Light Above, Shadow Below

The City of the Damned is a dark place to a visitor, though the inhabitants move about the streets as if they are lit by noonday sun. At every corner, there is a stout oaken pole outfitted with a rough hemp rope. Each rope is wrapped around the neck of a virtuous soul. They hang, eyes bulging, the unlucky few still slowly strangling, and below, the accursed throngs chatter gaily, in utter darkness save for faint traceries of molten rock.

"What light they give!" the passersby say. "So pure and fine!"

The lowering shadows of the city swallow them all.

The Secrets We Keep

This is the Lantern of Truth. It illuminates everything you already know. Come, bask in its glow. It will show you no surprises. See your hands, smooth and pink and healthy. See your face, wise and beautiful. Everything is as you know it would be.

You need not see the old man across the way. Do not fret as he recoils in horror, his face collapsing into mingled disgust and pity. He is deluded. He is irrelevant. For you, in your light, are perfect. Leave him to his foolishness. You are unblemished, whole and untouched.

As far as you know.