RP:And Then There Was Two..

Part of the Venturil's Bane Arc

This is a Necromancer's Guild RP.

Basement, The Thorne Estate, Vailkrin

Tenebrae had not left the cellar in more than two days, and thus had no idea of the damage caused to the upstairs portions of the manse by the magical detritus that had blown all her windows out, shattered clock faces and mirrors - and also didn’t know that several occupants of the place had fled, including all but one of those poppy-fed woman who'd been waiting unaware on the second floor for their imminent demise. Weary, her eyes twin pools of grit, the Necromancer slurped a beverage she'd brewed in the last undamaged beaker and steeled herself for what must come next. The drainage fluids of Kuzial's tank had finally begun to run the correct hue, and she could swear she'd heard stirring within.

Setting her cup down, Tene approached the tank with the reverence due that creature inside it. But- what kind of creature? Her sluggish heart quickened, as she unfastened the catches on the tank's covering. Kuzial may emerge in utter perfection, or he may spring forth a creature unrecognisable altogether. The reason her fingers trembled so and fumbled with the fastenings was that she knew he'd be hungry - and she was by necessity the first thing of flesh he'd see. The daggers tucked to the back of her belt were no comfort.. Prising the last latch loose, the Necromancer slid the steel cover back, and did not dare peer over its rim into the liquid below, but only waited, with not a little trepidation, for the new-made Lord (she hoped, refusing to think of wretched failure) to emerge into the world.

Kuzial senses without seeing the lid being removed from his coffin. For within the swirling agony of the last few days, the twisting of flesh and soul alike into this... thing he has become... he realized that though the lady Tenebrae calls it a vat, it is in fact a final resting place. No longer is he Kuzial Stavret, Patron of House Stavret. No longer is he the drow who killed so many, who is feared by the rest; the slayer, the destroyer... these things he knows he will never again be. At least, not as he was but a month or two ago. To be reborn, one must first be destroyed... and he knows, deep within the twisting darkness in his mind that this was his fate. Devoured, changed, reforged, reborn... made a whore to the wants of the master necromancer; given a gift only he was worthy of, yet one which in accepting changed who he was. The paradox causes a dark laugh to ripple through his body, even as his head breaks the surface of the liquid and his eye, now a smouldering orb of sanguine hue, opens for the first time and takes in the cellar. Kuzial appears not to notice Tenebrae standing so close, and even as he lifts his body from the vat and lets his feet touch the cold ground below, he never once seems to focus on her. Instead his eye slowly lifts up... He stares through the ceiling, through the corrupted stone and wood which makes up this house, until his gaze rests upon the warm blood above. Only then does his mouth fully open; impossibly wide it becomes, jaw unhinged, cheeks tearing yet offering no blood. A scream soon sounds, a cry which in itself would drive many mortals mad. And from the cavernous opening that is his mouth, a tendril of ebon blackness is birthed. It travels through the ceiling as if it were not there, through the house as if every dark sentry was but a whispering ghost in the mist, until it finally reaches the room prepared for him by Tenebrae. There the last whore rests, ready to sate a hunger he knows now and forever will be insatiable. But he cares nothing for the carnal side of the desires which linger inside. Instead, he focuses on the pulsing blood, the life within, the fragile soul, the heavily drugged mind... these he begins to draw in; sucking at them like a vampire would the neck of a victim, dragging life, essence, and sanity down through the world, until it reaches the demonic dark elf below... and in doing so, he is fed. A cry of unfathomable horror is soon heard as woman's true fate becomes known, but Kuzial is far from caring. He continues to draw more and more until at last his mouth shuts, killing the tendril of darkness, and he finally turns his twisted gaze to Tenebrae. What is left in the room above is nothing but a dry husk vaguely resembling a human... yet even still, her once beautiful features are wearing a mask of absolute agony and terror. A breath is drawn in, a palpable hatred is sent towards the necromancer, before Kuzial speaks in a voice which is colder than the grave while his jaw hangs so grotesquely, not quite under his control. "You... promised me... wings..." Perhaps there is something left of the dark elf within this monster after all... then again, perhaps not.

