Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Day Three-Sixty-Seven: Free



Most of the rats are dead. By my count there are only six left. Maybe more, if they went into hiding. 

Aside from the smashed wall of Robert's Beefiary - it's been renamed, in case you hadn't guessed, diary - there's been surprisingly little damage to Pubton. The buildings are largely intact, and most of the prominent signs of a battle have been wiped away by a fresh snowfall. Anyone coming through here might not realize anything had happened last week.

Assuming, of course, that they missed the faces of the people of Pubton. Everyone's still in shock. Glad, relieved, elated… but shocked. It might take a while for these poor people to recover.

Everyone but Grayson. He's just fine. I'll get back to him another day.

I couldn't get at the rats' warrens during Kierkegaard's siege, so I didn't bother including them in any of my previous entries. After the… burial, yesterday, I was too inconsolable to think about them. Today, though… another day, time to get back to work… I figured I should go see what was up.

I came upon a graveyard when I crawled into their home. The rats had been lethargic before, and might have been mistaken for dead from a distance, but now there was no doubt. Most were flopped on their sides or collapsed face-first in the dirt. At my approach only one stirred, and it joined five others - all looking surprisingly healthy - near my feet.

They motioned for you, diary. I set you down on the ground, opened to a blank page - another bundle of pages can't be written on, I've noticed - and let them write. I got the following, halting message:

'we R srry we trppd she drnd us he drnd us'

I waited for some explanation. They provided none. Three of the rats looked winded after the message came to a stop. I suspect they're on the cusp of becoming naught more than the plain old rats I originally thought them to be. Shaking my head, I went to pick you up, diary -

- and was flung back when you rose into the air on your own, conking me on the chin. You danced and flailed, airborne, and a bundle of rat corpses joined you. A hideous, burbling voice fluttered out of the darkness, happy beyond measure, and I knew at once whose it was.

"Philip. Philip, the hell're you doing?"

Philip seeped into view, his normally white body splashed with glorious gold from the tree roots behind him. Tossing you aside, diary, he drove three of the dead rats into the dirt, harshly carving one crude word:

'FREE'

He then dropped the rats, squealed, smiled, and disappeared. A whisper of wind hinted at his destination: the exit. I would have guessed as much on my own, 'cause he's been mangling Pubton ever since. His antics are much worse than they were back home - now he's trying to hurt people. Not substantially, but the intent is there… and given how weird Philip has become, he could get much, much worse.

I don't know why he's punishing us. One of the people responsible for his death is gone. The other… well, if he's really that mad, can't he focus on me? Why's he dealing out misery to everyone? Why's he the only one laughing while the rest of us mourn and cringe?

We don't have time for this crap. We need to start planning a defence. Whatever he might be after, I doubt Kierkegaard will be content with a defeat. And I'm sure his master will send him out to take us down again.

Sincerely, 

Dragomir the Mayor

1 comment:

  1. Quickly Dragomayor, kill the six remaining rats! Once they become normal rats, they are no longer your friends. They are a horrifying, breeding, pest. Vermin who will not stop until they have chewed through every box and shit in every corner.

    Normal rats are bastards.

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