![]() ![]() The bottom half of his shirt was gone what was left resembled a ragged vest. Both fingers and toe continued to insist they were there. Instead a sea-bird, attracted by the glister of the morning sun on the buttons of his shirt, wheeled away with a frightened squawk. ![]() The gunslinger snapped awake, waving at something with his mutilated hand, sure that in a moment one of the monstrous shelled things from the Western Sea would drop on him, desperately enquiring in its foreign tongue as it pulled his face off his skull. ![]() A trifle upsetting, isn't he? A trifle upsetting. The Prisoner, the man in black (who had once been a man the gunslinger trusted, a man named Walter) whispered chummily. The face of the ridden man seemed to writhe in wordless terror. Looking more closely, the gunslinger saw the baboon held a whip in one of those clutching, strangling hands. On it a baboon grinned from over the shoulder of a young man with dark hair its disturbingly human fingers were buried so deeply in the young man's neck that their tips had disappeared in flesh. He tried to speak but his voice was gone, the voice of the oracle, Star-Slut, Whore of the Winds, both were gone he saw a card fluttering down from nowhere to nowhere, turning and turning in the lazy dark. Which demon is that? I know it not, even from nursery stories. He stands on the brink of robbery and murder. ![]()
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