The rest seemed content to skulk away and around them. What was one petty stripling, slipped from their grasp compared to an Oathbreaker.
The Whistler bucked and thrashed on the ground, wreathed in smoke. His face a silent rictus of agony, surrounded by a ring of glaring, hissing rodents. Clearly engaged in the act of hating him to Death. His trousers up one leg were all burned and melted to the charred, cracked flesh of his thigh. His tin-whistle was glowing red-hot between scorched, bony fingers locked in a death-grip as the arm flailed on misfiring nerve signals to what muscles had not yet burned away.
Draft this Post