Summary: Mr.Pickles becomes spiritually fulfilled.

The sun rose, the sun set. The Spring Equinox had come and gone, unnoticed by the town. Mr. Pickles did notice it, however, as did his entourage, raising banners in the ancient ruins, flaid skin waving in a windless air. The screams of the damned echoed throughout the stony halls, their blood joining the stygian river that cross the underground city. As it passed through the earth, iron was deposited, and now new plants could grow, basked in the sunlight shining even in the depths.

Mr. Pickles admittedly had little interest in the cycles of nature and certainly almost none in the holistic aspects of the faith that was once practised in that city. He, however, could appreciate the poetry in life rising from death, and of the necessity of sacrifice. Killing for him was mostly an expression of his bloodlust and a form to enact justice, but the broader symbolic range of the act wasn't lost on him. He could envision the repetition of a pattern, yet with something different being added to the variables.

For a moment, he felt renewed.

The festivities could only last for so long, before his owner noticed he was missing. Mr Pickles however did what he could. He was a good boy after all, and good boys make sure that their people's traditions aren't lost.

Plus, it was just plain fun.

As the sun reached its position and its light turned the dark...