Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20180615005427/@comment-28358106-20180721005742

(Jorge)  The knife sinks into the obelisk, almost as if it were not there. It slows, and stops, the world covering itself in a dark haze, shadows spiralling where they should not be, reaching with hungry tendrils. Time halts, master to another, whose presence presses the veil.

Jorge can feel the cold of the grave seep into his armor.

He can see the umbral nothing that is the presence of the Dark Lord before him, yet all around him, as time and space are separated into a third place, wretched and hollow. The frigid voice is a hand, reaching into his mind.

And here, where despair is the bread of the weak, a bitter succor...

The shape of Victivius looms.

...You come, at last, to sup at my table.

The words are a terrible smile as the Lord of the Black Throne spreads his arms, a colossus.

'At which you shall feast, your place at its side long ago given. Your place at my side, a gift, where the flesh of your dead goddess shall become the sweetest bread. Yes, O Champion, but champion no more, abandoned by all but the keeper of the bargain! '

A peal of low thunder rolls.

Tell me then, now that your heart has cried out...

His black hand clenches slowly.

'...What favor shall be the mantle you bear...? '