Every Foul Spirit
Soiling herself in the shadows.
Someone’s daughter, someone’s little girl.
But she was foul—one of the foul spirits corrupting this place. Haunting, infesting it, bringing such ruin and disdain upon it. So the old, bitter rage surged in him again, rising up, frothing over, and his transfiguration commenced.
His flesh began changing its shape, mutating, function and form, adapting to the task at hand; glowing with a phosphorescent aura one minute, becoming midnight-black and crawling over his frame the next. Tendons and ligaments visibly stretched, cartilage tore. Bones were splintering.
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