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Summary
“Lord Kusanali, don’t be alarmed. I come on your behalf to fix whatever fucked up this branch of yours."
These Irminsul expeditions were never too hard. In and out, simple work. The Wanderer was used to this.
He should have known better than to lower his guard. Good things rarely stayed good for long.
"You don't have to do this," the bird said grimly. "You know what you'll find in there."
"I know."
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The Wanderer is sent to another branch to do a little pruning. Instead, he finds himself entangled in the horror of another puppet's life.