The Rolling Ground

The ground beneath his feet undulates, before heaving and spilling out its inhabitants. He supposes they don’t taste very good, which is something he can understand.

He would be disgusted too if the breath of perverted people crawled all over his skin like an insistent parasite, trying to get him to give up and give in to the same behaviour. The hands clasped around his neck haven’t begun to choke him yet, and he’d like to keep it that way.

The best thing to do would be to nip it in the bud, before the land throws them all out – the good along with the bad, because evil tends to spread like a wildfire, not necessarily in passing on its practices to others, but in the way it affects and hurts the lives of everyone that comes in contact with it. And when it gets to that point, even “good” is viewed as “not following popular notions” rather than actually doing any good.

But he’d rather not let it get to that point, so he keeps watch for good and bad examples, and tries not to dishonour himself or anyone else.


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