The emptiness throbbed and pressed around Gezza, its inky blackness sucking away all light, runes flickering like a submerged dying flame, the low hum buzzing in his chest like a swarm of angry wasps.
The cold cut his back and he gasped in a sharp panicked burst of breath, the marks of the claws on his back burning in the cold.
The voice of the Playbook had just made known the cult--slayers of the last bearer, their threat a blade in his bowel. Hell no, I have not lived long enough to die! Gezza screamed and his voice broke and there was a hiss of the non-existent dark, and it was lost in a hiss of non-existent electricity.
His heart beat against his ribs, fear was raw and electric.
The Playbook chuckled, with a deep guttural rumble that shook the emptiness, and the runes glowed with blood-red, throwing the jagged shadows over the shaky form of Gezza.
This shit is not funny, jerked his head up, burning his eyes with his defiance and terror.
