Papyrus Phantoms

Such merciless existence—Gods give me strength. Temper this aching soul with your divine light, for without it I should surely be lost to darkness.

Fault is not my tormentor. It is this inescapable guilt that gnaws at me—that lays this unending pall of sadness upon my life. It is guilt that still craves tears long dried—that leaves only barren melancholy in its wake.

What irony the Gods unleash upon us through their quiet musings… The final note of a bloodline tainted by the abyss—struck by the Inquisition. Saviour and heretic, saint and demon mingle as one… divine poetry.

Secret this perfidy from the masses we shall—for its reveal should surely rock the foundations of our order. Stray we must from the road that imperils the mind of the populace and invites unhindered the abyssal dark.

Inquisition Blood – the burgund ichor scented by faith and ash. Blackwood’s sings—a symphony in minor. He is the resolute staff, the raging clef.

Such a singular muse… I must spill him once more.

Inquisition Blood – the burgund ichor scented by faith and ash. Blackwood’s sings—a symphony in minor. He is the resolute staff, the raging clef.

Such a singular muse… I must spill him once more.

To the Chamberkeep,

I never gave an inch, lambasting them (courageously) at every turn—but the woman would not let up until they freed the heretic. She was definitely insane (nuts)—smashed an Aetherstone like it was a shop-trinket.

I will remain with you forever—if not in flesh, then in ash.

Farewell.

“The damned shan’t fear damnation.”

In dearth of honour, ambition seeds treachery.

“Your legacy has imperilled us all, Lazarus. Pacts must be mended.”

“Jeez, Laz, they messed you up real good, eh?”

Blood and torniquets, loose flesh and limbs… I’ve seen it all. Never been one for the squeam but, Christ, that darkness—like a fuckin’ demon from the abysses staring me down.