Lyle.
A simple word.
A name, a designation.
But in that tainted voice, it was not so.
[Lyle]
It was a hint.
It was a spell.
It was a switch.
A switch that toggled between the weak and the powerful, a line that divided hope from fear.
The power of Hell blazed upon the body, like cast iron returning to the furnace that forged it, revealing its true form.
Fear, intermingled with chaotic will, formed His incarnation.
His name was [Lyle], His power was fear, His shape was an omen.
The intensely rich power of Hell congealed into a sediment of malice, spreading beneath His feet to form a black pool.
His slender, emaciated body, like a dried reed, had elongated limbs resembling withered branches. There He stood still, His head ignited by the power of Hell, ethereal and insubstantial, while that insidious laughter seemed to come from nowhere.
