are you...?" She couldn't finish the question, a heat like humiliation making her anxiously pull at her hair as she prayed Dylan would understand anyway.

ugly scar

Fuck. Because we probably all have stuff to get off our minds.

Not guilty. When I have cooked for a date, I've tried to aim for what I think they'd like. If things are going well, for the brave, I have a tea blend that's very good for... improving circulation. The next person has read some of their erotic writing to a date or significant other.

Apple Jacks

Third Pentacles Draw: The Four of Pentacles Prompt: When you look over your body, you notice a tattoo on your skin. What is this tattoo? Where is it located? Major Arcana: The Devil The young undertaker gives a faint nod, a worried smile ticking on his cracked lips as he passes a polished bronze shaving basin and a small bottle of mildly fruity smelling oil through the doorway. His eyes flicked down, and I know the simple white shift I was casketed in does little to cover my figure, even in the oily light of the single lantern. The most urgent of danger past, I can tell his uncomplicated mind is now free enough to realize there is a woman—dirty as she is—standing in his home in only a single thin undergarment, and given his unfortunate, pox-scarred face, a type of garment he may only have seen in red lantern light as the doxies hawked him from open windows and curtained doors. Nevertheless, he swallows and manages a final, stumbling offer to be there in a hurry should I need anything. And closing the door, I hear him in the work room, loudly humming a meandering tune that feels like it might be familiar, if only it were in key. I give the simple wooden door a final look, eyeing the way the lantern light seeps through the cracks and beneath the ill-fitting sill at its foot, the shadow of the young man passing once more as I hear his humming cross the room beyond. It strikes me as odd to find someone so full of life working among the dead. The boyish innocence of his compassion, aid he's freely given, tugs at my heart, begging me to stay close to him. Even in his artless stare as he takes in the rose of my nipple, turned pink by the threadbare shift's white... he's warm, like a puppy sniffing closer as he tests whether it's safe to cuddle against you. When he speaks, his tumbling, charmless voice seems to echo with a dozen generations of peasantry who turned the earth, laughing and drinking with faces cracked from the sun baking their pained smiles into their eyes. And while a faint, mad desire to open the apartment door and invite him in whispers in my aching chest, I know it isn't to be. That is not for me. I know this in my bones... in my flesh, whatever flesh it is that burns at the touch of clean water. Whatever I am, I am not formed from the same clay of the earth as him. The small apartment around me contains little. A chest. A straw mattress and blanket that shows a want of regular cleaning. A stool and small table for the undertaker to take his lonely dinners. And now a small candle stuck by its own wax to that cracked tabletop. Rain pelts the roof and spatters the walls in sheets, old ghosts in the darkness beyond railing against the workshop apartment as if venting their fury that I'd slipped that final catch that had taken them all, and shivering free of my reverie, I settle the shaving basin upright on the table, leaning one end on the wall behind. It's a simple mirror, but effective enough. Slipping from my shift, I work the oil between my fingers, still prepared to feel the burning sensation the water had left despite the reassurance of a few testing drops the undertaker had dripped on my open palm earlier. I don't have much. I have to make it count. Rubbing the oil between my fingers, I slide it over my face, and I feel the rough particles of dust and filth lifting. With the aid of a clean rag, I work the oil down my chest and beneath my arms. I don't know how I came to be floured in ash and mud, but as each layer lifts and I move to comb the freeing oil through my hair, I stare into my own reflection. I'm bruised, marks like oils spills on my legs and arms, some yellow and others a rich burgundy, though I don't feel the pain of it. My fingertips catch on the bumps of scars as I run my hands over my arms and down across my stomach and hips, and I wince as a fingernail blindly hooks a thin black scab on my inner thigh, a runnel of bright red trickling down to my knee before I press my finger to stop it. Something happened to me. Something I don't remember. And whatever it was, it happened over and over... Blinking, I run the rag over my eyes and take a sharp breath, turning my back to the basin as I look over my shoulder. My back is no better, a crisscross of markings fresh and old stop shy of my shoulders. And pushing my hair aside, I see a great black welt on the back of my neck. No. Not a bruise or welt at all. It's intricate, symmetrical. I hold up the basin, looking into the polished bronze as I try to make out the design in the curved metal. A strange, esoteric sigil is inked into my flesh, curves, lines, dots and triangles aligned within a circle of black, tattooed chains. The symbol means nothing to me, and yet as I stare into it, I feel my breath coming faster... my heart beginning to tumble and fold as my stomach clenches. I don't care when I realize the young undertaker has stopped humming or that the light under the poorly sealed door has gone dark. In that moment, I feel a chill loneliness frosting on my bared limbs as I stare at the mark on my neck and wonder what kind of monster or demon I am... and the only thread keeping me from collapsing is the knowledge of the man beyond the door, gazing through the cracks at me in the simple way a man gazes at a woman.