The kitchen was well stocked, and I cooked us the first of what we hoped would be many meals in the peace and calm of our new-found bolt-hole. The larder had been stocked well, and we put any thoughts of cannibalism from our minds.
Blood, blood, glorious blood: Nothing quite like it for scaring the living snot out of you.
While I scrubbed pots and heated up baskets of bread in the subterranean kitchen, my partner was tasked with generally Cindarella-esque cleaning duties both above and below stairs.
A non-conformist sect, clad in the robes of a thousand failures. An epicentre of infamy.
Let me tell you about my hands. They’re a bit misshapen in places, a bit scarred in others. The nails are a little too long, a little too raggy, and pretty dirty.