Virgil screamed, and he was unable to stop. He had seen the edge of the Mists, and he had been turned back. He had been turned back not by great fiends and dark judges of character, but by indiscernible yet unbeatable forces that ripped at his essence, his soul. He had been ripped from his mortal coil by the birth of a demon. He had been tossed, shrieking, far away from the site, and he had flown numbly to the border of the sky.
And yet he remained. Without body and out of mind, the torn will of the old soul floated back down to its anchor: Lysaga Hill. It looked upon the torn and burned bodies of the cultists, slain by the great fiend that he himself had willingly helped birth into the world.
With a hiss, a great brand of pain ripped through Virgil like the pealing of a thrice-cursed bell. The spirit clutched at its eyes, and remembers shreds of the great ritual. There had been a great pillar of green fire, and an awful, stinking pool of the gore of many beings. It remembered reassuring voices, lying voices, damning voices that told him that this is what the Doctor had ordered. And most of all, the agonized ghost remembered that it was weak enough to be persuaded to gouge its own eyes out with its bare hands.
Beyond these searing recollections, the ghost's life was blurry and vague, remembering only hatred of a woman halfling, of a great crown, and of course Doctor Zarcroft.
With these hazy memories, Virgil moved on to the outskirts west of Vallaki. He tried to warn a few of the living people of this region about the coming doom of the Green God, but he was met with blighting symbols and fear.
Why do they run, why, WHY?! I... I warn them about the end of their world...
Since dying however, Virgil began to experience a strange clarity of mind he had not felt since before his stay in the Asylum; however, Virgil is unable to make this connection.
Cinnia... who is she? What did I want with her? I don't understand. Asham should be able to get me a body and stuff... I'll be alive soon!
Soon...
