If The Witch-King, The Herkunftshorn, Otto Dietmar Gustav von Urtica brings his subordinates to the blurry edge between true death and madness, one wonders just how far he'd bend, spin the mind of one he "loves".
I wonder if he were kind enough, he'd allow them the golden privilege, the cold realization he'd taken their entire world, uprooted their perception of reality by the roots, by the skin of their teeth.
The devil's tune is a double-edged sword, and his tender flame-licked promises an empty escape.
The Witch-King's influence is so deeply immense it festers neigh endlessly for centuries at the edge of your vision, where every natural color of the prism means the hollow swallow of darkness.
He smiles, lingers, and digs underneath like a worm. Sickness, nefarious obsession. A lich's curse, hardly possible to erase once it finally boils above the skin like oil and tar, but an Arts mark from the Witch-King himself?
That sentient taint, tasteless clingy darkness, your scar would never fade. He is all you know and shall ever hope to question, dare you even question his maddening conquest to begin with.
Your dreams are not safe. Far from knowing the sweet embrace of peace when he gently cradles you in his pitifully cold longing, patiently counting the goosebumps he left behind. His grasp is anything but normal. He won’t caress, won’t touch you like any mere man.
His tender digits reach and reach in silent droves, touching and observing, until your Majesty imprints the passionate kiss of the black fire upon every single orifice of you and calmly calls it progress, his birth name carved into bone. Inspiring a whisp of pain in any glance.
His voice never silenced in Franz's head, not completely. His dark legacy never faded from Leithanian, and his wordless echo didn't fade from Terra in its entirety.
You shall never be rid of him. The night is a grimm contempt. His looming shadow darkens each passing century.
Freedom is a stranger in his court; The Witch-King is a sincere yet subtle, overarching possession. His music is an unforgettable infection of the senses; you taste him on your tongue when you sing, indescribable yet absolutely horrible, twist after twist after twist. The Witch-King pulls a forbidden pressure. He effortlessly steals from your throat, falses you to make for yourself and especially others, molded into what he orchestrates.
You can't seem to mind what can't be real, like he never left in the first place. To think as your own vassal without his guiding hand extending out from the thin crack of the emptiness to delicately tighten your strings, as gods do for their chosen pupils.
He insists that when he plays for you, he serenates you. To glorify supreme control over the vulnerable masses. You fear most he isn't a liar.
You hear, forced to listen, the deep sigh of his memory upon your flesh. The painful throb of his curse, like a tumor, when you appeal and appraise the world of endless notes on your manuscript, these sheets are simply paper but new, wary toward the traditional design, a new gerne for a new age in Leithanien luxury.
He is not fond of your curiosity. Doesn't like it when you turn your ear away from what he considers his personal 'magnum opus' to permanently execute his country into deluded eternity. Your fingers are not your own as they mindlessly whirl and dance to the beat of his ghost, that hideous wand, waving silent and eternal in it's authority over your life at the darkest corner of your mind's eye. He doesn't exist, and yet still does. Still and seething between dullness, vanity, and abundance; there at the invisible door of The Void, up the Spire, at the heart and center of Originium.
And that's the only 'tranquility' he will ever allow until the end of all things.
