A slender, alabaster hand grazed the runic carvings of the obsidian counter, and softly, under the black silk veil, thin lips spoke the Tongue of the Dead.
Rusted over with a refulgent, copper hue, the horizon in the smooth, crystalline orb sunk into blackness, as deep and bottomless as the pit of the wheat-like plains, swelled with corpses.
With its tremendous size, the pit of corpses existed a...