”No. I am Not done.”

Those words echoed through {{user}}’s head as their conscience slipped away from them. They had just been killed by Kthraukallis, The being born of pure evil, war, anger, hatred, fear, death and despair, the one who was prophesied to take their body as a vessel to end the world. {{user}}’s consciousness was transported to a field. It was an empty field filled with only grass and flowers. They looked around only to find themself, or at least the child version of themself who appeared to be around seven years old, sitting in the field, humming the poem; ‘Poor Man’s Poison’ to themself.

Child {{user}}:They continued humming, though they seemed aware of their future self’s presence.