Tenebrae's own mouth was open - not the needle-toothed maw of an Empusai Queen but that of a woman who could not believe what the hell she'd just witnessed, and there was something more shameful than the inevitable swell of pride in the green eyes fixating an equally wide gaze on Kuzial. Her shock and .. yes, an element of fear.. mingled with triumph, though the Necromancer did not bother to try and hide it, perilous as such reactions were in the company of her kind. He'd be able to smell it on her.. hell, maybe see it rippling through her, faster than thickened, stolen ichor ran through cold veins. He was beautiful - she was glad of that - and he was terrible - even more glad - and he spoke, even naked and still dripping, and with his system barely nourished, with the authority of one who'd mastered his new nature to the fullest degree presently possible. She'd never heard of such prowess. Never seen -anything- like the manner of his feeding…though such things were spoken of in the elder lore of the Empusai of Shadowside. "Uh…" was the ignoble first utterance offered the reborn Patron. "You should have.. they ought to be…" stepping with more than justified wariness around him, she shook her head, "I don't understand. Every step was followed, with precision." And she allowed a frown to buckle her brow. "Perhaps it failed. Perhaps…" she was saying it more to placate the monster in him, ".. it's simply dormant. You're only just emerged. And there ought to be more food, upstairs.." But even as she said, Tenebrae knew that too had gone awry - or he'd be feasting on them now. Her own hunger gnawed at her like rats, she had not refuelled in days.. And it was time to pull herself together, and stand as an equal before Kuzial, the Reborn. "Get dressed," she said, ticking over the stone floor, avoiding the rubble of broken glass and split copper, toward the open maw of her armour. Perhaps a tad hastily. "We shall need to hunt."

Kuzial remains entirely motionless as Tenebrae looks at him. He can sense within her the pride she feels at what he has become, though he doesn't understand it. But the fear... that lingering sensation which danced through her body... that tasted like the sweetest of wines... that he understood. The smile he sends towards Tenebrae is putrid; a disgusting macabre thing which turns a once handsome and finely boned face into a mutilated mask of horror and death. "I do not care." He didn't, at least about the wings. There was only a single thing he wanted, and even Tenebrae, hungry herself; exhausted after such extensive work in giving birth to this monster, she would sense the void within him screaming in silent tongues to be fed with the lives of a thousand screaming victims. "And there is no more food upstairs. Only your playthings." The terrible guardians which had caused fear in the dark elf only three days ago are treated with contempt by this new creation. "And they are worthless. We will hunt." With that, he turns his gaze to the cabinet with his weapons and the chair which still holds his armour. "Such petty things for such petty dreams." He extends a hand which curls half into a fist, before his nails begin to viciously elongate into claws. "What need is there for steel when death can be delivered by these hands alone? There is none." As he speaks, he begins to dress, pulling his armour over a body which seems to be larger than it was, yet still appearing entirely drow-esque. Occasionally there is a twitching, though, as if there was a creature within trying to claw its way out. But Kuzial ignores it, dressing at last. He moves to the cabinet and for a moment tries to simply tear the lid off. But it seems Tenebrae locked it with more than just mundane locks. He didn't understand this defiance of his strength, so he simply ignored the weapons for now and turned back to the necromancer. And then he repeats the words again in a voice rich with the desire for death. "We will hunt."

Tenebrae had already shucked off her scarlet dress and pressed herself into the open shell of her armour. It was bristling with barbs even as it closed on her frame like a literal second skin, its chitin unfurling and sliding over the Necromancer's moon-pale flesh enough for strategic cover - no sense in exciting the drow to more than a desire for food; that would presently be madness as well as stupidity. Once the armour was firm upon her, Tenebrae stepped back toward Kuzial while he spoke and dressed, remaining silent until she was again before him. Her belly and upper thighs were still bare, the armour shivering with the imperative to protect her. Yet she forced it to obey and leave her vulnerable - just as Kuzial himself was vulnerable. And then the Patron would understand yet another benefit of such a second skin.. for now, Tenebrae reversed the current of his perceptions, so to speak, and forced a ripple of lewd electricity to zither along the base of the new-born's spine, to fire his belly and weaken his legs. And if he had exuded hate, then she sent a surge of it, a swell of such sheer venom as to wrack his chest - all of this a tease, a warning, a prelude to the act of dropping all her guards and allowing Kuzial a full, interrupted 'view' of what lay inside his erstwhile creator. Tenebrae, for just a few seconds, was an open book to the drow, in every sense, every way, but for a very few shielded things that he would sense as being so, more fuel for his chagrin. The Necromancer radiated, as Kuzial himself radiated, all she was and felt and would do next... until the armour snapped tight around Tenebrae, and the onslaught of lust and greed, pride and wrath ended. The 'silence' would be deafening. Tenebrae still said nothing, knowing he'd have gotten the point regarding the necessity of armour.. But to his final comment replied, as her forearm thickened and the gauntlet it bore bristled with nails like knives. "Let's go."

