He wrapped his threadbare cloak tightly around himself, its weathered fabric as worn as his face.
He gripped his dust-covered staff, stained with the souls of the dead just like his hands.
He pushed back his tattered hood, its frayed edges as timeworn as his hair.
When he spoke the ancient incantation, rainbow light danced at his fingertips,
when the angelic demon descended and the earth rang with the laments of the dead,
when the wheels of fate began to turn once more, who could stand against the gods’ game?
He walked through the darkness, searching the mortal world for a light that might not exist.
