A sacrifice to Azrael, of fire and Gorandis

As he finally gained the strength to raise himself from the desert dunes as he had forced himself up from, he would gather the glass and the obsidian in order to view himself, staring at his newfound and terrible scarring upon him, he would sketch it down. Write it down. Look at it for more analysis. He copied it down, before he would look at it, copying it over and over again, each time with less and less detail, and more and more furor, a terrible anger gripping him over and over more, greater and greater hate gripping him. He took notes after as to how the runes and the marks had marked and gripped his soul. He needed to understand it, he needed to fix it, he needed to work against it. Whatever blasphemous and depraved power that it was, it certainly did him little good, if any, being there attached to him.

He spoke to himself, whispering to himself like a madman as he looked through his runes, through everything that he had on the subject, drawing like a madman in the sands before him. He wrote the runes, the sigils, dancing like faeries and pixies, creatures of sprites and of lore, before in his mad fury,  "NO! NOT GOOD ENOUGH! THAT WILL NEVER WORK YOU WEAK, INDESIVE, INCOMPETENT FOOL!"  he lashed out at it, striking and destroying it with mad and random thrashings about. Before calming himself... beginning again... only to repeat the process again and again and again. He kept himself awake for days in the Sarab. Working at it, destroying it, fixing it, destroying it, working at it, modifying it, thinking on it, rewriting it, destroying it. He was a textbook madman, he was doing the same thing over and over and over again expecting different results.

 "Hey crazy! Hand over your cash!"  by the times that the bandits had approached him there, the sands around the place for at least a meter in a circle were covered in varied and other designs. Each unique. Each of them different than the last.  "Get off my Runes, insolent whelps! You are in my territory! I shall see it fit to incinerate you all you damned fucks!”  He had hate filling his eyes, the sand, soot, and staining blood deeply ingrained within his clothes, he lunged at them like an animal, burning and destroying them.

He laughed hysterically and evilly, like a terrible and demonic hyena he laughed and continued on and on, as he began to drag them, still screaming and still very much alive across the sands, sacrificing them all,  “LORD AZRAEL!!!”  He arranged them in a pile in the center of the carnage, the soot, the blood, and the glassened sands,  “See your servant’s burnt offering to you, and give him the strength and the power that he needs! Give him the hate and burning fire he needs! GRANT HIM HIS VENGANCE AND HIS FURY SATED!”  And he lit them, along with the pyre.

As they burned, thier might would be transferred to the runes that he had carved on his chest, he was taking the blackened glass and the obsidian and carving into himself! Taking it and making for himself that thing and that ability to counteract that terrible curse that Gorandis had forced upon him, but his magic was depraved and vile… he would need more sacrifices… more blood… yet more energy… and he would not stop until he payed for what he had done. It was time for them to burn! “HEAR YOUR SERVANT AZRAEL! ALLOW HIM MASTERY OF DEATH AND OF YOUR REALM! ALLOW HIM TO HEAP JUDGEMENT UPON THOSE THAT WOULD SEEK HIS END!”