In a chamber most dim did a candle flicker, the room’s only beacon of hope save for the soft glow which came from tired orbs across the room. Sitting at a desk was the Archblood known as Nazareth, staring down upon blank parchment scattered across her escritoire in disarray much akin to her lifestyle. The only thing to lay in what could perhaps be perfection was an inkpot, a pitch-black well that had yet to be disturbed. That evening however was deemed its downfall from perfection as she dipped her quill within, corrupting its tip with the liquid night. There she got to writing, hunched over in the dark with her violet gaze aglow flicking to and fro over her words as they spilled on parchment. It did occur to me in the early hours of a velvet Tuesday morning that I trekked an irritable and slim line of grace, a tightrope most beautiful that was, at some point, bound to break; created to be destroyed. It is a merciful thing to be unaware of the full extent unraveled upon perilous altitudes below such a tightrope. But if mercy is ignorance, and ignorance is bliss, then I suppose bliss shall be the determinant of my inevitable demise. My demise contributed hitherto eternity in the corridors of crisp white perfection, adding to their extensive history of carnage and malady with a wax seal atop, finalizing my permanent residency in the sepulcher. I now write with a dead man’s hand. My skin has since been long gone, peeling back layer by layer, exposing tissues and bones most foul, earthly matter so despised that even the very creator abandoned the flesh. The earth chewed me up and spat me back out of its relentless maw. Now, having been mangled and, ultimately, having died, I sense a great unease upon my soul, as it has seemingly not left the body quite yet. Death is defined as the absence of life. Truly by this definition, I am very much dead. And yet, my soul goes on. My skin rots, my heart has stopped, and my senses have all left me. I cannot taste, feel, hear, sense, love, hate, enjoy, despise. Some days I cannot even think. And yet I see; I see clearly what is a most disturbing malady, the epitome of maladies, the absence of life right before my dull and dim eyes. First, let me explain how my death came about. The words came to a close as she finished the last sentence, leaning back in her seat with a sigh so deep that it deflated her psyche so. The last breath which fogged future corridors down the line, hiding behind a story that would never find itself a continuation, much less an end. An explanation would never be brought to the table, merely an addition to the Raven's writing desk.
