The grotesque that I am referring to isn’t an adjective in its default sense by any means. It’s actually a noun—a thing—a very horrible thing, at that. Artuis and Misnon were coming home from school one afternoon, and they saw it. They were so close they could reach out and touch it. They didn’t, however. They knew better than to come into contact with its fatal flesh. Misnon took off running into the wilderness as Artuis yelled for him to stop. You see, the grotesque has an overwhelming thirst for blood, but only attacks the exponents of fear and fear’s anxiety. This is what lured it away from Artuis, sparing him, and set it after his lifelong companion, instead. Every villager in the minute township knows the number one rule when it comes to the grotesque:—simply take a deep breath and don’t overreact. Quietly count to ten and the grotesque will move on in search of trepidation. Sadly, Misnon was afraid of his own shadow. Sadly, Misnon was seen no more. The grotesque just doesn’t feed on the vitae of its prey; it also consumes their existence. The name of the village was ironic at that:—Soul Sacrifice. It was later dubbed, by the condemned township, the Village of Sacrifice. To tourists, the legend of the grotesque is thought of as a myth. Every town has its own. But tourists come and go. It’s not until you are legally added to the census until you are condemned to discover the macabre truth. And once the damnation evolves, there is no leaving the Village of Sacrifice. People are drawn to the village like a moth to a flame. Perhaps, it’s the serene outer shell that lures its residence in to deception. Whatever the case, Artuis hasn’t said a word sense he lost his dear companion, Misnon. In fact, he has found a way to strip himself from all emotions. Fear is an emotion—isn’t it? No one has ever been able to defeat the grotesque. Then again, no one has ever come up with a solution as brilliant as Artuis’s.