The pages, they were half charred, strewn about atop the skeletons of Holy thrones past – now a heap of ash still glowing the Devil’s hot red.
The man, he was steeped in the corner, knees up like a child – or a crazy man – shaking in fear. The skin of his face was falling off as if it were dripping – melted. Ivory white skull exposed and where there once was a, seemingly, all-seeing eye a black hole existed – optic fluid ran down his former face like tears. The room was dark – but more – more than the absence of light; like flies swarming, searching for the rotting, slopping flesh of a leper.
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