Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20180615005427/@comment-30014014-20181130015743

Prad had barely slept.'' His night was filled with horrifying nightmares. Most of them, featuring the court of Armata discarding their mask to reveal jagged horrors. He lied at the center, bound at the wrists and kneeling by the knees, unable to fend for himself. Roda would stand over him, a twisted smile on her face devoid of feminity, drooling in hunger. A cohort of humans he had seen, watching from the balconeys, wrapped in shackles, forced to witness, powerless to act.''

''In the dark of the day, would walk Armata, a dagger in hand. It grinds against the ceramic, famished for the blood of a lamb. A legion of black knights clanking their spears against the floor, their voices full of torment, whispering in a ritualistic chant.''

''Slowly, he approaches, followed by others like him, twisted and disfigured as he was. His dagger, lifted over Prad's head, awaiting. The chant, from whisper to shout, the hunger in their tones, evident.''

''A man squats over the place where he is bound, far from the place, yet so present. He gazes, indifferent, uncaring...''

Armata plunges the dagger deep in--

The shroud is ripped by the knock, spouting him in a shiver. He looks to the left. To the right. Nothing. Nothing but the sun's ray.

A hand clutches on his febrile heart, beating at an anormal cadence. Torments from last day, obviously. He couldn't quite move from the corner where he laid. He couldn't answer the door just yet, his mind still reaping itself from the nightmare...