Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-31049256-20171111145041/@comment-28358106-20171228040249

(S9/Markel)  As Baku talks to Regina, his voice seems to fade, as if the words he speaks have less to them, devoid of life and reason. Blurring into a quiet murmur, a sursurration, a chorus of nothing, somehow more terrible in its meaninglessness. A language not of chaos, but of order unraveled...

Then his eyes open.

He is standing where he was before, but the world has ceased. Vague shapes, dark and featureless, stand in place of the people that surrounded him only moments before. Trees twist, parched and gray, reaching with leafless limbs for a sky that has never seen a sun. Shadows blacker than the absence of life cross in a labyrinth of darkness. Cold grasps his ankles, then his feet, reaching for the sanity that keeps him rooted...

And then He is there.

His steps are measured, as time itself halts to His will in this place where all things go to die. Immense, immeasurable. The Abyss, His mantle, encircles them both. He speaks...

The Lord of the Black Throne.

"...My disciple..."

His voice lingers, coffins shutting in the deep. Coldness washes over Markel like the breath of the grave...