“Wield my hatred,” Salamandrus ordered.
And so he did, clawing, thrashing, beating, and writhing, he drove himself forward. Digging through dirt, shredding his fingers, he thrust, and kicked his way ever upwards. The dirt fed him. Blood, so much blood. It’s in the dirt.
His heart throbbing, all manner of pain vanished, as did all confusion, all hesitation. One, focused goal, a fire from within to burst free, to hunt the Daemon down empowered him.
Finally, with one potent drive his hand broke through stones, moist flesh, and the cold surface. He pulled himself free from the grave. Growling like a beast, he came to his feet.
Around him were the deceased, who had been bled to complete the ritual. The freezing night brought a new feeling. Power.
“Dysart?” Fausto asked.
“Dysart?” Salamandrus’s voice echoed.
“I am free,” he answered.
“Yes,” Fausto replied.
“Not quite,” Salamandrus whispered.
The moon shone brightly, full, and white. Fausto gripped his shoulder.
“WAKE!” Salamandrus bellowed.
In Chapter Ten-Delirium, the hero of the story, Dysart, relives his experience of the burial, a portion of the ritual of Sang Daemanus wherein the participant is buried alive and must dig himself out of a fresh grave.
Many who undergo the ritual do not emerge from their earthen tomb, and of those that do, many emerge a blubbering mess-their minds ravaged.
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