Some tales should never be retold. This was to beone of those. Yet it would be. It would be whispered by children and their children for generations upon generations. A retold, ghost story for when the lights had gone out. Parents wondering how their little ones had heard about the unwholesome encounter. Never fully reassuraing them it wasn't just a tall tale.
Yet the note that had been writen with a sturdy quill dipped in the pool of black black was no illusion. - Upon the first day of the new year the child had been hung from the rafters of his room, gaged to keep the screams from reaching the tavern patrons below. Four already mutilated, deformed digits taken with the sharp quick end of a blade. - If that wasn't enough the rumor was the child wanted to die, and had cutt off his own fingers writing on the wall in that black blood.
"Suffer not the little children to come unto me"
Rich in color, dripping to a dry endless streak against the rented rooms wall.
And then they would say that the boy hung himself, but was't able to die. And it was the note left behind that sent shivers up the teller of the tale's spine. Short, quill scratched words popped from the singular page.
~ Their not safe, until I'm dead ~
Had Phlynn been the one to write the words? Perhaps A means of telling the community of his illness. Of his threat to society? Or had it been the name he uttered from his tongue which through the years had been lost. - A name so lovely and renowned that the child surely must have been delusional.
