Genesis the weilder of Excalibur

The court system in death is unparalleled, on earth or in heaven. There are no judges, only a juries of diverse peers pulled from purgatory, eligible to serve after one thousand years.

This tattoo artist specializes in eggs, get what you get gambles that will crack within the year. Whatever lies within will grant you some power, permanent, convenient or otherwise.

Walking through the graveyard at night, an angel climbs off its plinth to follow me. "The Chained One is restless," it whispers, as a second jogs up carrying my sword, like I could be out there for any other reason.

Text: Her familiar is a terrifying crane, towering over the heads of all who enter the tea house, its beak stained red with the blood of the unworthy.

Text: My family is under a strange curse. On death we turn into houses, haunted ones, in which the younger generations are forced to reside.

Text: Silk Spinners are the backbone of our society, a material with such durability it is used in almost everything. They move in utter silence from the tower to their lodgings each night.

Vultures are the messengers of the dead, bringing sanctioned communications to and from the underworld. We find one injured, shot down, with a dangerous letter in its beak.

Text: Casinos, ripe with the euphoria and despair of the blind faithful, all eventually grow Gods. Cheat a house with an established deity, and risk far more than coin. 

You've heard of the four humors, but did you know luck is also produced in the body? A tiny organ, hidden behind the stomach, which can be removed or transplanted like any other.

All we know of the palace is what the skeletons of their mages tell us, the river dumping them on the bank by our village. Fueled by a final bit of magic, their jaws creak open with bitter last words, or strange, dire warnings.

The ex-Anshin hacker-turned-assassin shares her mind with a digital virus of her own creation that digistructs into a physical form to enact her deadly will.

I bring what I hope is a suitable gift for the Witch Tree, bone white branches jutting from a thick trunk like bony fingers. They curl down and around the package, then point at the fork in the path I'm supposed to take.

The cafe, owned by vampires, accepts blood for baked goods and coffee. There's a place to donate in the back, and the barista frowns at the man lugging in a gallon jug of the stuff, fresh looking and unlabelled.

Text: The worst punishment in our village has is being 'planted'. Buried alive, you will grow into something with no mouth, coming back up as a twisted tree from which wood and organs can both be easily harvested.

Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.