Insulted and battered down. That was me in a nutshell. Bitter, bitter regrets, all yanked up by Deimos weeding my mind- except he took away the beautiful blossoms, replaced them with a weed that put its roots in deep, even though he had stopped his invasion on my mind. Magic. I hated magic. Bleeding, fucking, awful magic did this to me. It ain't proper. It's spikuk, damned sorcery that should be outlawed. Damn the gods for giving us mortals magic. It ain't right. I don't realize it, but as the fear grows on me, nibbles at my brain, I start reverting to good old Svikruchian. Jagnig mirun, logiin topar, hansalla vou morscha. I'm trembling, in fury and fear. Until Psyche speaks, and I draw myself back together for a furious volley back at her. I hopped back a few steps, avoiding putting pressure down on my injured fronts. It's true, I know it, but the black bitch needn't tell me. I already knew Deimos was the one to fear, the one to run from. I felt sick, so sick to my stomach, dizzy, at the thought of being attacked by his magic again. With a sigh, I drop my head, trying to breathe deeper. Jagnig mirun, jagnig mirun, jagnig mirun. I repeat to myself, delving ever deeper into my mind, retreating, shutting the doors as I accelerate along my mental path, whirling deep into my body. My soul is a small patch in my chest, hiding from pain he, the Devil, may enforce on me again. It's too overwhelming. But before I shut the final door to my small little home where any physical pain my body gives should not reach me, my head tilts and I look at Psyche straight in the eyes, and turn my head to Deimos as well. The words that come out of my mouth, doubtless, will make no sense to them, but I know what it is.

"Hrefar ligner." It's the oath of certain death, the vow of sworn enemies, the most solemn promise ever be given by me. It is my first one, my first Blood-Oath, and it shall forever be my most dangerous one. And then my body has shut down and I am weeping in the recesses of my soul, the doors closed to my house.

And as I shed a thousand tears within this piece of earth, my body is locked in stasis, legs planted solidly, eyes vacant. I will look like a statue, as I have been trained for enemy capture. When was the last time I was caught by an enemy? Hmm. It would have to be the Battle of a Thousand Days. I had been going under enemy lines to discover the plans of the soldiers, when I had been attacked by Opertative San, who had gone crazy with fear. Driven by his diseased mind, he had given the spies away, leaving us to suffer in the cells of the King. I had been released from the prison cells two, three weeks later, not without numerous cuts and bruises.