Can’t you hear it, me hearties, over the whispers of your dead god?
Can’t you see it building in the horizon, swallowing the sunrise?
Place the looking glass to your star crossed eye and give it a gander, ye crusaders.
Can’t you see it coming now?
It’s the inevitable.
And when it comes to the inevitable, well, prayers won’t stop it.
Every time the inevitable has shown itself to a lost and wandering crew, an unsinkable ship, or a fleet of crusaders with the cross of Christ on their banners…
They all prayed. Each and everyone of them.
Even when their God’s eyes remained open, before the day of his own Judgement.
But their prayers fell on deaf ears.
Because the inevitable comes for all things.
And truth be told, me hearties, God Himself never dared to stand in his way.
Because the inevitable made a pact with fate and now, even with your holy eyes peering at it, and your holy tongues praying for it to quell and recede in the horizon…
It rises like the son of God, doesn’t it? And it too will arrive in three days.
Was it not foretold? When the son of death himself opened his book to the name of Cael Gable and he read the words.
You’ll be dead at Red Snow, won’t ye?
And the thing about it, me hearty, is that every escape route leads to a Dead End.
And a face to face with a wave you’ve been trying your best to avoid.
But that’s the thing about me, lad.
I cannot be avoided.
You have tried. I commend you for trying. I truly do.
But what’s a good effort from an alcoholic when he’s staring down a bottle of rum?
What’s a good effort from a man who looks his former friend in the eye and receipts for betrayal are due?
You see lad, your effort matters not. To the inevitable, all succumb.
All succumb to me.
So scared were ye that ye wrapped yourself in the cloak of religion to hide the yellow piss streaming down your coward’s leg.
So worried were ye that ye poured your eyes over the Book of God, just to avoid the words written in the Book of Death.
So nervous were ye that ye put on a mask, to hide your widened eyes and your chattering teeth.
But ye know as well as I do, me hearty.
Ye can be scared and nervous and worried.
But the inevitable concerns itself with nothing but the very fate that makes you scared, worried, and nervous.
I am coming for you, me hearties.
Both of you.
Because the inevitable, you’ll find, is a dead end.
There is no running from it. There is no one to save you. There is nothing ye can do.
Except turn around, slowly, and see me for what I am.
I am the inevitable.
I am a dead end.
The last chapter before your name in the Book of Death.