Oh, a sweetly Undead. I have seen, akin to all, thou'th been afflicted by the Darksign. You've gone Hollow, lost Them all, down to the memory of a Soul. Now, thou merely awaits the end. I'll not lie, it shall never come, not at the behest of one so brittle. Beseech all you want, thine plights will be unheard. Thousands come in droves, corralled, they flutter off… Off to an abyss, where, like flies, their wings burn, and they become. Perchance you've heard of the Mavens. They belonged to… I believe it was Tivirium. The Kingdom of the Dead. We all end up there, stuck in betwixt, before we come back, Undead, ripe for the Hollowing.
But how did you come to us? Ah, I see it in thy eyes. Remains of a gullible past; a foreshadow of a nightmare. Sword in the bone, blood on iron. Those whom you have trusted so, are now disloyal. Aldruic, Lord of Marrow, and the Melting One. What has become of the world? What hath thee been called? Bearer of the Dark Soul, cradle of the Dark, womb of humanity… a Furtive Pygmy. My curiosity is sated, little one, albeit bleakly, so tread on, and find thyself amidst the caged Dead. Time has ceased for thee, you now have it all you want.
A melody, the strings of a harp, echoed furtively in the chasm. The Pygmy stood there, contemplating all things done. His pupils fixed on his open palm, his surroundings blurred in a watery haze. His focus was not on the ordinary, but on the Dark Soul, the core of his thoughts, of his ideals, of others' humanities. He could feel it, his limbs passing into malformation, his mind strained with voices that bellowed incessantly of the Dark, of "Manus, a Father to be born of the Abyss". She looked up, and beheld her mares of the night, a pallid, white mask, melting like wax off a flaming candle. The Darksign throbbed in her, pulsating with the Dark. His final second came, he tautened the clutch on his iron blade, a broken pendant wrapped about his hand, and stepped forward.
An Undead stared into the Abyss. Tattered rags covered him, and he was chained by his ankles to thousands of others in a line, sliming along a narrow passageway deep below the earth. They were being herded by jailors, but none knew where they were being led. The Undead kept jerking his eyes from here to there, the walls were seeping sludge, and wails spurred through the low breezing wind. Thoughts of the Grave of Saints and the Royal Rat filled his heart with memories of solitude; wherein he once felt out of favor, he would now have accepted it on a whim. The row of Undead marched on at a dawdling pace, and for the most they all kept quiet, except for the intermittent weeps.
At last, the flock came to final juncture, the Abyss. It was pitch black, an unending chasm that spread onward into shadow for eternity. A pervasive glimmer befell the Dark, seams of jade light embedded in the cavernous walls. Looking closely, the Undead peered and spotted that many statues lined alongside the curved frame of the Abyss. They gleamed with the hue, their eyes highly distinct; the sobs deepened. The crowds of Undead came in through tens of other passageways; the jailors, Purgatory disciples, stood at the edge, withered husks with cartwheels artificially fixed to their necks; a way to render sleep unfeasible. They carried torches and notched whips.
Finally, the Undead now came to the slippery lip, staring into the gaping maw. He was given no moment for repentance, none for absolution, none whatsoever. With one simple thrust, the Undead lost his footing and stumbled down, and the warden flung him down the engulfing jaw.