“They kill for pleasure. And the glory of their faceless good.”
“What kind of god doesn’t have a face? What kind of god wants this?” I demanded, gesturing towards the carnage that was all around us.
“They call him Doom. He is death by chance. Death by no fault of your own. It’s just an excuse for slaughter.” He spit on the corpse of a raider. One of many scattered among the bodies of the townspeople that cluttered the smoldering town.
A distant sound made both men turn.
“We need to leave,” the old man said. “The crows are coming.”