D E S C E N T
Location: Sinner's Well, Ryloth
Interacting With: [member="Katrine Van-Derveld"], [member="Petra Cavataio"], [member="Srina Talon"]
Local Time: 0337
He cursed the tether upon his soul. Within darkness did the Demon rest, seated upon his gilded throne. The hour was late. The Well was silent. The warmth of his abode had gone away - with her as it always did. Yet, as one eye witnessed the native shadow of his Hall, the other...burned. They were close - Master and Apprentice. So close that thoughts and emotions bled from one to the other. So bound that glimpses yet graced the other's vision.
And this night, the Demon saw the Light.
His hands gripped upon the arms of his seat. Heat erupted in his belly, erupting many times over. His thoughts raced - conclusions tripping over themselves as his sight continued to burn. Questions. So many questions.
The answer? Wrath. Yes. The only path forward. The only way to remedy this newfound problem. To raise the fist and strike down this anathema. Wait. No. To strike...to strike would be to harm her, would it not? What price was he to pay for this? Could he make it secret? No. She would know. He could never keep truth away from her sight.
What then. How could he stop this.
Reason? No. She knew his thoughts. Knew his ways. Knew his heart.
Not force. Not words. What then. Release? Ultimatum? No. Not a price he was willing to pay. Nor a gamble he was willing to lose. A gamble was was likely to lose.
His fist collided with the arm of the seat.
In this, he was less than mortal. He commanded armies. He could conquer Death. But in this, he had no more might than a predator howling at the sky - demanding the rains to cease. It mattered not how large a pack the predator amassed. It mattered not if it were King of the Forest. When nature decided to move, there was nothing the predator will ever be able to do. It was powerless.
So too was the Demon.
What else is there for a predator to do then?
Get out of the rain.
His rise was somber. The fire yet burned within. With arm outstretched, the Darkness bent to his whim. The Hall became a Gate. Like glass, reality shattered before his wrath - emerald cracks formed and fell to shape a swirling abyss. Wails of the beyond filled his ears - the spirits and the damned were eager. His steps were brief and quiet. And once he had breach the abyss, the Gate slammed shut.
His presence was gone from this world, and yet he lived. Here, he could dodge the raindrops. Here, the Demon would do what defined his life. Every defeat...every hurt...every loss...every pain was met with creation. The Demon would only ever suffer defeat from any one thing once - and in this, what beat inside his chest was the enemy. But what could an alchemist create to remedy defeat when the adversary...was himself.
The answer...would require assistance.