October 9, 2024.

Everyone I know is dead and I am impaled upon one of the many glass-sharp, sickly antlers protruding from the Wall of Rot, beset by the boiling curse smeared across my flesh which keeps me alive through unknowable and terrible means.

The Fallen Beast stalks the length of the Wall of Rot, inflicting its disease and scourge and torture upon those of us unlucky enough to have survived and be hung. I think I am really getting on its nerves. It plucks my right eye from my head and forces me to eat it.

Once I’ve swallowed the slick viscera of my eyeball, I shrug and say, for the thousandth, thousandth time, “Ah well, these things happen.”

The Fallen Beast really hates it when I do this. It grunts, steam rising from its back, its dozen legs working in frustration. The tortured, bloody chasm of my eye socket begins to regrow the eyeball, each time more painful than the last.

“Ah well, these things happen,” I repeat once more. It tears out my tongue and rips from me my arms and legs. “Ah well, these-” I begin, before it tears out my tongue and eats it.

I wait in darkness, as pain blossoms through me, the boiling curse keeping me alive despite everything, the destroyed parts of my body knitting together in horrific agony. I hear the Fallen Beast stomp away, muttering in bestial grunts to itself. I can’t wait for my tongue to grow back. I know exactly what I’m going to say.