From Dust to Dawn - Milago

[Jenmae Ophiro]

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Location: Milago - Planet's Surface​

Objective: Searching

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There was a disturbance in the Force... Or at least she assumed there was. She'd awoken, wrapped in the tussled sheets of the bed she shared with her Wolf, to the wailing of the spirits. It wasn't a rare occurrence that they would whisper to her, but this had been different. Their shrieks had been unintelligible outside of two words, repeated in an unending hiss that made her mind feel full and aching; Milago. Come.

It was in her nature, as it had always been, to ignore the beings that made up all things... But as the evening dragged on towards morning, and her slumbering companion got to enjoy peaceful slumber while she lay with eyes unblinking, staring at the raw stone ceiling of the cave they'd come to call home - well... It wouldn't do to simply lay about any longer. She'd carefully disentangled herself from the Wolf's arm he'd thrown across her in his sleep and set about finding herself something to wear. Dark silk, plush velvet, fitted corsets and leather accents to bring the outfit together were all selected and applied before she paused at the edge of the bed to observe the sleeping form of [member="Seren"]. He'd be furious... But it was not his place to tell her what to do - not yet in any case. That thought caused the smallest of frown to touch the corners of her lips as she drew up the large cowl hood of the cloak she'd thrown over everything else and turned to exit the mouth of the cavern.

The boy turned man knew enough to make himself endlessly useful, but he was changing her plans dramatically, and she was unsure as of yet if that fact that was a welcome one or not.

Those thoughts bubbled about her mind as she mounted the ramp to her small personal ship and set course for Milago. The planet wasn't far - just one system from the home she'd made for herself on Cularin, the trip wouldn't be long at all. As the ship lurched and began to lift into Cularin's atmosphere, the spirits became a nuisance once more. They'd fallen nearly silent once she'd risen and readied herself, but as it became apparent that she was following where they urged her, they became a nearly deafening humm inside her skull. Her face wouldn't show an ounce of the discomfort it caused her, but she arranged herself stiffly in the cockpit of the small ship and sat perfectly still as they made for Milago.

The planet itself was nothing special, quite the opposite actually. In a time long gone it had been the site of some war-time bombardment that had all but destroyed the planets ecosystem and left it a barren dust bowl, pock-marked and inhospitable over much of planet's southern hemisphere. It was there that the spirits guided her, and where she directed the ship to set down. At the lip of one of the massive craters that seemed to be lit in it's totality by the planet's moon, the dust that seemed to cover everything lifted and was swept into the air in waves. As the ramp swept down to the surface and the doors opened, the woman had to take a moment to catch her breath... The atmosphere here wasn't as kind as the lush home she'd claimed one system over.

Errant strands of silvery-white hair whipped clear of the edges of the hood of her cloak before the entire thing was blown clear of her head. The cloak tugged at her throat and shoulders, but she paid it no attention as she slowly descended the ramp. She didn't pause, even as the combination of dust and absence of the abundance of oxygen she enjoyed on the lush forest of her own home stole the air from her lungs, until the collection of dust that made up all things here crunched beneath her leather clad feet. Those bottomless pits of luminous dark brown that masqueraded as her eyes swept the ground just as the wind did - settling upon the distant bottom of the pit her ship sat upon the edge of... Here. The spirits demanded her presence here. On this barren, useless planet. A place that was good for star gazing and little else... Unless perhaps you enjoyed long, freezing walks on dusty, oxygen starved wastelands.

This is why she didn't listen to the spirits.

 

[Malok]

Location: Milago, Surface​

Tag: [member="Jenmae Ophiro"]​

When the Vicelord was a much younger man, a Demon ravaged the Cosmos.

A Celestial in name and power, the entity turned all Creation on its head. With but a whim, a literal half of all life was cast into the Netherworld. On but another, the minds of the Galaxy's strongest were bent to her will. They became as her puppets. Playthings. Her pawns in a vicious game to take vengeance for a wrong done eons ago. In the end, the beast named Akala was put to rest. But in doing so, she had left countless scars upon the Galaxy. Those who survived the Madness and the Rapture were never again the same. Among them was a proud Sith by the name Darth Metus. In those days, he did not see himself as one of the mightiest among the stars. He did not introduce himself as an event horizon of the Force. He did not flaunt his accomplishments for all to witness.

