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Death is something that is always thought of as silent. Dead men tell no tales, dead men make no noise; they remain silent as the grave. There are even those who are said to pass peacefully. For Mycaelis and Vagus, death was never silent. They had both killed as they lived in a world where one must kill or be killed themselves. Never once could either sibling recall an occasion where death had been silent.
Death is the screams of agony as flesh is torn from broken bones, the howls of pain when entrails are split upon the ground. The cries for mercy, the shrieks of horror, the gurgling sound of someone drowning in their blood. Then come the sounds of those that behold death’s work. The screams of terror, the gasps of disbelief, the wailing of loved ones as they grieve for their loss. And there are those that say nothing at all, for words fail to describe their horror or their grief.
As Mycaelis and Vagus sat silent in that hovel in the jungle, they could hear death outside,