Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20190114001113/@comment-30014014-20190212053548

"So the walking cadaver has judged what crawls before its empty sockets, and find the creatures of today to be abominations. Hypocrites hiding under a shape close to humanity..." The man in the wall hums in his distorted tone, reflecting to Prad's ears.

"An achievement to be held, for a child of a primal entity to be titled a living failure by the same sentience when he still bears his ancient flesh, untouched by the metamorphisis. Or perhaps, is the progetinor blind to the tally of its rejected children? If those fomr the damned world have given nothing of worth, what could the dog and the rot produce, save for their lineage?"

However, his stance changes but for the brief of time as his eyes line on the aftermath once again. He disappears...

Prad, who had a few feet back from the group and further from Pramool, felt a sudden and violent change. The shadows under his feet had changed. With an impromptu shine, one of his arms had turned dark, coated in an unknown metal, pungent with ancient scents.

His head scowls to the dead and injured. His shape distorts for a second. Then, a blur. A blur shifting and writhing on every human injured and otherwise dead, faded from sight, leaving a galvanized crater where they stood.

they re-appear, a bit further from the epicenter, all slumbered behind Prad, who's shineless black arm contrasts with the rest of his attire. Particles seep out from it, washing over the injured, acting as tireless workers to knit the more grievous of wounds, the kind that many would see forfeit.

He knees to one of them, a particular injured, his dark hand washed over the injured's face "Oh how the plight affects you. A victim of ancient dwellings that play with their subjects like pawns in a chess game. Worry not, the flame that unmade you will now rescind its act..."

Orchid fire devouring the human's injuries like sought-after preys, he repeats the process in a speed disallowing him to be so easily spotted by ordinary sights.

The dead however, are but knitted to be in resplendor in their eternal rest, his hand rising to the skies. Where it once was a scarlet storm, a violet maelstrom now contested it as bolts fell on Prad's side, revealing fabrics. Fabrics of metal and arcane attracting the bodies of the fallen, almot as if recongnizing them for the deceased they are. Prad's voice speaks with an alien tone, bewitched by a genuine lament "Your ancestors whimper at the fate that befell you, make no mistake. Their sacrifices to entail no such outcome, discarded. But now, you sleep at their side, lifted to the empyrean steps of the afterlife. Go, leave this cursed world..."

The coffins, straddled upward, boom in a thunderous might, lifting themselves to the very heavens themselves under Prad's dark hand pointing its palm to the place. They rush upward, into a swirling vortex of violet light, a light that soon changes to a gray one at the very last second as it closes in on the last coffin, shuddered as if nothing had ever happened. The orchid storm, dissipated.

The newly healed and slumbering mortals of human kind, enveloped still in a scorching aura.