He's got the face of a demon with eyes like dying stars; dim and lifeless, yet seeing all. His cheekbones protrude far beyond what one would consider "normal" and his chin joins at the bottom of that wicked visage in a double prong. He has no hair. Instead, spiny ridges adorn the top of his head, converging upon two points that could be interpreted as the baby beginnings of horns.
His body is that of a skeleton, wrapped in a thin layer of white skin; stretched taught over the bones. And he wears a necromancer's cloak in a pitiful attempt to hide his wretchedness.
I see him wherever I go, followed by his dead eyes. I hear him whisper my name in the dark. I feel his cold touch upon my shoulder, drawing me to the promised safety of his arms. He is my comfort. He is my strength. He is my god.
Some days I have the strength to fight. Some days I have no choice but to worship.
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