The Last Diner (Part 2)

The bloats that are left drag themselves between the booths, heavy and unhurried. Whatever's inside them is staying inside until you take it out.

You watch the bloats work the floor. They're not hunting. They're finishing something. Bellies dragging, trails of black behind them, moving between the booths like patrons who never got the check.

One of them noses along the counter, following it end to end, the way a thing does when it's been over the same ground before and found something worth remembering.

And they're fat. Fatter than bloats have any business being out here, where a lizard counts as a good week. Something fed them, and fed them recently, and there is nothing in this ruin that says food.

No cans. No cellar. No grease burned into the grill. Just a dozen swollen bodies and the smell of ink over something older, something almost like a kitchen.

Whatever the travelers ate here, whatever was left of this place's strange hospitality, it went down these throats. If anything survived the trip, it's still in there.

There's one way to check the contents, and it isn't gentle.

TIP: Leather armor is exceptionally good against Chemical attacks that Inkbloats do