Rather, he enjoyed what control he mustered. He carved out a comfortable life and existence for himself in the Southern Systems - and would have been satisfied with just that. But when the Demon stole his mind from him in an instant, all delusions of settling were cast upon the wind. Darth Metus resolved that he would never again be the plaything of a god. And thus, did he dive headfirst into the abyss. Power. Control. Even the will to spit in the face of Death became his. And, up until very recent history, the Sith had deluded himself into thinking that he was mighty enough to withstand to whims of the gods. That, should another Akala rise from the ether, he would be able to fight.

Kuat shattered this delusion underfoot. The mission to make the New Republic answer for its crimes and corruption had seen someone precious nearly stolen from him. Over their time together, the wintery Echani had become closer to the Sith than family. And thus, when he felt the hands of death coiling about her heartbeat, he acted without a second thought. He spat in death's face once more - but not for his own sake. Everything he had and was was poured into the woman to save her from the explosion that would have killed her. [member="Srina Talon"], therefore, survived the mission...though she was never the same from that moment. But, in doing so, Darth Metus gave up his own life.

And found himself face-to-face with another god.

She called herself [member="Darth Elyria"]. And by their limited interactions, the Sith theorized that, at one point or another, she had been a mortal just as he. But the woman commanded a power so black that even his Darkness seemed like the Dawn. There was something primordial about her might. Something that conventional Masters tutoring conventional Apprentices would never aspire to. Something that the Emperors of the modern Galaxy would never attain or taste. This was the power that once more turned the Sith into a plaything...and Darth Metus would not bow. He would not break. Though his literal existence now hung upon the spider-wire of Elyria's whims, he busied himself attempting to find an equalizer.

And thus, he turned to the Spirits. To the ancient powers that they prayed to in life. He turned to a world called Milago and worked to summon the Fanged God. The profanity of his sacrifice was astronomical. Upon a rough hewn altar laid the remains of dozens. A ragged knife was gripped within the Sith's hand dominant hand whilst a freshly-stilled heart laid in the other. Ancient lyrics formed and fell from the man's lips, frenzying the Dark Side all about him in a vicious storm. Heavy winds howled about him as the spirits hissed in protest. In fear and disdain, they called out to one who was close - one who could hear them and possibly aide in putting to an end this offense.

But Darth Metus was undeterred. The spirits could send their champion - and they would end as those who laid about the altar: fuel for coaxing the Fanged God out of hiding.

 

[Jenmae Ophiro]

Location: Milago​

Objective: Unclear

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It felt like home.

This planet was terrible; between the barren, dusty surface, and the endless planes of oxygen starved waste... No, Milago wasn't about to be on her must visit again list anytime soon. However, the creature at the centre of the pit the spirits had guided her to, the silhouette of the blood soaked monster that towered before an alter laid low with the spent lives of several dozen or more... That was something worth a visit.

The spirits were screaming, a constant hiss and pain that made her head want to split - but their trust was ill placed, and she cared little that their numbers grew with each sweep of that blade clutched in the demon's blood bathed hand. Her hands itched at her sides as she watched him lift a freshly stilled

heart, pulled from the still gaping chest of what she assumed was the freshest body atop the alter. The thick, red liquid that poured down his arm and dripped heavily to the dusty ground... She could feel the excitement tingling up the sensitive skin along the back of her neck, the tiny hairs there rising despite the still nature of her features. The wraith needed a better view.

With a gentle push off the ledge she'd stood perched upon, the white-haired witch came soaring down the edge of the crater. The force of air rushing up to meet her as she plummeted down lifted the cloak clear off her shoulders, setting it fluttering in one of the gusts that frequented the planet's plains. As the ground rushed to meet her, slender fingers twisted, pulling the power from the spirits that had crowded this place and using it to build a wind of her own. A dust devil, filled with the same dust and fragmented rock that so bothered her about this rock of a planet, rose to greet her, cradling the woman as she gently set foot upon the base of the crater.

Doubtless, whatever this man was, he would not be deaf to the power that slowly strode towards him. Hair the colour of fresh fallen snow slowly began to settle around her shoulders as the wind she'd created died down, and the gentle sound of all that freshly disturbed dust being crushed under steady footfalls was a soft constant as she approached. It would be unwise, of course, not to pay the Vicelord of the CIS any mind, should one find him alone, and murderous, on an alien planet... But all that blood. The alter was literally dripping with it. All those limp and lifeless bodies, arms and legs thrown carelessly over the edges of the rough hewn stone, clothes and hair matted with thick viscera and gore...

