Vol.5, Ch.5, P.12
Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.
Secret waters seeped and wept, punctuating the pitch-black of the Dēlūbrum’s dungeons.
But, lo: a team of torches, stabbing now the inky mirk. And withal an anxious shuffling of feet. Many, many feet. Ten score and more, echoing down the damp, stony corridors.
A procession of Nafílim this was. Young and old; hale and hobbling—all steered by Salvators a dozen and some. Whispers and whimpers soughed here and there. None of the Nafílim knew whither they were being led. All that was certain was the suffering to await them.
“Hoof it! Or I’ll hack ’em off, I will!”
A silver speartip flickered threateningly. Cowering, the Nafílim quickened their pace, and on and on they marched through the cold and sighing subterrane. And amidst their increasing
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