Gladiators and gore, malice and fury, vengeance pulsing in its maddening blend of wrath and vehemence, bleeding and breathing the zealous, feverish pulse of murder, mayhem, and strife. Summoned by the haunting outcries of the Plague from the icy caves, from his murderous pursuits, he remembered the slate of convictions, the aspiring junctures and ruminations of creeds outlasting, then fading off into oblivion with its leader. Still, they persisted, they slunk, they crawled, from the heathen tombs and molten catacombs, from the shadowy fixtures of licentious diligence, sliding amongst the divine, the virtuous, corrupting and devouring the stead. While their blight had been silenced, it hadn’t completely collapsed; living on in the blackened, contorted hearts of the nefarious brethren, sheltered in the turbulent exultations of a abhorrent race. Disjointed but collaborating in the unsung menace of devilish contortions, without a head, without a conquest but the sullen whims of annihilation upon some idiotic band, or mere existence, squandering the darkness for another place, another chasm, to bury, to be swept away, in the arms of its iniquity. He followed with no expectations, long gone were the days of Psyche’s viper wiles and Mauja’s charisma, placed back into the GildedBlade’s hands – and the masks of those gathered. His slow, deliberate approach, his penchant for the murky doldrums, Lord amongst the ice but not here, no abhorrent throne in the poisonous throng of their vigilant heresy, harbored keen observations, warranted the sight, the sounds, of their vicious brethren, haunting, waiting, foaming and frothing for the right to obliterate once more. D’art, forever the doctor of abominations, Zikar-Sin, eccentric and bizarre, but a necessary aid, Illynx and her offspring, Ulrik, engineering monstrosities, Deodat, posturing Corporal vigilance, a D’art daughter, and then, a recognizable form in Varath (grown, scarred, but seemingly unchanged – ready for the pursuits of their callous calamity). He offered naught but a nod towards each, recognition through his silent brutality and barbarity, then ruminated over the only thing he had to proffer: quietus, the fortified munitions of his deadly, licentious skills. Cold, indifferent, a drumming, haunting requiem of his persecuting silence, waiting for the inevitable.