Her breath caught in her throat as she got close enough for the smell to reach her. Even with the air here being difficult to breathe, the scent of fresh death was intoxicating. Cloying and pungent, a mix of heavy copper and human waste - similar to a battle field, but with none of the fetid stench of burning that so often followed those who favoured technological weapons. Sabers and blasters singed the flesh - masking the true scents of battle... But not here. This was as it could be - no, as it should be.

Here, in this blood stained pit, on this worthless rock of a planet... Here the witch had found a kindred spirit, and one whom she very much desired to speak with. She paused some 20 feet from the edge of the alter, eyes that had been swallowed by an fathomless blackness gleaming in the dim moonlight, flashing like dark gems in the expanse of pale flesh and wisps of gently drifting white hair. Her lips didn't move, no sound escaping the witch as she simply observed.

She would not stop this magik. No. Though the spirits screamed and railed in her mind, the wraith stood in silent observance, those eyes locked on the scene that played out before her - ready.

[member="Darth Metus"]​

 

[Malok]

Wailed, they did.

When first the butchering of their own began, it was within the skull of the Sith Lord that the spirits began to cry. Betrayal rose in their voices as a cacophony of disbelief - for why would one of their own so willingly turn the blade upon his own kind? Why would he literally break through their bones and tear free their hearts? Why would he cake his hands with their blood so easily? Yet, as their cries roared within his mind, the process only continued. For but the briefest of moments, at the outset of his crusade, the Sith may have been convinced to hesitate.

But now, there was no stopping. There was a greater "good" to be attained. He would not be the plaything of the gods. He would know, harness, and understand the primordial black. At any costs.

Thus, the spirits abandoned him. The chorus of their anguish grew silent within his skull as he plied his bloody craft. As the incantations formed and fell from his lips, the Sith noted that their presence withdrew in haste. But, soon thereafter, he was the furthest thing from alone again. Though the wind howled, his ears were not deaf to the roar of starship engines overhead. Though his victims flailed, screamed, and gurled beneath his blade - he could very much feel the presence of a newcomer to Milago.

As she descended, her presence and power whispered across the space. For but a moment, there was a pause in his incantation. He could have lashed out. Could have acted upon the instincts flaring within his core in that very moment. But, the newcomer had eyes the same as he. She bore witness to the slaughter about the stones. She could see the warmth which slithered from his grasp and splattered upon the stone. She knew what he had done and was doing. And yet, the newcomer did not strike. She did not speak. She...observed.

And so, Darth Metus continued.

His incantation reached its climax and the heart within his grasp began to quiver. For but the briefest of moments, it began to beat anew within the confines of his fingers. Power alone empowered the organ to move as if it had never been exposed to death. Faster and faster did it beat, filling the air with a sickening melody of its existence. Soon...ascension gripped its form. T'was if unseen hands hoisted the bloody mass into the air, as if to offer it to an equally unseen force. And, straightway, the organ exploded.

As if a chunk had been bitten clean out of the top. What remained was a heap which fell to the dusty ground. What followed was silence. Seemingly nothing. But in this quiet, the Sith placed the knife upon the stone. Turning, satisfaction was evident upon his face as his burning gaze fell upon the newcomer. This was a face that the Demon did not recognize - but it mattered not in the moment. What he had strove to achieve...he did. What he had butchered his own to gain, he had. In but mere seconds, Jenmae would feel the collosal weight of something coming.

The spirits would whip into a frenzy and then flee. They did not have much time to save themselves, let alone the champion they had brought to this godsforsaken world. But in the precious moments preceeding the Arrival, Darth Metus pointed a bloody hand to the woman. "The ancestors have brought you here." he began, stating what they both knew to be true. "To die."

"But there is a choice. There is always a choice. I have all that I require - and so, you may Live."

If she did not get in his way.

[member="Jenmae Ophiro"]

 

[Jenmae Ophiro]

Location: Milago
Objective: Bear Witness

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Those pit-like eyes didn't blink, didn't flinch or budge as the heart the Vicelord gripped was hoisted by unseen hands and devoured by a power she could feel on every inch of her skin, making her own blood surge unbidden and tugging at her to approach the alter that the stranger stood upon. She held back, however - her expression motionless as the man turned to her and spoke of her death... No. She'd seen her death, she'd seen it time and again in the eyes of the man who devoted himself to her - and tasted her own death in his blood when she'd demanded that he provide it to her. No. This being before her was powerful, she could see that, but he was not her death - nor was whatever he'd called to this place.

