…but there are some things worse than death.
You don’t remember anything but the gnashing of teeth and the rending of flesh.
As the muscles, bones, and nerves of your friends’ limbs mend with your own, you feel their final moments of agony seep into your mind. Your wounds burn, ichor oozing from between the sutures binding them. You try to crawl away—somewhere, anywhere—but you discover with swelling terror that all of your strength has abandoned you.
Your resolve crumbles as you writhe in darkness, stripped bare, helpless.
“A fine surgery, truly,” croaks a voice from the shadows. Above you, two glowing, emerald orbs regard your disfigurement with keen interest. The stench of decay is overwhelming as Necrow looms over you.
“There wasn’t much left once Matryoshka had her fill,” he concedes, “But I gathered what I could find and brought it to the Mistress. You were just a ragged lump of meat before, and now look at you… A work of art!”
Twin rows of glistening ivories are exposed in a hideous simulacrum of a smile. A black, bony hand caresses your naked flesh, admiring your trembling frame. Your skin crawls as it slowly inspects every inch of you, piece by piece. Saliva runs from between its owner’s teeth and onto your exposed belly. The foul liquid is colder than anything you’ve ever touched, instantly taking your breath away with a fluttering gasp.
“Such beauty,” he continues, “Should be shared.”
Necrow stands astride you now, the dark magic animating him swirling in the black sockets of his skull. As you muster the will to resist, a sinewy foot presses against your ribs, pinning you to the chamber floor and squeezing the air from your lungs. He slips his hallux claw into your navel, perhaps as a warning.
You can feel it poking inside you.
“Would you indulge me in a dance?” he asks coyly, his head turning a full circle on his elongated neck as he leans in closer. “I am something of a connoisseur of the flesh, and yours has stirred within me a most bothersome fascination.”
