... as a black hand turns into rivulets of blood, a memory.

Rage. Rage is the point. Is the driver. Is the things that pushes inside. Rage for Ragnar. Rage for me.


Rage drives me.


It finds me at my lowest and pushes me up, frantically, as I feel my soul decompress far too quickly. It's always been like that. Back then, now, there is no difference.

There was no difference in her eyes. Between my rage and hers. She brandished a crimson-glowed blade at me. I brandished my fear and pushed. Her crimson found me still.



Second mem.


Warmth. Guilt. Shame. Exile.
Time sent me to exile and light-absorbing, darkness-covered millions of limbs.

I fought. Rage filled me once more. Rage wasn't enough but Death would be enough.

But Death was denied prey as Warmth pushed me aside and took my blows for me. If there's something that can swallow Warmth that's Darkness.


But still, pushed up and drowning in excess. Warmth gave itself for me and gave herself to me and was frozen for it.
Time returned and took it away and set me free. Freedom puked at my sight, likewise.


So, in sand and light and wind blowing away my moments, I returned to Darkness and Death. But even so, as I was willing to be drowned and swallowed and buried and inked over, Darkness offered a deal.


A Deal I took.



For revenge
For rage
For power.




For the power to extinguish Time.