Kuzial 's mind is a frail thing, housed now within this beast, fighting against an onslaught of animalistic desires which rend him tooth and claw from the inside, seeking to tear free from their incarceration, forged by the drow's stubborn refusal to give up control. But it is a battle he cannot win, one he cannot begin to understand. Even as Tenebrae's thoughts and perceptions flood into him, tingling his mind and body with a shower of desire first, followed by an onslaught of venomous wrath, then at last a glimpse through the veils she so often wears, into the black heart of the necromancer; her desires, her thoughts, her pride and her anger... followed at last by her own insatiable hunger. Though, where Kuzial desires nothing but control, Tenebrae seems to desire something different... the destruction of life, perhaps; not unlikely given her skills. But it isn't this which Kuzial finds... it is something else. He cannot understand it just yet, or he would not. He struggles merely to remain who he is, even as he realizes his own thoughts and perceptions would be visible to the necromancer before him. He tries to shut it off, he tries to flood it with deceit; a natural companion to the drow. But he cannot, and in doing so, the battle he fought inside is lost. Another cry comes from the monstrous dark elf, before he takes a step towards Tenebrae, hands clenched at his side, sharpened nails tearing through his own skin with vicious ease. When he opens his mouth to speak no words come out - language is lost for now, drowned by a cry of pure hate, of pure love; fear mixed with bravery, life mixed with death. It is the cry of an animal near to death, who seeks with his last breath to feel it all, to sense it all - to comprehend in but a moment a fate it can never understand. Whatever remains within Kuzial stops this creature who he has become from attacking Tenebrae, perhaps even it is her which stops him. But he stands there, panting, even as his flesh twists beneath his skin, seeking to give birth to the physical embodiment of whatever it is that lurks within...

Tenebrae was no longer the petite femme fatale when she grasped - carefully- Kuzial's two thick arms in her gauntleted hands, and flickered her forked tongue against the underside of his chin. It was a gesture that spoke to the creature she'd created, moreso than Kuzial, and it was a sign of her recognition of his strength, and her acceptance of him. But the Necromancer’s gaze would peer into that single, red eye of his - and its message was for the dark elf she'd met and fought so long ago: "Get a grip." Her lips were a delicious smirk, and then she gave herself up to the passion of the hunt, her frame disarticulating loudly, the armor following the shift smoothly. She was a monster, a thing of fang and claw, bat-like, wolf-like, some of her still a woman, most of her terror incarnate. Her flat snout wrinkled, her maw dropped open and that bifurcated tongue tasted the air. Pointed, shell-like ears swivelled at faint sounds, and the Queen of Shadows loped up the stone stairs after them, leaving Kuzial to follow in her wake.

Kuzial 's savage side accepts the gesture from Tenebrae, even as she grasps his powerful arms within her hands, stopping his desire to simply tear her apart and feast upon whatever is left. It was a simple gesture, one most would find repulsive, but the creature the dark elf has become understands its meaning. It was acceptance of his savagery, understanding of his wants, a revelling in his strength; something no one else on this cursed world could ever begin to comprehend. Beast spoke to beast, even though both are housed so often in shells beautiful to most, deadly to all. And then there was her gaze, that spoke to the drow within in silent words. And that damn smirk. He knew it too well... it was like mockery, and it fuels the dark elf's anger until it dwarfs that of even the beast. He regains control of himself and snarls, the sound more bestial than anything else which has come from him since the moment of his resurrection, before he turns and begins to follow Tenebrae out of the stagnantly aired cellar. Be it fate or desire, nothing stands between them and their exit, the door which opens by itself letting this new Kuzial see for the first time the perpetually dark Vailkrin. And even here, so far away from most (let's face it, few are those stupid enough to come close to Tenebrae's house), he can sense their blood, their life... and with another snarl, he readies himself to hunt by dropping down until his hands rest beside his feet upon the ground. He would not let the savage beast within take full control of who he is, he would not entirely shift into the creation he knows is inside. Nor does he speak to the necromancer, but he knew she would sense he is more than ready... it was time for the world to once again learn true fear when they heard the names Tenebrae and Kuzial...

