Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20190303210034/@comment-30014014-20190505203745

"How unfortunate. More mass culled by the incompetence of the walking corpses" Host-Prad turns to the pit of flame, his aiming finger ceassed. It instead clutches on the gem, which he raises instead of his other hand, for a brief moment.

The shuddering stone lowers under his palm, now spewing countless thorned shackles toward human corpses. Once more, the dagger tips dive deep in the dead. Once more, they pull out corrupted remnants, devoid of faces as an inky cross is slashed across in its stead. Hundreds? Thousands? It mattered not, for the gem expel many shackle tendrils under its sickly violet light.

His other hand still, however, carries the storm with him, waiting.