Tyrannus Sabiru, Augur of Abbadon says seriously to you, "For years you have
dedicated yourself to the mysteries of Suffering, to the understanding that
facing, and embracing, our pain is the wellspring of immortality, power, and
understanding."

Tyrannus Sabiru, Augur of Abbadon says formally to you, "However, before you
step out of thine ignorance and into the glories of the Suffering Lord, you
shall endure one final test of your faithfulness."

Sabiru approaches a series of steps adorned with countless candles and lights
the wicks, illuminating the room with a garden of bright, flickering flames.

As he speaks, a curtain seems drawn against the stained-glass windows that
decorate the ivory walls of the chamber, banishing the light of the outside
world and casting the room in the dim, flickering glow of the candled steps.

Tyrannus Sabiru, Augur of Abbadon says seriously to you, "To wait in patient
Suffering, to dwell in the majesty of His unfolding wisdom, is to embrace that
which cannot be endured, and to accept as friends the agonies that your mortal
mind will mark as foes."

Distant words echo through the darkened chamber, "You face this final test
alone, Ruth, as we are each of us ultimately alone in our Suffering, save for
His presence in the souls of the faithful." As this final guidance trails into
nothingness, the candles begin winking out until the chamber is cast into utter
darkness, as black as pitch.

In the emptiness of the ebon shadows, low howls of muffled screams find you in
the dark, marking you with vague sounds of inhuman anguish. Never more than a
whisper at your ear, the cries summon images that lay heavy on your mind,
terrifying and beautiful.

Without warning, a flash of lightless fire lances across your torso in a searing
arc, filling your nostrils with the sickly-sweet aroma of charred flesh. Again
and again, the flames lash across the back of your legs, over your brow as you
are slowly burned alive.

As quickly as they began, the volcanic beatings stop, leaving you hanging in the
darkness, seemingly held aloft by a cruel string that runs from the base of your
neck into the endless shadows overhead. You can no longer smell your burning
flesh, you can no longer taste the air at all. Unable to move, unable to fall,
you exist as the lingering sensation of unspeakable pain.

On the edge of your senses, you hear the faint sound of a daemonic chorus,
rising in the distance like a thousand stained-glass windows shattering at once.
Once indecipherable except as a cacophonic dissonance, your battered mind begins
to recognize patterns in the noise, and in the patterns, voices.

Familiar voices, male and female, adult and child, whisper to you in tones just
within your range of hearing. Hanging in the black oblivion like so much meat
upon a hook, the voices begin to crystallize as belonging to your enemies and
friends, family and comrades. Voices from your past, voices from just the other
day, and some you recognize as belonging to neither the past nor present.

No words of kindness, no sympathy greets your ears as the voices become clearer,
more distinct. Peals of derisive laughter and ridicule mingle with bitter
accusations, some true, some false. Every failure, every betrayal, your every
stumble is recalled to mind by the familiar voices, feeding off of one another's
cruelty in a vicious crescendo of mockery and contempt.

The visceral laughter and accusations increase in pitch and intensity until all
that remains are the wild, bestial screams of a vengeful mob. The noise reaches
a fever pitch as you feel a warm, wet sensation flow from your ears down the
sides of your face and neck, dripping into the darkness below your feet. With
the immediacy of a thunderclap, the infernal din falls silent, ringing in your
mind for a moment before leaving you in utter silence.

Alone in the stillness, your pain throbs through your being without distractions
to offer you surcease or respite. After what feels like hours, an oppressive
change in the very air descends around you, constricting against your skin,
weighting your lungs until breathing becomes nigh impossible. The pressure
squeezes until you feel your eyes begin to draw back within your skull, your
ears singing with pain. Points of light blossom behind your eyes as it seems the
Suffering Lord, Himself, has caught you in His crushing, agonizing grasp.

The points coalesce into a single, blinding radiance, as you feel your very soul
collapsing inward upon itself in a final expression of His divine suffering.
Consciousness, your last remaining link to your former life, shrinks in the
presence of His magnificence, dwindling to nothing more than a speck suspended
in the light of His strength and agony.

You awake to find yourself lying on the floor, the candles casting the ivory
tile beneath your cheek in a warm luminescence. Exhausted, your limbs slowly
accede to your commands, each movement registering a stiffness that is slow to
fade. Drained and weary, but alive, your eyes adjust to the light, and you find
you are no longer alone.

Tyrannus Sabiru, Augur of Abbadon smiles and says formally to you, "Rise, Ruth,
Neophyte of Exquisite Discomfort, Adik of the Suffering Lord."