Dark. It is always dark here. The wizard is captive in chains before me. She screams, again. We both know that a thousand screams could not change that which must be done. I tighten my grip on the blade once more. I hear it calling, louder than usual. It knows. It has always known. Once, before this began, I did not understand that true knowledge is attained through struggle, through experience and - most importantly - through pain. I understand these things now. The itching returns. The armour is no longer something that I wear. The process was slow at first, barely perceptible, and by the time I realised what was happening I no longer wished it to stop - it has fused with me now. The itching never really goes away, but comes in waves and surges, like now. A thousand worms burrow into my flesh, the scabs in my mind ache. Maddening. I take my one remaining hand (the sword is the other is the hand is the blade is forever is darkness is now) and use a shard of bone to try and pry the plating away from the necrotic remnants of my skin. To scratch, to slice, to try to bring back the silence of the void. Useless. There is only one cure, and we 3 know that this is not it. The pus and blood dripping from the shard seem to smile at me as they congeal on the floor of the cave. Maddening. Madness consumes what is left of me, in the spaces that the blade does not wear. For unlike my armour, which became part of me, I am now part of the blade. The blade wears me. A puppet of flesh and marrow and death and madness. I can see out from the hole it has carved for me in my mind, but I no longer wish to. It forces me to watch, and to further my understanding. Another scream rises from the wizard. Futile. It has been written, so shall it be. I look into its eyes and bathe in the hatred. Allow it to wash through me, to cleanse and sooth the itch, to quiet the screams for deathanddeathanddeathandmurder from the blade. Soon my love, soon. So much that could have been and so much we could have learned. But the general kneels before me in its chains, and none of that matters. Her mind sharpened by a thousand wars, knowledge of pain and its promises torn, struggling, from the very fabric of what you call reality. But then, a mistake. This is all it takes. Judgement. Here, this always was, and always will be. To be judged is to be guilty. The guilty must be punished. Execution. Sent through the 14th spiral of the 9th circle of the 3rd domain to my dimension. To the dark place. To the end of things. DEATH screams the blade through my teeth. It is right, it is time. I unchain myself from reality, and raise the blade so that it can carve dimensions as it falls and gift them madness and fear and the unknown. This is the way. It is and will be written. Scream again, general, scream like when we first tore your name from you. Scream so that The Lord may hear your anguish echo through his realm. The blade falls, cleaving existence, and I let it roar through me. FINALLY! As she dies, it is true again. I AM URZOK, AND I AM HATED. I am lord of my kingdom of pain and there is no other will never be can be no other way. It is time. Join us.