Death itself; the wicked, empty domain of the forgotten god, lost to time, unknowing of worship. In that void, it was everywhere; the presence of the malevolent entity, devoid of rationality or mercy. It felt as though a pressure as cold as ice pressed down upon him, looking down at his hands; his fingers began to wrinkle, starting from the tip and slowly traversing down the middle.
"I see. So, that's how it is," he mumbled.
The unavoidable concept of death weighed down, aging even the tiles that made up the floor.
Lonesome in his stand, he looked around, seeing even the most reliable of his comrades succumbing to the end of their journeys. Those devoid of the highest blessings were reduced to nothing but bone, soon to ash, within moments, while the Invictus' lost all color in their body, sapped of all life.
