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Inquisitor Marcos of Snowdale - 17/98
His flesh was burned by the agonizing yet unseen fires of the portal, and it felt as if his ribs had bent inwards to stab his lungs anew with every breath he took. Ice-cold eyes stared ahead in desperation whilst he clutched for a fading self-control. He lay for a time, striving to subdue the onslaught of a hundred gargantuan aches.
But he had not yet perished.
Whether the gods intended a valuable lesson, or merely for him to witness success or failure at the preservation of the others before the end, he would find out in time. For now, he could only watch, and gather his strength. The rasping, laboured respiration bespoke the difficulty of the task ahead.
He clung to it like a lifeline.
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