By large the people of Withervale have for the lack of a better term, started to wither away. Their skin turned wrinkled and their faces sunk so deep that they looked like partly melted candy. Human forms shifted in maledictory curses, all originating from the High Rottentooth Licoria. She wore a crown of old candies, the kinds that melted into a glass bowl. Ones that cracked teeth seeking to bite on it, and decay the tongues of those who partook in her orgy of sweetened honey. She always wore the skins of the pruned human kind, peppermint catching sunlight in the between of the stitches. A vest buttoned by rotting teeth, and eyes that looked like bleeding chocolate. When she walked, all before her bent into illusory simulacrums of popular sweets. Tasty little gumdrops and sweet little candy canes only smelled sweeter when the kids that ate it decayed into a pool of sweet water and crying flesh. High Rottentooth Licoria, had birthed many children of the flesh eating variety hidden among beds of chocolate and mints. Little candy babes, baby teeth, that liked to prick you with their necrotic poison. After which they crawled through your mouth, ripping the walls to fit in and forcing the jaw to completely rip to accommodate the candied infants. Poor Lysandros had fifteen baby teeth in him, a walking candied swarm squirming and forming him into a hive. Pores ripped whole and wide, as little maggots and insects release from when the baby teeth would die inside the host. As if eggs, they come out of puss formed from the bubbling skin of their hive. The host is alive in form of a hand that puppets this mimesis of lifehood.
That is why we must, as the sacred Order of the Candy Breaker, must grow our numbers underneath. We are ready for the day that we reclaim the land from a strange terraformation of sweets. Fake is all of its temptation, and true is the rotting hearts of those who are enthralled by her.
As one we break what sweetens the truth, as one we remove this sickly sweet cancer.
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