Hollow

Two masked men chat at your bedside, while a third looms over you. The margins of this room are bathed in shadow, leaving you hopelessly alone with your captors. The two pore over their tools and exchange details of the procedure to come; they spout terms you don't understand and chart the process of gutting your soul as if it were any other procedure. The other man, the Priest, speaks lowly to you, his mask inches from your terrified face.

"You have been so kind to Grandfather. You have spoken miracles for Him. But now your soul whispers dissent." He shakes his head slowly, tutting at you as he leans away, glancing across at the tools arrayed beside you. "He says we cannot kill you, so great was your contribution. A man of His word, and so too are we men of His word. It will be as He asks. Sing of dissent; after today, your words will no longer make it so."

"We are ready to begin," intones one of the spiritualists.

"Good," says the Priest in return, standing. "Prepare her--"

Somewhere in the distance, a scream pierces the eerie silence of the room. You catch the quiet clamor of shuffling footfalls and hushed voices on the floor below. "What was that?" asks the other Spiritualist, glancing towards the door, while the first shrugs.

"Ignore the fools outside. Your work is before you. Get to it," hisses the Priest. "I will see to it." He stands, starting for the door but hesitating--turning back to you, for a moment, leaning down one last time. "He looks upon you favorably, so I tell you this. Look down as you step into the dark, heretic--the path between is where the horrors of being hollow make themselves most apparent. Close your eyes, awaken into a new life of mundanity, and cast away all memory of the Arcane--remembering too well His grace will make it only that much more painful that it has forgotten you."

With his bitter parting shot, his hand drags along your bedside as he vanishes into the shadow cloaking the edges of the room. You try to snarl something at him, but you merely end up gnashing at your gag furiously. The two spiritualists, seemingly pleased with their preparations, nod to each other as one passes the other a syringe. "Don't try to fight it. Trust me," he plainly instructs as he plunges that syringe into a vein.

Your vision starts to blur before he even withdraws it, the already dim and insubstantial detail of the room fading into bleary haze... but you hear something cut through the daze as you start to drift off.

"Hey, did you hear that...?"

...

You sit at the edge of a cliff, feet dangling over nothing at all. The cliff's face descends into a white void, rolling almost as if it were a cover of clouds far below. A path through a barren desert waste leads up to this ledge. You hear someone approaching, the dust kicked up by his footfalls dragged over the cliff by the wind, but you don't look at him.

"Not gonna' try to negotiate?" he says, as he calmly loads a single round into his revolver, clicking the cylinder shut.

"Anyone who's been in with you lot as long as I have and still tries to 'negotiate' with you freaks is even dumber than I am," you retort flatly.

The man responds with an airy little chuckle and a shrug. "Works for me. Now, shut your eyes and follow the Priest's advice, 'kay? Or don't, no skin off my back." He presses the barrel of his revolver to your head, you shut your eyes and draw a deep breath through your teeth, and...

You hear the man say: "Huh?" as the hammer clicks. He turns his head behind you, and is gone in an instant. Blinking the fear from your eyes, you sit up, looking behind you at the lonesome desert expanse. "What--"

...

You awaken with a start, gasping only to then immediately start coughing as you choke on the taste of blood. Your ears are ringing, your heartbeat pounds into your skull and you're... wet. You try to open your eyes but find yourself having to wipe them clean, only to then jolt as you realize your arms are unbound. Finally, a horrific scene starts to unfurl before you, gaze steadying enough to take it in.

A man rises at your bedside, his entire front utterly bathed in crimson to the point that you can't see his face. He breathes calmly but heavily, blood flecking off of the gleam of an axe as he hefts it over his head and brings it down with a sickening, brutal chop, decapitating one of the already gravely-wounded spiritualists as he squirms underfoot. Finally, gently panting, he turns his wild eyes upon you.

"You owe me your life," he says, plainly. "You will come with me, or I will take what I am owed. Make your choice."

You glance wide-eyed around the room, the magical cloak it was once under lifted to reveal a dingy, thoroughly splattered operating theater. Light pours into the room from the hallway, into which a long trail of blood vanishes. It seems you're alone with the Butcher--he has certainly made sure of that. He stares at you expectantly, the handle of his axe dangling in one hand, covered in trickling wounds and yet visibly no worse for the wear.

"... Fine. Whatever, why not. L-lead the way," you mutter, sighing almost wearily as you start to drag yourself off the table, still dizzied by the magic the spiritualists had begun to work on you. The shit these people put you through...

At least now you'll have a chance to get back at them.