Some hesitate at the threshold. Others stride forth and are undone by their own hubris.
But there are those who do not hesitate, do not strive, nor burn themselves against fate—because they thrive in the decay.
Onto our stage steps Count Bludveil, a creature of opportunism and indulgence, one who slips between the cracks of a failing world, instead of wallowing in its inertia.
If fate is already wrought, then why not play your part to the fullest, burn your candle brightest? If the world is collapsing, why not feast upon its ruin?
Dark, darkly does the Count
The air of change is asphyxiated,
The phoenix fire snuffed out,
The light of dawn is relegated,
The spirit's now in drought.
Fix your step to the debasing drum,
The lords mired in sleaze,
Tally my sins in an eager sum,
Sliding along with slick ease.
Holler as one to the new grey sun,
The eclipse of ecstasy,
Thank god you heard the starting gun,
The day desire was freed.
Attending our dear Archon,
Praiseless yet lavished in style,
Drawn to eyes that darken,
Our emissary Count Bludveil.
Dark, darkly does the Count,
But for once in a while,
That vile, vile sycophant,
From fell lord's rank and file.
Reclining now upon the dais,
Insanguinated and spent,
Emanating the power of Deus,
Resting on revelry's rent.
"Monadan, Deus, the one, the man,
In futility doing all it can,
To hold together his failing plan,
While I treat to a feast of fools,
Supping from that mortal spool,
Yet I feel a pity for that desperate man,
Making busy with his profaned hand."
The Emergent Sea 