The village of Carapace was unravelling. Strand by strand. Thread by thread. As the weave teased itself apart, the underlying pattern of the community was subtly altered. The effects were small at first. Trivial things. Small portions of bad luck, ill health and misfortune. The type of things that happened anywhere else surely. Nothing to do with ill omens or portents of evil. But there were some in Carapace who knew differently... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
It was the task of the Betrothal Society to notice such insignificant tragedies, to write them down in their black ledgers and analyse any small shifts in the bad luck spectrum. The three men who comprised its committee were old now - prone to their own frailties and the sin of complacency. It was almost seventeen years since the last Briding had taken place and although they meticulously recorded the latest spate of ill fortune in their black leather books, they did nothing except whisper amongst themselves. They had forgotten what it was like to have the enemy at the door.
Genre: Horror
It was the task of the Betrothal Society to notice such insignificant tragedies, to write them down in their black ledgers and analyse any small shifts in the bad luck spectrum. The three men who comprised its committee were old now - prone to their own frailties and the sin of complacency. It was almost seventeen years since the last Briding had taken place and although they meticulously recorded the latest spate of ill fortune in their black leather books, they did nothing except whisper amongst themselves. They had forgotten what it was like to have the enemy at the door.
Genre: Horror
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