It hangs over me, this feeling of hopelessness- like a ghost made of tissue, and blinks out of existance just as quickly.

The hollow corridors are filled with an viscous digestion and yet for some ghastly reason I feel left behind.

Why do I care?

But the caterpillar's spell is not alligned, like the riddle is out of range.

The spiral ribs of the caterpillar are now filled with a comforting orange glow. As it writhes from within, the hellwyrm calls out like an old friend in a familiar voice. An end time play written by a modern doomsayer, we fill the plot with mercury and watch the cast die.

But I'm alive, I merely lay here with the dead, waiting. Like the hero of an epic poem destined for tragedy for defying the Gods.

I am cut deep and bleeding as I turn to salt. But the caterpillar's wyrm lives. An endless dream on a phantom train. A logic defined by cost.

I will slay this caterpillar, and burn the tea party to the ground.

Yes
No
Do nothing