The Spirit turned to Drum. “Do you have any stories?”
“My people,” said Drum, “are not the story sort.”
“Come now, Drum!” said The Skeleton Lady. “You must know some story!”
Drum looked into the air and flashes his fangs in a smile. “There is one. I’m not sure you’ll like it. It does not carry well between our cultures.”
“Ooh, now I’m interested,” said The Psychic Girl, popping another snail into her mouth. “Let’s hear it.”
Drum looked into the fire. “Two walked in the woods. Death followed them. Thirst and hunger consumed them. Each was the only pack the other had left. Yet they marched on.”
Drum drew a symbol in the dirt. “Eventually, they stumbled upon a man impaled on a jagged piece of metal. Fresh blood ran down it. There was enough for one of them to live. The first said the second should take it; he was older and had less life to live. The second said the first should take it; he was younger and less likely to make it home.”
Drum looked at the Spirit. “The man saw these creatures arguing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial of acid. He held it above his head and smashed it. The acid dissolved his flesh and most of his blood. Both of them would starve to death because of this.”
Drum stopped talking.
“And?” said the Spirit.
“That’s it,” said Drum. “That’s the end of the story.”
“That’s the worst story I’ve ever heard,” said the Spirit.
“You were warned,” said Drum.