(LIRIEN)
Being chained up in a basement wasn't as bad as being chained up in a cave, an outhouse, or a condemned poultry-processing plant.
What did it say about my life that I could draw that comparison?
Some might've pointed out that I ought to stop doing the shit that led me to be chained up, period.
I disagreed. That was victim-blaming, if you asked me.
What was a little necromancy, anyway? Like, the guy I'd turned into a giant wolf-zombie-thing the other day was a complete asshole to begin with. I might've even improved his personality.
Not that anyone had asked me.
As usual, I'd been ignored other than being locked into spelled manacles and dumped onto the floor of a secured room like so much dangerous trash — the radioactive waste of the supernatural world.
Too hot to touch.
Too toxic to discard in the open.
Nearly worthless if I didn't cooperate, but still with some potential to be used, if my captors figured out how.
