MAG 128 - Heavy Goods
The Magnus Archives
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The Death of a Mangy Mule
We served aboard the Robert Small, bodies of the time crammed into uniform as sloppily as any would expect. Villages that might have no bodies for us when we arrived would pile high our cart before we left. We were the bringers of their awful fate, not its executors. They knew this and feared us in kind. The quartermaster was too precise though, and in counting out the rations saw us for what we were. I ate the quartermaster's pen, he ate the quartermasters tongue, and that was that. And the corpse is piled ever higher.
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