At your return the Feeders rocket off towards the campgrounds, fifty pale figures fly overhead the gusts of air tossing your hair. Black streaks paint...the sky, shrieks echoing into the night, the Feeding has begun. The Feedlings fly low, and lethal, bombarding the ground below with glyphs of Hate, crackling blasts of pure malice tearing the Keshemi into little more than chunks of meat and bone to be gnawed upon later, some grab people by their arms, bringing them high into the sky until letting. Jack tugs up his pants reluctantly and follows. The wooden stairs are old and a little pitched so Jack’s ankle flexes a little with each step on the uneven, but polished boards. It was a future project that he was not looking forward to. When he hit the main floor, wood was replaced with a flat carpet patterned with squares within squares with raised textures that he felt against his bare feet. They were grey, black, and ugly, but the purchase wasn’t ever about the house. It was all about the. More

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