A women covered in blood, filth and feathers crawled into a rotten shack, aged by the passage of eons, her belly elongated to horrifying lengths, and her face missing skin. Once inside the shell of a home she laid upon her back, tears streaking down her face. She tried catching her breath, ignoring her abundant pain, to scan the surroundings, frantically searching for some sort of medicine, but nothing is to be found, only the ever present mold. She looks back and sees the outside world, vast white flower fields stained with her filth and fluid show her the path she took.

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Her eyes fall, losing their glimmer of hope. In an odd language she speaks, “I guess this is the end,” 

her back falls onto the floor splintering upon the wooden floor, and her elongated belly bursts, revealing her insides. From it a frail looking man with feathers where hair should be crawls out, his hands replaced with claws and his feet a mix of hands and talons. He, the product of the last sin, is this worlds meager hope.