“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.”
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