He moves with shadow, follows the patterns of silver and night, dancing tricks around the leaden-tongued masses. He is what the storm fears, what the greatest minds cannot fathom. Worlds vanish under his gaze-efficiently brutal, angled in all the most dangerous ways.
He is always three steps from midnight and despair. He waited too long for the rescue and redemption that never came. The fist of time closes tight around his bare throat, and in turn he forces humanity to its knees. His pain is the kind one cannot suffer quietly. He will make sure we know how badly we have failed.
They say: Horrible!
It was horrible. The destruction, the darkness during the day, a black emptiness in blue skies. Horrible! How can we ever move on after this? They wonder. Horrible, horrible, they echo, a chant for the ages, resonating against the pillars of industry and the core of civilization.
Yes, he agrees with a sardonic grin, Quite horrible.
And he cannot get out of his mind the beauty of fire against the image of the void.
It's so easy to make the world look like himself.