V A R A T H
We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.

The grandson of the Crimson King had received summons to gather with the rest of the members of the Plague, a group he'd been introduced to prior to his departure from Helovia. He had considered this invitation to join other like-minded individuals carefully before choosing to attend.

Things had changed since he'd left.

He had changed.

And while he was certainly of the belief that unicorns were superior, he wasn't convinced of the necessity or efficacy of a group functioning for the goal of species purification. Historically, such groups were never the majority and inevitably always met a gruesome demise.

Varath felt to best serve himself, he would have to keep his ties loose. Which meant he showed up late, not concerned with missing any information. What might they have to say? There were hornless out there to maim and murder? Too violent and an expenditure of energy that was useless. Enslavement, perhaps, if they touted that - that would be smart.

His thoughts slowly died down from a buzzing flurry to a low, throbbing hum in his head, ears pinned back to his dome. This place, those gathered here, they were all pure, all seeking to purge imperfection, impurity, blemish and aberrance from the bloodlines.

If only they knew what sick, filthy blood pulsed through his infected veins.

Varath remained quiet, standing in the back, eyes roaming, looking, searching. He was not surprised to see Illynx or Ulrik present; D'Artagnan, Deodat, Zikar-Sin he did not much remember. Of note to him was yet again, a glaringly obvious lack of the Reaper's presence. No Deimos.

Was he a leader or a recluse? Had his infantile worship of the terrifying spectre been so horribly misplaced? Death and destruction were but parts of life, the ends of moments. To fully appreciate everything Varath was realizing he needed to live in these moments, not entertain endless machinations on how to terminate and remove that which he found displeasure in.

Pain and discomfort were good teachers. The discomfort he felt here would further refine his ability to appear cool under pressure - even if the pressure was self-inflicted.

And then his eyes found blood. Blood on the pelt of one very fine woman. In his absence, Varath had not forgotten the allure Aivya held to him, and his maturation had only see this effect blossom into a deeper sort of lust, the lust of a man for a woman in the most basic way.

She called to his darker nature and it responded with glee.

Stepping closer to her, he whickered softly, the sound low, masculine, intended for her only - though the proximity of others would meant they heard. That was fine. Let them think it was merely a quiet announcement of his joining.

In the end it probably didn't matter.

"talk."