Ingratitude

The stone walls dripped alone in the darkness. The rusty iron cages hung open. Whips and blades, along with more complicated instruments, sat unused on their pegs. Cruel-edged manacles dangled from the walls, chiming gently in the breeze as Daxon strode past.

"Where have they all gone?" he demanded, his voice rising to a plaintive note despite his efforts to the contrary. "There's no one left."

"Run off," the under-devil on duty responded morosely, trailing a talon in the wood surface of the rack.

Daxon paused to take in the enormity of this news. "After all we've done for them!?"

A Rag, Clenched in Teeth

You know that feeling, that tingle all over your body when you’re scared? Really, truly frightened? That’s your hair, rising up. Horripilation.

Say that word with me. Let it linger.

When it happens to monkeys, they become twice their usual size. All hair, of course. Look fierce. Your hair isn’t like that. Small hair, thin hair. Hair for fear.

The bumps you feel? They tell you it’s the muscles erecting the hair, but it’s not. Your hair knows what’s coming. It’s trying to get away, tugging at your skin.

Let’s help it.

Pluck.

Pluck.

Yes, just like that. That’s horripilation.