The feculent ragman flinches, as though its name were an uttered curse or admonition.

Umin moves gingerly closer, his boots soiled and squelching above the unspeakably succulent softness beneath his feet.

In the near muck lies a plate of partially-consumed sour meats and withered roots, alive with all the odious little life of tenebrous places.

A twist in the belly and he hastily returns his regard to the piteous hovel and the twiggy creature therein pawing in the ordure and muck.

Thimblebrom has thinned, thinks Umin. 

The thought is uncharitable, and he frowns inwardly, but they were never the dearest of companions, despite shared miseries.

Where is Ure?

Why did she bring me here?

Face drawn and thoughtful he peers up at his spectral escort.

“I need to ask questions. I need to take him out of this unholy place.”

No, oh dear no.

Not yet.

The Lord Meshmin wishes him here.

His debt is fat and still hungering.

Her replying smile is thin-brushed with a seeming sympathy. 

Face a delicate ivory nightmare floating upon a sea of satiny black.

Unceremoniously she turns and strays back out into the murk the way they came, outpacing Umin’s stark aureole of frost-light.

He casts a last fretful glance at the woeful remnant.

Considerations caught wordless in his throat, before swiftly trailing after Pyna.

The barbarous breath and muttering of a thing kept too long in the dark, rankling in their wake.