Deader than dirt, the faingold’s teeth still buried in his throat, a fearful sort of movement overcame the corpse. Rolling spasms danced along the torso and limbs. All life, even the microbial, was past, snuffed, the cord snapped.
Not even what tethered the body together would remain. Corruption would find nothing, it would not even have a chance to set in. Even corruption’s a sort of life.
Like parched earth, fissures spread along the skin, deep cracks; for just one moment longer the body held together. Then complete collapse: Not even a corpse anymore, not even dust. Just a smell like sorrow remained, and the memories. The gleaming, yellow-green fangs which had been the instrument of his dissipation, never fully real, were simply gone.
Such is the faingold’s bite. Even dirt has life moving in it. Even dust might be borne on the wind.
The faingold leaves nothing.
Tale Told 