A Mark of Doom

I dragged an ancient, encrusted brass inkwell out from beneath a pile of moldering ledgers. It sat parched and hollow, mocking me with its silence. Gritting my teeth, I seized an abandoned wooden dip pen and stabbed its sharp iron nib deep into the dried soot at the bottom. I worked the crusted cake until the black tar liquefied into glistening obsidian sludge. With raw fury, I dragged the iron point across a yellowed scrap of parchment, carving deep, jagged runes of pure malice into the fiber. The wet black strokes gleamed like fresh venom under the gloom. My decree is cast.