Thunder grumbled non threateningly over the hills, the worst had passed us and all that was left was an onerous rain. The sky was a pale grey carpeting that crept like a bloated snake. The pin hammering sound of rain on flagstone told me I was near.

The birch and oak woods faded until only stubby fingers of its vast area poked into the heath. And nestled just out of reach of the encroaching wood was the town. It appeared ordinary from afar, but as one approached they'd see through the façade. It was betrayed by every creeping vine and mossy path.

It was a ghost town teeming with hardy inhabitants in natures guise. The original residents of the homes were long gone, replaced by vibrant greenery. Lichens paved the roads and vines were the brick and mortar of dilapidated structures. Roses invaded windows and grew in great thickets and grasses carpeted the once grand halls.

I caught the blurred image of some creature darting across an alleyway, not thinking twice I dismissed it as a deer. My eyes were dead set on the drains, searching for any signs of inscription. A glimmer stopped me in my tracks, the water reflected differently on this grate. I bent down to inspect its surface, shielding it from the rain. On the top I wiped the metal with a cloth and briefly revealed the missing words before they were flooded again.

I had found the entrance at last, in fact I suspected I may have been the first outsider to discover it. It was a tight squeeze, but in time I shimmied my form through the drain slot. I dropped a short distance to stand on grimy stone. The rushing waterfalls punctuated the long tunnel, feeding the turbulent gruel river channel.

I soon realized the walls were covered in more than slime, writings lined its length as well. They were carved by some tooth, nail, or bone from the looks of its rough inscription. The fetid writings rode the accumulated muck piles undulations like winds over the hills. Each was a sodden eulogy for a detritus god.

The tunnels wound and wove through the underground like rat warrens, stitching an impossible weave of sluiceways. I stumbled into a vast tower of stone dotted with thousands of tributary streams. Each waterfall of diluted sludge plunged to the gigantic grate at the floor, ever thirsty for more. I shivered at the thought of whatever cesspool lay far below that gate.

A splash had me swivel on my heel to face an empty tunnel behind me. As I stared completely motionless for what seemed like hours, no more phantoms passed through the thick gloom. I relaxed slightly and headed back into the tunnel only to trip on a small brown box. I picked it up and with foolish curiosity opened its squeaky lid. Sat in plush velvet was the tip of an ear and the end of a vipers tail.

I closed it quickly, the memories flooding back in painful rapidity. Clutching my head I dashed to the edge and hurled the box into the gate of the forsaken. Huffing with adrenaline I tilted back my head to let out a deep sigh, but my breath caught in my throat.

Above me hung the mocking silver face of the moon, an orb overflowing with gaunt mockery. I screamed with anguish, the pain was real now, bubbling my skin and reknitting my bones. Collapsing onto the ground in weary resignation I looked up once more at the cursed sky.

And there in the distant void cradle the moon showed me my new face and it was the spitting image of my brothers and sisters of the Cistern Chapel.