Mic had left the room to get him something–he’d forgotten what it was because the voices drowned it out. 

{ in the warlock’s experience, time has dropped a grain a day in the desert reservoir of his time and it has stopped entirely, but never had he imagined a void sucking away at his precious time, falling away like ash and dust and nothingness. 

trembling hands turned and revealed inkiness, as if he scooped up that hellish goop on the floor of his cabin and scrubbed and scrubbed. They were dripping. 

with those very hands he tore at his hair, hissing, clutching, shaking. 

getOuTGetoUtgetOUT– }

She would find him in a fetal position, fingers bloody where nails dug shallow crescents into his head.