"The gods will never forgive this affront!" the priest bellowed defiantly moments before his guts were spilled onto the floor of the church with a wet, splattering noise. Gasping in pain and shock, his hands clutched at his spilled insides. His wide eyes gazed upon the ruined mess as if he was frantically divining sacred purpose from the entrails. Engulfed in the horror before him, he never saw the second swing of the sadistic looking axe that parted his head from his shoulders. His head bounced away, rolling down the rows of burning pews as his body fell into a heap and twitched.
The butcher's eyes followed from beneath a hood that shadowed its face. It beheld the remains of the congregation, now crimson ruins of muscle and organs, and their sacred site that was slowly being consumed by a hungry inferno of green fire which ate it's way through stone and wood alike with an unnatural appetite. Hissing and popping filled the air, sounding as if a thousand vile serpents were filling the rafters.
Hefting the dripping axe, the armored figure stomped forward, their red cloak billowing behind them. Reaching the door, the hood and the shadowed face that lurked somewhere beneath turned to gaze at the crest of the Twelve.
A contemptuous snort filled the air. The axe swung again, cracking the stone epitaph. Over and over the axe fell, stone chips splintering away. The last etching of earth to vanish was Nald'thal's, and this one was defiled with a noticeable enthusiasm in the figure's hacking.Â
Once the figure was satisfied that his blaspheming was complete, they turned and strolled out into the cold night.
The butcher's eyes followed from beneath a hood that shadowed its face. It beheld the remains of the congregation, now crimson ruins of muscle and organs, and their sacred site that was slowly being consumed by a hungry inferno of green fire which ate it's way through stone and wood alike with an unnatural appetite. Hissing and popping filled the air, sounding as if a thousand vile serpents were filling the rafters.
Hefting the dripping axe, the armored figure stomped forward, their red cloak billowing behind them. Reaching the door, the hood and the shadowed face that lurked somewhere beneath turned to gaze at the crest of the Twelve.
A contemptuous snort filled the air. The axe swung again, cracking the stone epitaph. Over and over the axe fell, stone chips splintering away. The last etching of earth to vanish was Nald'thal's, and this one was defiled with a noticeable enthusiasm in the figure's hacking.Â
Once the figure was satisfied that his blaspheming was complete, they turned and strolled out into the cold night.
