The ink is like a disease.
It fits itself inside pores, hugging the entire body with the threat that it might never let go. It feels as if there's something gnawing on every single bone. The ink finds its way deep into the trenches of the brain, awakening from its dormant slumber the most dark and wretched fragment of the mind. It’s insufferable, tainting the host with perpetual hatred, bitterness, resentment. It corrupts with the unquenchable thirst of blood and ink.
The ink is an infection, spreading to every inch of anything that it can spread to, until the air is too thick to breathe in; until it clouds rooms up with a heavy, dense fog. Until the stench became unbearable. Until it suffocates. Until it kills.
The ink is RUTHLESS.
What's it like being on the Nightmare Throne?