Path of the Berserker

IT SEETHED.

IN the void of darkness, Its formless presence coveted the primal energy pulsating through the tiny crack in the firmament. An unfathomable envy filled It. The crack would appear rhythmically within Its jail of confinement—pulse after pulse—tempting it with yearning. Through it, It could sense what It desired the most.

Influence.

It had tasted of a husk through the crack––rare and refined.

A vessel tempered by the Cursed Flame.

A vessel more than suitable for Its purpose.

It would eject the Flame and claim it for Its own.

Curse the Cursed Flame.

With each pulse of the crack, It extended Its will, exerting Its influence to the weak-minded thralls that lay beyond. Pulse by pulse, it would reach for them before being cut off again. But with each pulse did it exert Its influence. Slowly the thralls did bend to Its will and labored to gather the components of the aperture.

With each pulse the aperture grew more defined.

And with each pulse, did the crack slowly grow in size.