Necrosis

Tiberius was sitting in his office. It was very...traditional. the four walls of the room were bolstered by the feeling like you were in the wilderness and in a log cabin. Isolated. Alone. On these wooden edifices were portraits of former Deans of course, to go along with such a 'rustic' appearance was a fireplace with a large mantle of carved marble that looked straight up like ivory and bone. It crackled and cackled to its master, begging his attention yet--Tiberius was much too drawn away for it. In return, the vermilon haze drifted over the dark wooden floors, over the antique Indonesian rug and over the furnishings of the room. The two leather upholstered chairs before a dark cherry stained desk that the Dean sat behind.

There was even a lounge chair where students could come to him to relax and tell him their worries. The Dean carried man responsibilities.playing a partial councilor was just one of them. Most did not remember what a 'Dean' really was in the first place, that it stemmed heavily from Clunic Reformed medieval monasteries.Where monks numbering in the thousands, large enough to fill a small college campus, and would be divided into ten. The title Dean stemmed from the Latin 'Decanus' meaning 'leader of ten'.

Dean of the Faculty of Arts and Humanities. Tiberius Maximus Caine.

Tiberius' eyes fell into saccadic motion as his hand gripped the brush and with it, dunk it into an ebony pot of the more 'smooth' liquid paste known commonly as 'ink'. This ink, however, was a composite. Comprised of soot and animal glue. The same animal glue that was a protein colloid made from hydrolysis of the collagen of the skin, the bones and the tendons and other connective tissues. Most commonly it was a horse, however, this was a special glue. It reminded him of his latest kill. For very good reason too.

Making sure he had just enough, but not overly too much--scraping fine animal hairs along the inside of the delicate glass jar. The black ink had almost a red tinge to it. A sinister and grim fate his victim had fallen to. To fall so short of what was expected-- only the strong thrived in this world. If killing a man was tantamount to any grievous injury be it emotional, physical or mental then truly he was lost for the cause. If it equated the value of man--then he was paramount. Such was the machinations of this dismal world. And as he set the brush down against the solid sheet of parchment; hand fluidly devising each stroke carefully, with painstaking precision it became clear once again what he was.

A hunter. A killer of men. A manslayer. A murderer. A saint to some, and a dubious Armageddon to others.

Each stroke, every line of the calligraphic note he drew--each pulsated with the final moments of his victims thoughts. It begged at him, hearkened him to pull from this reverie he was slowly languishing in. He relished the ardor in secret. The precise moment when, he was God and could feel the life evaporate from another human being. It didn't come easily to him, not at first. But when Oblivion takes you, wraps you in its cold embrace. Any form of satisfaction becomes a lifelong dream.

He heard the knock at his door. The one that bore the prestigious gilded plate bearing his name. A name which, frankly, bothered him. For shadows had no names. They had no personalities, no feelings. They were whispers and rumors. They were, that feeling of constant dread in knowing there is nothing you could do to belay you own demise.

Calmly, he sat the brush in the jar. Rolled his parchment neatly, almost with an obessive-compulsory reaction, and slid from his chair and sauntered across the open room. His hand gripping the horizontal handle as he pulled it to. "Yes, how may I help you miss..?" It was a transient question deferring to revealing her name. Yet this one appeared, 'different' than the students he would normally associate with. Older perhaps, she carried her self with satisfaction with confidence rather than a girl who was insecure or..god forbid...'bitchy'.

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