White As Snow
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English
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For untold years you will wait upon death's door.
From the healer's hand and love's demand, you will live and love no more.
Through the crumbling castle, the words whispered, hollow as death, black as the night they were--black as his soul. Damian Alessandro tightened his mailed fist, his fingers digging into the scarred wooden arm of his throne. Cold rage, barely leashed, fueled his body, clouded his mind. For centuries the necromancer's words had taunted him, an enigma he had yet to solve. Through the years, he'd given up hope, and so he remained in Helmskeep, seeking the answer to a riddle ... seeking an end to the torment of living death.
On a black throne he waited ... waited for an oblivion that would not come ... that would never come.
Outside a storm rose, shattering the calm of night like crystal thrown upon a stone hearth, mirroring the ever present turmoil of his mind. Beyond darkened windows, their panes broken and leaking in the fury of the storm, lightning flashed like silver in the clouds, the gods beating their drums in the sky, harkening their ire. The air charged with each hush before the thunder, and distant, he heard a sound, of breath heaved into worn lungs; horses screaming in terror; the snap of a whip sharp in the air.
He rose, dust sifting from blackened armor grayed by its obscurity. Long had it been since he'd left this throne, this hall. The wind tore through the abandoned hall, through the broken panes, whipping once lustrous banners, now rotting with age. Silvered threads, tarnished and black with antiquity, shaped his coat of arms: the spider and the rose ... unraveling as though the wind had teeth and devoured all. He raised an arm to block the noise, commanding the winds rioting through the hall to cease. A hush descended, and he listened.
Again the noise came to him, voices so faint, and yet so powerful a draw ... life. The need to touch a living soul was near unbearable. He had seen no creature in decades, but the power was unmistakable. He could practically taste their life's essence.
From the healer's hand and love's demand, you will live and love no more.
Through the crumbling castle, the words whispered, hollow as death, black as the night they were--black as his soul. Damian Alessandro tightened his mailed fist, his fingers digging into the scarred wooden arm of his throne. Cold rage, barely leashed, fueled his body, clouded his mind. For centuries the necromancer's words had taunted him, an enigma he had yet to solve. Through the years, he'd given up hope, and so he remained in Helmskeep, seeking the answer to a riddle ... seeking an end to the torment of living death.
On a black throne he waited ... waited for an oblivion that would not come ... that would never come.
Outside a storm rose, shattering the calm of night like crystal thrown upon a stone hearth, mirroring the ever present turmoil of his mind. Beyond darkened windows, their panes broken and leaking in the fury of the storm, lightning flashed like silver in the clouds, the gods beating their drums in the sky, harkening their ire. The air charged with each hush before the thunder, and distant, he heard a sound, of breath heaved into worn lungs; horses screaming in terror; the snap of a whip sharp in the air.
He rose, dust sifting from blackened armor grayed by its obscurity. Long had it been since he'd left this throne, this hall. The wind tore through the abandoned hall, through the broken panes, whipping once lustrous banners, now rotting with age. Silvered threads, tarnished and black with antiquity, shaped his coat of arms: the spider and the rose ... unraveling as though the wind had teeth and devoured all. He raised an arm to block the noise, commanding the winds rioting through the hall to cease. A hush descended, and he listened.
Again the noise came to him, voices so faint, and yet so powerful a draw ... life. The need to touch a living soul was near unbearable. He had seen no creature in decades, but the power was unmistakable. He could practically taste their life's essence.
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