Alone in the twilight, here sits the sad revenant. Once tormented by the fire of Hell that burned within him, now he realizes a true doom. His purpose is no more, his origins lost, his existence forgotten by the very powers that spawned him. He is left without pain and with very little corporeal form. He has wandered for thousands of years, seeking death or life, seeking any varience in his being. Alone in the twilight, here sits the sad revenant. Now he yearns for rage, cries to a void from a void. He cannot speak, for none have spoken to him. The Dark has abandoned him, and the Light has rejected him. He once had a body, but it was destroyed. He once had will, but it fell to neglect. He cannot see, he is blinded by a thing. He cannot hear, nor can he touch, the burdens of the thing. No longer has he a world, though a world of destruction he remembers. Alone in the twilight, here sits the sad revenant. He still can feel, and feel he does. An eternal hate, a silent fury. Though gone is his once formidable power, gone are the flames and the ice, in their place lies a brooding abomination. In their place lies the focus of his contempt. No chasm has he found deep enough to bury it. No moutain can hide it. No sea vast enough to distance it. Alone in the twilight, here sits the sad revenant. Once was he feared, now he has not the satisfaction of scorn. From the ruins of his consciousness, a voice whispers, a thought stirs. Merely an echo now, repeated by that vile abhorrence that inhabits his cognition. He does not raise his head, nor is any cry freed from his tongue. Alone in the twilight, here sits the sad revenant. Gone is hope and dread, fortitude and cowardice. In eternity, the wretched soul must now dwell, twisted and condemned by that one thing. Decay lords over his form, stagnation over his being, madness over his mind. He does not wait nor bide.
He is consumed by his hate, his silent fury at that damning entity, the Self. Alone in the twilight, here sits the sad revenant.
Submitted by Tyler Christensen