Hello, friend! How nice of you to make the time to stop by!

Always delights me to see you betwixt these ill-fated shells.

To what do I owe your visit today?

Ha ha ha ha ha ha! As if you must even answer that.

Tonight, my dear Traveler of the Strange, I have something particularly unsettling.

A simple backpack, worn and weathered by time.

Its canvas staying dark with something that was once red, but has long since dried

to brown. It came to me by chance, as many of these artifacts do, left behind, forgotten,

or perhaps abandoned with purpose.

At first glance it appears ordinary, zippers, straps, a few personal belongings still rattling inside.

But there's something wrong about it, something that lingers in the air, like the scent of rain on asphalt,

just before the storm turns violent. You see, this backpack has a story to tell, one that reeks

of dust and gasoline, of headlights cutting through the dark, and of something

that was never meant to be found. So settle in, if you dare. But be warned, some roads

should never be traveled, and some things left behind should remain as such. This is roadkill. Before we begin, I want to

point out some of the customers whose names have been etched in brass on this beautiful

plaque I had made above the front desk. These are some of the members of the inner circle of the antiquarium.

We go by the Obsidian Covenant.

Recent initiates include Morgan Vandevere, Crystal Hall, Devon, Liz Marshall, the artist formerly known as Mouse Cop, Gavin Hagg, This is Honto, Bri, Dorian, and Hope S.

We are ever appreciative of your devotion to the order.

Go to the Obsidian Covenant.com to receive the sacrament.

Now, where were we?

...