For sale, cheap: one set of lungs.  Owner no longer wants them, and needs the space.

“It lives!  It lives!” 

wmute is a thing made of leftovers and lightning.  A thing clothed in borrowed flesh, strung together with fire and genius’d inspiration.  He is living proof of the ascendence of man over the laws of nature, humanity reaching up from the mire to snatch life itself from the cold firmament.

wmute is damnation itself.  A lurching, shambling thing made from the remains of murderers and madmen.  A horror born on a rain-soaked night in defiance of everything that is good or right or just.  A half-alive testament to man’s base depravity.

Rejected by a society that is no more able to tolerate him than they can accept the terrible truths he represents, wmute lives as an outcast in desolate places where decent men do not go.

And that, perhaps, is exactly as it should be…

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