Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20190114001113/@comment-30014014-20190216201156

He spills no word, for none could picture the sentiment in his mind. A rare time of his mind untouched and he byet had no word to convey his emotion.

Rather, he leans on her, his fingers free of their wrappings taking her fuzzy paws into his. His eyes close, taking the little momentum of comfort he can graze. His thoughts are of broken comfort, one that remains shattered...

---

His spectator's thoughts, a convergence form the dead to him. Literally. Having given his respect, the man in the wall, now visible, yet a scar upon this plane, raises his jet black gauntlet. The torch in his eyesockets are lit, as are the names of the men and women who's tombstones he touched.

His dark hand hold a flux of power, one irradiating the dirt where the dead lays. Ethereal hands burst out of the soil, inducing the immediate area into a darker plane. One which disallows even the light of the moon to filter through. Darkness is sovereign to his surrounding.

The hands are followed by arms. The arms, by heads. Heads which's visages have long been erased, replaced by crosses scratched in instead. Facial expressions, gone. They seep out, radiated with a purple light, attires drafted in a different esthetic to the ones they were buried with.

Slowly, they turn their collective heads to the man in the wall, walking in a surrounding manner to encircle the entity, groaning and twitching. They remain in this world, yet at the same time, flicker out like a candle battling harsh wind.