In single file the line of acolytes enters the tunnel that leads them underground. Slowly and
with great purpose, each step leads them away from the outside world and into dim
shadows lit only by a candle. The tunnel entrance suddenly clamps shut like the maw of a
hungry animal devouring it’s feast, and all sound is extinguished. No wind, no rustling leaves,
no insects or animals. Utter silence embraces the group, smothering them in it’s dominance.
Holding the candle the curate leads the three acolytes to the edge of a pool of water. Perfectly
still, the waters are infinitely deep and black.
A thin reedy whisper rises from the hooded curate.
“From the Void … we took form, … and so to the Void … we … must … return.”
The light is extinguished and darkness takes hold of the acolytes, pushing them into the
pool, holding them beneath the surface. The struggle is violent as hands grasp and limbs
thrash, but the curate stands silent and still, for in the Void, there is peace. The mute struggle
finally ends and only one acolyte returns to the surface, gasping for breath as he climbs out
of the pool.
“The Void has given you form again, but never forget it’s embrace.”