The ILLAGERS are what remains when will is shackled, when inquiry is replaced by obedience, when the spark of self is suffocated beneath layers of muck, routine, and rotten ideology. Their bloated forms are not the result of gluttony, but of stagnation, of spirit curdled, flesh slackened, and purpose drained.

Look at their eyes: not blind, but numb. They see you. But they do not register you. You are a cipher in their world, an anomaly to be questioned, feared, or torn down, depending on which command was last burned into the meat of their brains.

They trudge through life with the inevitability of mildew: not born, not growing, just spreading.