My power … equal to none …




The being forms into the shape of man. Yet vague and unspecific. Ever-changing.

Much like the mists of his prison.

For a prison it is.

Time … It's only a matter of time.

A coalescing of mist swirls around what would pass for the being's hand. It writhes and forms.

Hardening, assuming detail.

A staff.

Made of metal. Jeweled at the top. Black.

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