Sethrak POV
The last rays of the sun painted the sky in shades of blood red and violet. Night was about to fall. I had left that abandoned, cursed temple and was advancing toward the city I was born in, the city I hated.
Strange, dark instincts were seizing my mind, growing stronger with every passing second.
A primal bloodlust I could not stop, could not control, swelled with every step. My body, as if it no longer belonged to me, continued to change.
My eyes, aligning with the coming night, turned a pitch black hue. The claws on my fingers grew longer, sharper.
My frame grew larger, bone protrusions bursting from my hunching back. And my form, in place of the filthy straw I once despised, began to be swathed in dirty white rags, the kind that bind a mummy, covered in faintly glowing runes.
Two massive, curved sickles appeared in my hands, born of nothingness, forged from bone and darkness. I continued my advance toward the city.