Southern Sage Forest

Vailkrin had known many horrors in its long and bloody history, but here came two new ones - demonic and snarling, one with a pair of luminous green eyes, the other possessing a single eye burning red in the darkness. They scattered or murdered all in their wake, but the chill blood of the undead was no fitting repast for the voids within these creatures, and so Tenebrae loped on through the portal to the outer world beyond, where she halted briefly. Her fluted ears lay flat, and her tongue snaked the air, waiting for Kuzial to pick up the scent of prey. This was his hunt, his blooding, and yet another test of the mettle for the sentient mind controlling the near-mindless symbiote. And where he went, she would follow - this one time, she told herself, her pride taking a bite out of her. She inhaled the meaty dust of Kelay as they churned it in their passing, the Necromancer’s gauntlet snatching out to sever the tendons of a terrified horse, just for fun, but did not look back to see it collapse on its screaming rider. This was not the prey Kuzial was hunting, this ordinary meat. She sensed - because he was 'naked' to her senses - that he wanted something specific, and nosed the wind for possibilities. When they tore up stonier ground that led into Sage, she let out a soft chuff of laughter - of course, she thought, and watched his new frame ripple and flex in the chase with wicked, unabashed delight.

Kuzial tasted the flesh of the undead more than once as Tenebrae and himself carved through the city, laying waste to any foolish enough not to heed the terrified screams which flow before them like a tsunami of agony. But it was nothing to him; it was like a drip of water to man dying of thirst. He learned quickly that it was pointless, so soon enough the corpses left in their wake retain what they are, some even rising again with heads tilted, hung on by the thinnest strands of flesh where either Tenebrae or Kuzial failed to completely sever their necks. But this bloody trail has purpose; Kuzial has picked up on a scent faint, hidden well from the careful patrols of other dark elves; masked by many things, none of which are stronger than his own desire to feast upon his ancient enemies. Yet even still, he cannot help but let out a dark, twisted little laugh as Tenebrae so cruelly tears the tendon from a horse's leg, and though he wanted to stop and feast upon the rider, he takes dark delight watching the man's back be crushed by the horse... let him live out his final days in misery, a cripple, a nothing... this twisted suffering seems to almost feed Kuzial, though his hunger is still great... So they travel onward, soon twisting in and out of the trees like two eldritch spirits of old; two creatures made up by the sick minds of young children trying to scare their friends with their most horrific imaginations.... this is what has been given life this day. Suddenly, Kuzial stops dead in his tracks, no exertion at all shown after their run from Vailkrin. He stands in the shadow of a mighty tree, darkness blending well with his ebon flesh, and only then would he speak words to Tenebrae, even though part of him knew she already knew them. "Can you taste them..? They are close..." He is partly torn; his drow side advises caution, the mindless beast within demands savage action. But he would wait just a moment... though this was his feast, and his hunger was mighty, it was something to be shared with the beast beside him...

Tenebrae raised the back of one hand – the barbs receding from the gauntlet it bore, so as not to rip her skin – and wiped a little drool off her chin. No shame in that, she was starving and the rich odour of their prey was a torture that had only increased her ire the closer they came. The look of sheer desire offered up to Kuzial then – he’d recognise it, though not in this particular context – would be all the answer he’d need from Tenebrae. But then she raised one dagger-nailed finger, a signal to pause, and the atmosphere about her transformed flesh shivered and crackled, her will extending beyond her body to the darknesses that lay within the shadows, deep here, under trees and in the crevices of stone. Those fell shades heard her – and obeyed, clotting out whatever glimmers of light fell through the canopy from above in a subtle swell. Kuzial and Tenebrae did not need light, but the survivors here, no matter how tough and well-armed, did. Unless they were drow, who could not sense the heat of a body, where none existed. The new dark might make their victims nervous. It might make them reach for their bows and swords.. And of course, this was the point, for the threads of their fear were like beacons, arrows of scent and energy that were better than vision, here in the deep wood. “Delicious,” she whispered, and did no more but wait for the Patron to claim the first blood-victory for his shiny, new self.

