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Barlowe

Barlowe smells something good and immediately finds himself vomiting. It’s not a twisting, retching sort of vomit; as with the wall, he can no longer feel any strain on his muscles. His body is simply filling his mouth with bile.

The smell leads him to a blood-slick pit of his fellows, frothing, groaning and gnawing at shards of skull. Barlowe puts down a finger and wipes a bit of gray matter off someone else’s uncaring shoulder. He’s very hungry. He puts it in his acid mouth.

A bit rich, he decides, and resolves to look around for a cheese shop.

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