@angeliclute
Pain was necessary. Blood was currency.
With his ceremonial knife, Roth carves a line to freedom on his palm. Clenching his fist, blood seeps through his tensed fingers, dripping onto the sigil. That ancient circle, of strange and eldritch words cautiously inscribed in chalk. Here, Roth intends to defy Hell and Heaven. To escape his mistakes and to choose his fate. His bags were packed, and he was ready to leave in the midst of chaos.
The Extermination serves as the perfect smoke screen. Roth’s absence ( if even noticed ) will be attributed to the Angels.
Nervously, Roth started chanting the ancient words. A dead language, spoken once by terrifying beings now dead and gone. Every word, EVERY syllable, was like pulling teeth with rusty pliers. Yet, Roth suffered for it, as he suffered for so much.
Outside, he could hear The Angels. Screaming “banshees” showing his kind the sword, without mercy. The threat of being found loomed over his mind. He was certain, however, that he was safe for the time being. This warehouse was abandoned, nobody was here. The Angels should move on, to join the slaughter elsewhere.
Roth’s chanting grew louder and vigorous, the blood he spilled burned. It sizzled and boiled, as the letters around him became fire. All around him, the power of unnatural magic intensified. It became a beacon to attract unwanted attention. Still Roth shouted and screamed, repeating those strange words again and again. Soon, he shall be free. He shall be home once more, away from Hell. He shall leave all his failures behind.
On the brink of freedom, someone arrived. Roth sees them and his heart crumbles.
It was an Exterminator. It was Lute.
