Whiskey.
I hate this place. I hate this smell. The stench of wet dog and fear. It’s repugnant. When someone dies suddenly, they leave behind the stench of their last thoughts. I’ve come to find that most of the time those thoughts are ones of fear. I hate the smell of it. It’s what comes after, that I like the most, the scent of death. Blood, mixed with pain and a hint of helplessness, all thrown together with the scent of decaying flesh. That is the smell I like. That is what I want to be able to smell all day. If I could, I would infuse the horrendous stench into a perfume and wear it daily. The bringer of death, carrying with her the scent of your doom. Sounds good, doesn’t it?
This tedious task is starting to wear on my patience. Proven so by my rush to get through this damned villag
