Oh how dreadful.
In the empty darkness of the killer's mind stand two figures, one a great beast, fashioned with sabered fangs and standing at great height. He sat upon a throne of discarded corpses, all of their faces shown in twisted horror and covered in gore. The beast fashioned this desecrated this display into some sort of throne, whereupon he sat, enraged, visions of various, still living souls flashing in front of him as he was forced to watch.
The other, a doddering, malnourished, old man, long fingernails clattering with the bones that he used as some sort of toy, mumbling to himself incoherently, barking out a laugh every so often. His hair overgrown, his beard unkempt, the man was also covered in fatal injuries, though in this vision, he appears to function as if he cannot feel them. This is not a realm that obeys the laws of nature or cares for the sanctity of life whatsoever. This is a dungeon, a prison, and not a very good one at that.
The butcher stirred, the visions now halting as he stared forward at the old man, enraged that he had to share this space with him. His previous attempts to rid himself of the fool littered the broken man's body, for whichever reason, he could not kill him, the one person in the world that defied his wretched vengeances shared a mind with the beast. So close, so very close, and yet the self-righteous bastards, like a thousand fire ants, had finally imprisoned him, or so they thought, rather, they shut the old man up.
Chains draped over the competent one's form, making it hard to walk, causing immense pain whenever he felt the need to release his wrath, that old man had learned the spell decades prior, but the monster figured he'd forgotten.
Oh how foolish Baagh looked.
The monster watched as the wounds over the old man healed, that had not happened before, he watched in great interest from his throne of victims, the man's hair cleaned up, his beard, groomed, and he finally stopped all that blabbering. The old man, now looking decades younger despite his stark white hair, he was now muscular, well-fed, and aware, something that had not been the case in nearly fifteen years.
"How are you not dead?" the beast started, unsurprised but curious nonetheless.
"Because they couldn't kill you," He responded, a somber note in his tone as he faced the beast, his face twisting in disgust, "You've been busy."
"We enjoyed the Ranger Crisis." A sick smile coming to the monster's form, "Let's not dwell on the past, you gave them the weaker of the two spells, which means you don't want me dead, even after all I've done."
"I chose Markenism for a reason, there is no coming back from that," He said, pausing with a hint of regret in his voice, "I've had you in the back of my mind for nearly thirty years, I know how to deal with you, not whatever follows your expulsion."
"We're hated and reviled by our own people, you'll come crawling back in a matter of time."
"That's the idea."
In the empty darkness of the killer's mind stand two figures, one a great beast, fashioned with sabered fangs and standing at great height. He sat upon a throne of discarded corpses, all of their faces shown in twisted horror and covered in gore. The beast fashioned this desecrated this display into some sort of throne, whereupon he sat, enraged, visions of various, still living souls flashing in front of him as he was forced to watch.
The other, a doddering, malnourished, old man, long fingernails clattering with the bones that he used as some sort of toy, mumbling to himself incoherently, barking out a laugh every so often. His hair overgrown, his beard unkempt, the man was also covered in fatal injuries, though in this vision, he appears to function as if he cannot feel them. This is not a realm that obeys the laws of nature or cares for the sanctity of life whatsoever. This is a dungeon, a prison, and not a very good one at that.
The butcher stirred, the visions now halting as he stared forward at the old man, enraged that he had to share this space with him. His previous attempts to rid himself of the fool littered the broken man's body, for whichever reason, he could not kill him, the one person in the world that defied his wretched vengeances shared a mind with the beast. So close, so very close, and yet the self-righteous bastards, like a thousand fire ants, had finally imprisoned him, or so they thought, rather, they shut the old man up.
Chains draped over the competent one's form, making it hard to walk, causing immense pain whenever he felt the need to release his wrath, that old man had learned the spell decades prior, but the monster figured he'd forgotten.
Oh how foolish Baagh looked.
The monster watched as the wounds over the old man healed, that had not happened before, he watched in great interest from his throne of victims, the man's hair cleaned up, his beard, groomed, and he finally stopped all that blabbering. The old man, now looking decades younger despite his stark white hair, he was now muscular, well-fed, and aware, something that had not been the case in nearly fifteen years.
"How are you not dead?" the beast started, unsurprised but curious nonetheless.
"Because they couldn't kill you," He responded, a somber note in his tone as he faced the beast, his face twisting in disgust, "You've been busy."
"We enjoyed the Ranger Crisis." A sick smile coming to the monster's form, "Let's not dwell on the past, you gave them the weaker of the two spells, which means you don't want me dead, even after all I've done."
"I chose Markenism for a reason, there is no coming back from that," He said, pausing with a hint of regret in his voice, "I've had you in the back of my mind for nearly thirty years, I know how to deal with you, not whatever follows your expulsion."
"We're hated and reviled by our own people, you'll come crawling back in a matter of time."
"That's the idea."
