"An arena! A battlefield, with the roaring tides swelling in anticipation of the bloodshed that is to follow. I hear them scratching at my soul, desperate for a release only I can provide. I am eternal salvation in the form of unholy demise. I am worship to the godless, faith to the forgotten. They look upon my form and tremble. I’ve watched stars wither and die, planets shrug off the parasite that is life and tear themselves asunder. I have watched death tread across the battlefield, watched him weep for the souls of the damned, condemned to the Unreal. He could not provide a relief, so I took them upon my back, carried them through darkness, fed them until they found strength. I looked upon the world and said; No. This is not enough. And with that, I created life..”
Sentient, the Dead-God of the North, the Manipulator of Far Antiquity, and the progenitor of the Cult of Silver.
No comments:
Post a Comment