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From: Riskard
It is within this feeling of pressured ease that they dwell, this interesting mannerism of guiltless reality, here made real by a minds own eye. Sure steps, a poised hand, pages beneath the grasp of this warlock trembling, for it knows not, yet yearns for release through the embrace of this one who lives arcane, breaths life of magicks and crackling incantation.
Centred in a clustered pattern, grieving nothing for what was, where this last words meaning circles about the warlocks vicinity it gains life for but a moment while the energy flux ebs and flows.
Bestow unto this minute the extent of my lifes works and labors, in such strenthen your servants binding promises in cool reassurance and quiet grace, for I pledge this time to your beauty.
"There. It is done."
At the centre of the candle lit room a set of eyes, undead, alive, close firmly once, lids held shut holding tight for what is within, cloying perfume of a finish stagnating the air about him. Riskard Devereaux rests.