We Are the Mutants

[Mescaffier 6197]

Old, yellowed scraps of parchment can be found amongst the Empire’s decrepit alleys, trapped betwixt cobble & enshrouded in waste. They seem to target the slums of each settlement – most particularly, the Crownlands. Each bears profoundly messy scribing, all more or less the same, covered in lines of blotchy ink and grime. 

 

❝We Are the Mutants❞ 

 

The Poor cried,

”We are starving! There is no more bread, and we have nothing to eat.”

The Rich Man sneered,

”Not my problem! You do not work for your bread,”

as if he did not steal away the grain by his own greedy hands

and create filling bread for his own overflowing mouth.

 

The Poor cried,

”We are dying! There is no more medicine, and we are all ill.”

The Rich Man jeered,

”Not my problem! You do not take care of yourselves,”

as if he did not buy all the medicine and raise the prices so high,

the gods themselves would not be able

to reach.

 

The Poor

stopped crying,

And the Rich Man was satisfied.

Until they came knocking on his door one night;

their faces were sunken,

their flesh decaying,

their eyes sightless.

They were monsters

of the Rich Man’s

own making.

 

As they devoured his flesh,

the rich man cried,

”Please, spare me!”

The ravenous zombies told

in unison, 

”Not our fault . . .

. . . You fattened yourself

for slaughter!”

And they continued their feast.

 

”We Are the Mutants.”

 

Around these worn leaflets, others lay – perhaps, that the sender wished to publicize further. No signature – telling sigil – or other form of identification was given;

save for the small, thorny cross included at the very bottom of each missive.

 

 

 

 

 

[Roguechaotic 264]

Alistair Brashton would read the missive from the wall of the palace “...very odd.....but it states partial turth...”