Something in the forest is mourning. Huge swathes of black fabric trail behind it, leaving a path of tiny bones in its wake. We think it might have come from the ruins of the asylum for unwed mothers. Perhaps it embodies their grief, their lost children and their anger at the society that ended them.
It's hardly the only one.
In the bus station by the harbour, figures dressed in old oilskins lead people to the railings. Most of the time something snaps them out of it and they pull away, carrying on with their lives like nothing ever happened but every once in a while they'll just tip over and sink.
The sea is full of their crying faces.
Even the local cafe has someone in it who isn't remotely human. She calls herself Lace and wears the faces of people who aren't scheduled to be on shift that day. Harmless for the most part but never accept her coffee - it'll suck the fluids right out of you and leave you little more than dust.
Welcome to Sutton Hagglegate - try not to stay for long.
It's hardly the only one.
In the bus station by the harbour, figures dressed in old oilskins lead people to the railings. Most of the time something snaps them out of it and they pull away, carrying on with their lives like nothing ever happened but every once in a while they'll just tip over and sink.
The sea is full of their crying faces.
Even the local cafe has someone in it who isn't remotely human. She calls herself Lace and wears the faces of people who aren't scheduled to be on shift that day. Harmless for the most part but never accept her coffee - it'll suck the fluids right out of you and leave you little more than dust.
Welcome to Sutton Hagglegate - try not to stay for long.
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