Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-31049256-20171111145041/@comment-28358106-20171229031549

(S9/Markel)   As if his own thoughts were read, Victivius gives a deep, rolling laugh. It is possibly the most horrible, mirthless sound Markel has ever heard.

"He quails, his truth laid bare in his trembling frame.  And yet, even this he gives, to be strewn upon the hillside of his life, left there to die, that his Lord may sup on his fear, and find it sweet..."

The great, armored hand, clad in obsidian plate, reaches from the depths before Markel, and the icy fingers curl around his head. It rests there, and Markel feels his soul dangled before the gaping maw of the Void as the Dark Lord blesses him.

'"Well done, O Good and Faithful Servant..." '

The hand withdraws, the eternal horror of nothingness with it.

The wind rushes around him. Gray leaves patter against his hunched body, his face down. The heavy smell of rotten loam fills his nostrils, stagnant and putrid, the soil of a crypt long forgotten and sealed with purpose. The open space before him lengthens...

"Rise, and face me, that you may hear my will..."