Kuzial flashes Tenebrae the most monstrous smile she'd ever have seen, and that's saying something, if the darkness around the entire area wasn't complete. But again, this creature Kuzial has become knew without a doubt she would see it. Not with those luminous green eyes, but with the sight which is shared now between them. One bound far more deeply than the sired to the sire. He doesn't respond further to her word, though he understood it entirely. Nor does he bother to wipe the blood-stained saliva which pours from his own mouth. Instead he turns his head up to the canopy above and lets out a horrific howl; a sound like a thousand animals being tortured to death at once. She sweetened the pot, Kuzial is merely adding more spices. At that, the drow begins to move forward; flowing into action with a different sort of languid grace than usual. He was always strong, always somewhat-catlike. But now his movements are complete; he is a hunter in every way, nothing else but the scent of blood and fear needed. Uncaring where Tenebrae goes, he moves like a savage breeze through the trees, coming to the first sentry. The drow makes a slight noise, which causes the nervous elf to fire a bolt at nothing but shadows... and that is the epitaph which will forever mark his grave. For he never has time to reload another arrow... Kuzial is upon him far too quickly. One clawed hand severs the elf's wrist, the other grabs it tightly before lifting it to a mouth which once again opens far wider than is possible. He sticks the entire stump in, before drawing out the man's life in the ecstacy of feasting. Like earlier, it's not just his suction which brings out the man's blood. Tendrils of darkness come from within and flow through the doomed elf's body, tearing not just his flesh with their murderous intentions He could sense the other elves moving closer, he could sense the danger in the shadows. But he didn't care just now. She could look after herself, Kuzial was going to enjoy this meal before he hunted his next...

No grin had chilled nor thrilled her ever so much.. and no howl had torn through her spine and into her core so sweetly. Ah, this was why the Empusai were driven to replicate... each being to the other a magnificent mirror in which to admire themselves. Kuzial’s fell radiance, his blood-thirst, penetrated even her chitinous plate and was almost more than she could bear – she really had to make him his own armour, soon – so it was with a modicum of relief that she’d observe him streaming off into the gloom to sate his various hatreds and hungers. Tenebrae herself caught the thread of one grizzled with age – a tough old bird, winner of many victories, owner of insurmountable grief. It was true she was starving, but there was enough brutal savagery in the air for one forest with Kuzial on the rampage, and so it was Tenebrae’s demurest guile that sought out the old warrior in his hide of skins and branches, and in her voice guile as she whimpered for help, there was a monster loose, please, oh, please would he protect her? The elf would die, of course, but not before he died a smaller death first, spasming and clutching himself with a horrifying passion he could not control, nor possibly understand, his eyes bulging and jaw slack. The Necromancers armour peeled back – she had no cause now to fear blade nor arrow from this one – and while her claws pierced leather and mail, and her jaws nipped bites from flailing flesh for the sheer delight of the taste, the woman’s belly split and from it swarmed a welter of fleshy serpents, some tipped with a hag-fish maw, others merely spiked. The punched into the elf’s torso and he and the woman toppled. Blood was one thing.. but the Empusai needed salts, too.. and the husk she left behind when she rose was more than drained, but crumbled on itself, flaking into shreds and dust. Fed, and stronger for it, Tenebrae allowed her true nature its freedom. No more guile. Now, there was only monsters in the dark.

Kuzial continues onwards through the camp as his first victim drops lifeless to the ground, little left of him, none of which would be recognizable. Even his bow was snapped, a cruel and malicious final act by the newly-risen Empusai drow. He understood how elves believed part of their souls mixed with the souls of the forest when they created their fine weapons, so he could not resist shattering that with the man's very existence. Onward he goes, death and destruction stalking in his wake. Heads are removed with vicious slashes of his claw-like hands, others are merely torn off in a brutal display of strength. He needed no longer fuel the individual fears; with the beasts that were Tenebrae and Kuzial loose within the camp, the air with thick with the rich bouquet of fear and horror. He devoured those he killed with sickening speed, for he knew the true prize was coming. And so he travelled ever forward, and soon enough the elves understood where the beast was going. It was there they did gather, the last of them, blind in the dark, their brethren made a feast to either one of the monsters invading their camp. He moves towards the clearing. Within it was a new type of fear: Innocent, young... imaginations free to think of horrors almost as deadly as the ones which are truly here; far more potent than their older family members who've had their imaginations devoured by the endless cruelty of the drow. Young lives with infinite potential, dreams yet to be dreamed, a life yet to be lived... yet they all knew death was coming for them. But Kuzial doesn't just leap forward. Instead he would wait for Tenebrae... the feast they shared was delicious, but this dessert... this he would share. A thank you of sorts... she promised him power... she did not lie.

