Argenti

Jakob’s hand tightened around the dark helmet, images of torture, hunger, and a visage with two burning scarlet eyes.

The sweet smell of burning flesh, a face contorting in utter Agony, hot blood running down his helmeted face. With a shock, Jakob realizes it’s his own; a vision of what is to come. But no matter. He’s made it this far, and can’t stop now. Not this close to his goal.

He takes the heavy wrought Iron helm in both hands, hearing the echoing snap-crackle of crushed bones, the pop of heads pressed beneath stones, and the last gasp of a dead man, all in harmonic symphony. Jakob smiles, before placing the crown on his head. 

Pain. All that Jakob is –pain that starts from everywhere, to be burned alive, disemboweled, and whipped, all at the same time. At once though, Jakob feels power, a crackling, hungry darkness that he knows could consume and bind the world if it’s allowed. All around him, those unable to resist his power, his glory, feel their skins and souls peel off in strips, the sheer might of the mantle of Agony flaying them alive, physically, and spiritually. 

With a hiss and considerable mental effort, Jakob pulls the wings of the thrashing shadow back into himself. Those who survive will forever remember that sight –a young man who seems to leer at the heavens, their shadows not pointing away from the light, but towards him, the screams of their comrades still echoing, their bodies still weeping blood. 

It. Is. Mine