It's disturbing on so many levels to sit in the kitchen of a dead man, eating his sandwiches and drinking his coffee. Yet, here I am.
Though, are they still Frank's sandwiches if I made them out of his bread and peanut butter? That feels like quite a philosophical question, one that distracts me from my current situation.
With Zeke's full support, getting here was easy, even if I had to march a mile to the town on foot. No more Ascended, as the cultists have called the insect monsters, have dared to attack. The cultists themselves believed me dead or worse, and Zeke guided me through empty paths towards an empty house, and even kindly picked the lock.
He agreed with me when I said that I needed some food and a breather.
