Sublime

Orthos shouted involuntarily. He would have staggered back several steps if he could have moved at all. A mountain had collapsed onto his shell, and he was held in place by an invisible fist. That wasn’t Lindon, that couldn’t be Lindon. That was a Dreadgod. The Empty Ghost. And it was coming for him. White circles on black orbs stared into Orthos,

His boots were dark and practical, his pants black, his shirt crisp white and missing the sleeves. The chains that spiraled up his tanned arms glistened in the sun, reflecting light like a steel mirror. An otherworldly cloak, woven from what looked like solid shadows, rose from the ground behind him. It flowed like a cape, untouched by the breeze,

his eye-spikes throbbing as always, bringing him pain—