Wait here, child.
The blood on your hands is unclean.
The shadow on your soul is darkening.
The cold of your heart is consuming.
You have asked forgiveness,
pleaded for mercy,
begged for new life.
The deities are undecided.
They meet in council, even now,
to discuss and barter for your soul,
shadow-soaked as it is.
They have no power to cleanse it,
but want it for their own purposes.
Are you ready to surrender it
without conditions or demands?
If they burn it, will you be
satisfied.
If they use it for their own petty ends,
will you be at
peace?
The ravens come to guide you,
and the bell sounds,
muffled by the mist
as the gates open to
embrace you in clouds,
or receive you in clouds of flames.
Are you ready?
BlackQuill 