Mutalorin: An identity that seems to ache deep inside of you, twisting and pressing against your skin as it longs to be free. It yearns to morph the body it is inhabiting, so that it may better suit its needs.
As though it were an unwilling host, or a holy entity growing deep inside your gut, it pushes against its prison as it continues to get more erratic. I wonder how long you’ll be able to hold it in for?
