They called it survival, the chance to sup the cold blood of the undead. We thought it a chance to free us of our suffering, our love, our torment, our hatred, our lust; to see the ages unfold. But it is an eternal, undying, infinite, unbound, endless agony of survival. It grows by the day, and we have them by the hundreds of thousands. To waste away would be a blessing, but the bloodlust too is strong. It holds us to this desolate place wherever there are crowds who will bay and cheer, just for a moment to quiet the bane of this existence and feed on the fawning fans.


Ha, that was clever. We meanwhile were on a quest for the holy grail of eternal life, which lead us to this wasted and barren land on what may have been a slippery trout. But then this lot were just so charming we sort of ... something, something, something. Seemed a good idea at the time, I'm sure.