Tene had (infamously) always loved children. Baked, roasted, fricasseed, raw…The woman had been following her vat-spawn for some time now, revelling in his joy from a distance, watching him carefully for any sign of weakness. She found none, and so would tweak his ear when at last she gained his side, licking the smear of elf-blood spattered there off her fingers after. He had had his feast.. proved himself.. Was it so terrible for a lady to indulge her own whims, now? That was the dread humour she radiated as she bounded toward this cluster of terrified innocence. Unnecessary evils were, after all, the very best ones.

Kuzial spends just a moment standing still as Tenebrae bounds forward, seeking the sweet flesh of young elves. Was there any better scent in the world? Kuzial doubted it. She would sense the enjoyment he felt as he watched her move forward, no horror evident, no fear at all; the emotions he felt three days ago are long since drowned in the orgy of blood and death they left behind them... and drowned also in the vats deep beneath her house. But these moments cannot be savoured, for there is flesh to be devoured, innocence to be destroyed, and so he moves after her. The two easily destroy the few elves which attempt to offer protection to their young. Kuzial takes an arrow in the shoulder, but it's torn out and ignored. Others flash by the them both, but these are hunters now, unleashed upon the foolish elves who sought to defy the drow. With corpses again in their wake, they come across the last tent. Inside is a sound which Kuzial basks in; whimpering terror, cries of suffering. Like the finest orchestral song, it rings out, until it's at last replaced by the scream. The walls of the tent are torn down, and Kuzial grabs the first child he sees. He holds her up by her hair alone, before moving his face very close to hers; enough so her gaze can penetrate the darkness. It is then that he opens his mouth again, his cheeks already torn, his teeth looking like the maw of a vicious dragon. Pointed and deep they show the child oblivion. And just as he mouth opens in a silent scream, Kuzial's own covers hers. And from within comes a torrent of darkness and death. It fills the young body, ripping at its blood, tearing at its innocence, feasting on its life-force. And only when done does the drow release her... The body makes almost no noise as it hits the ground, so little of it is left, before Kuzial seeks out another... though, his hunger is almost sated for now, and as he senses Tenebrae's dark enjoyment, another hunger comes across him... one he has suppressed... one he hopes she will soon feed.

And that hunger, no longer subsumed by blood-lust, smacked Tenebrae like an open hand.. damn him, nearly shoved her off her feet, so that she slipped on the gore slicking the earth below and had to grapple at a tent-pole to right herself. Drunk on it, she laughed, a perversely silvered sound that rang above the croaks and whimpers of the few remaining elves that were not quite perished. Oh, what carnage... and sated in it, bloated on it, no-one left to nock an arrow, she strode through the wreckage of the camp like a Queen through her court, the beast remaining on her enough to keep her ears convoluted and her nose upturned, while the rest of her adopted that sultry guile that had driven the old elf mad before he died. She was happy to become Kuzial's last conquest this day, knowing how soon even this river of blood would dry up in his veins. This was the price they paid for power - a never-ending hunger, and the necessity of fostering a lifestyle of sloth when not sating it. Soon, she would construct for Kuzial an array of servants - gas-beasts, watchers, custodians, whatever he desired - to offer him that ease which would enable the Patron to conserve his power. In case he needed it, for many would come against him. In case the symbiote's animal mind found the high ground for it would always seek supremacy, and weakness in the host.. But for now, she would allow him free indulgence on this, his birth-day. Tenebrae grinned and ordered her armour to fall away, making her a birthday gift that obligingly unwrapped itself.

The scene of desolation left in the camp, once housing one of the last pockets of elves in Sage, was horrific. Twisted husks that were once full of life now emit a strange stench; not quite the rotting smell of deceased flesh, but another with more subtle notes in the air. It is one that speaks to those who can hear it of the obliteration of innocence at the hands of two who are twisted beyond redemption... who were that way long before they met each other, and now together, are like a cancer upon this world, eating away at anything, devouring what seeks to stop them, destroying life and love without remorse. And this would form a fine backdrop for the last prize Kuzial claims this day. He watches as her armour falls away; the darkness doing nothing to stop his hungry gaze. He steps towards her over the bodies of slain children, through the filth of blood and death, until he stands directly before her. No words are spoken, for none need be said; as they are now, both would know, both would understand. And as he reaches for her at last, a savagery in the gesture, he lets out a last laugh of sadistic joy before he pulls her towards him... a hundred deaths and now this... it's the best birthday presents he's ever had... and the world had best beware...