Impure, vile. Like a thing brought up from the depths of a charnel pit or the basest foundation of a cesspool. It was more than a miasma, denser than a simple fog. A wall of corrupt toxicity that he could barely withstand.

He tasted blood deep in his mouth, on the back of his tongue. His knuckles were white, straining at the grip of the blade embedded in the black earth beneath him. The weight fell upon him then, and he resisted, eyes quivering in their sockets.

"Swear," it said.

"No," he hissed out between clenched teeth.

The oppression grew more subtly. He felt it increase, knew in his heart that this was but a hesitant taste of what it really wanted to lay upon him. The weight