The little broken thing ambled through the high yellow grass of the Birch forest. Head carried low, as the black contraption that was his face felt particularly heavy today. The Endlessness was empty this afternoon – a decided lack of potential Mummies had caused his spirit to ebb considerably.
Then he caught the scent. It was sickly, cloying. But it was the scent of a living? Being. And as far as his desperate little mind was concerned, that Being could be maternal.