Trial of Futility

He is too late. The smell of the spell’s components linger a moment, cordite and cinnamon, then even that vanishes, leaving behind only the inevitable and the only option left, prayer.

His mouth already moves ignoring intellectual objection.

Stupidly, he seeks help from up high.

A god, demon, something just slightly better would be fine.

The problem though is, nothing can help, it doesn’t go much higher then the beast coming to eat his soul.

Devour his essence.

The sparkling fire on the wick of the blood candle goes out in the incoming rush of tentacles. He has a moment in which he wastes refusing to open his eyes, hears his horse neigh in terror and attempt a futile escape and then there is nothing.

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