A tale from the fort.

You and your party have spent weeks sealed in the fort. You've exhausted every resource to extend your search. All in order to come back home with more treasure.

Other adventurers have fallen to your blade so you could sustain yourself on their rations.
On *them*.

Your skin flakes, your bones ache. Anytime you notice the stench it gets sharper and stronger again.
You turn the corner, weapons drawn.
A horse.

It has no saddle, or mouthpiece. It looks like it roams freely. But how does it feed? Or drink? Sunlight would have to travel through dozens of floors of rock and stone to get to earth and birth grass.

You change your eyepatch to the eye accustomed to light, then ignite a nearby body.

The horse is a sickly green. One of your compatriots vomits. Blood is mixed into the pool.

It has two heads. You had to walk around it to see it clearly. One sprouting from the side of the original.

Flies and larvae birth, writhe and die from the chest cavity. Dozens of times a second. Thousands of times a minute.

You move to the other side of the horse. It doesn't follow your movement with its eyes. They're rotten and swollen shut.

As you look at its side you see it engraved in large lettering, carved by nothing less than a lumberjack's saw. Worms feast on the wounds as you read the words on its hide.

"and its name was Famine"