Myria

Where we die

And the party swears itself to a spirit of the Nether

As no one has leapt at the task of describing our darkest hour, I suppose the onus falls to me. Igmokulvaniusempluchiaku, with a name older than the rock that now bears the reins of his life, has finally made an enemy of Fortune. The pain of death is still fresh, like a new notch in an already rusted and battered blade. Soon the rust will creep in and it will become one more ugly flaw in the once beautiful tool. One more dull edge, good only as a reminder of loss. Details crystalize and are laden upon a back already broken with a thousand thousand such pains. A flower of all things. A vine younger than my shoes fells the Weeping Executioner. I have stood stalwart of leagues of enemies crashed into ruin, fire and madness. Countless allies and lovers and children gurgling and spurting hot blood. A plant. How long have I been asleep to the days and nights? How long has this wretched body snarled in the rictus of disuse? Where has it all gone? The flash came so slow as to be absurd! A pain from behind, a rage so sudden that I sieze upon the great maul in righteous anger, only to realize how slow I am, how soft, and now dead. I couldn’t help but smile. The ire iron irony. Of course there will be no release. not for me, maybe not ever. I have to know, and no future pain can match mine. **

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