As the spirits rose to a fever pitch about them, the screams on the winds that plagued this dust-covered rock like an angry melody that was almost a nice change for the constant angry hiss as they'd pleaded with her to intercede. Her breath was stolen all at once as with the rush of their absence however, and it was this that urged her into movement once more. The same soft sound of all that dirt and dust crushed under soft leather was the only audible indication of her approach that she gave as the wraith moved towards the alter and towards the absence of what she knew to be the spirits that made all things.

One foot before the other carried her up the rough hewn stone steps to the alter, opposite the blood stained stranger. The darkness that had swallowed her eyes did not meet his own as pale hands carefully rose and glided along the alter, careful not to dip into any of that sticky, thickening blood. She knew it wasn't for her... This blood was a gift - a boon to something far greater than herself... But the ache in her finger tips as they ran parallel to the gore that decorated all that stone was palpable. She wanted to plunge her hands into those gaping, broken chests - to ring her fingers in what she assumed would still be the warm innards of the man's victims. Whatever majik this was, it required heart blood... But there were so many other amazing things one could do with what was left over...

Once she stood on the opposite side of that stone alter to [member="Darth Metus"], the witch stopped, those eyes finally lifting and returning to his. Her voice when it came was quiet, choked a touch from the lack of air in her lungs, strained but clear over the short distance.

"To what have you called, witch?" Hands moved to motion to the air around them, the winds having stilled to a soft breeze, one that caught up some of those long strands of white hair, tugging them across her shoulders and around her waist like a soft, silken curtain, several strands dangerously close to all that gore. It didn't seem to bother her however, now having eyes only for the warlock that still stood clutching the dagger in his hand. "And what is it that's answered?"

She could feel it like pins all along her skin - whatever he'd done had worked to summon something... The pressure in the air, whatever had forced the spirits to flee, it was like a great wave, growing on the edges of her mind and slowly drawing in on the tide of all this death.

 

[Malok]

Witch.

When the Sith Lord before the onyx eyes was but a younger man, he once clutched the moniker witch like a lifeline. When all around him came crashing down, it was to Dathomir that he fled with tail tucked firmly between his legs. However. It soon became apparent that the sin of stagnation had crept into the bones of the various clans. They stood on ceremony and archaic policies - and nothing else. Nothing motivated them. Not even the ancestors of the spirits were pleased. And thus, with a brother, he seized the mantle of Witch-King. And though his time as master of Witches was shortlived, the affect was enough to inspire action on the part of Dathomir for many years to come.

But in the here and now, the Sith took a far different path than the one invested in the fate of his people. This day, his sole interest was in the fate of himself. For there was something far greater - far more vicious than the one who held the dagger. And he was determined not to be its plaything for long. Never to be its plaything for long. With this, he would liberate himself from the primordial jaws of Elyria and propel himself to her equal. Yet, this process would cost him his soul...at least, as far as the ancestors were concerned. He was so willing to throw everything away in pursuit of power; and so would once more this day.

His burning gaze kept watch as the pallid woman made her advance. She did not interrupt his ceremony, which was good for ensuring that she walked away from their encounter in one piece. What's more, even as she joined him before the altar, she did not interrupt the masterpiece that he had painted in the blood of his victims. Though the crimson waters fell so freely to the ground, she did not anoint her fingers with its warmth. Rather, she came to an eventual halt across from him and uttered her question, addressing him as witch in the process. To this inquiry, a cold motion gripped his countenance. His lips curved, forming a chilling smile as he turned the dagger beyond the altar.

"The Father of Darkness. The Great Deceiver. King of Our Ancestors. Or, as the modern chilren call him...The Fanged God."

As if spurned into being by the enunciation of his name, the crimson upon the altar began to move of its own accord. It drifted northward, traversing upon invisible winds to twist and flow in impossible configurations. The spiral of blood grew and multiplied, spanning a monumental length on pair with an airspeeder. What's more, the flow was soon joined by bones of the fallen. Broken and shattered through their remains did they fly to join the cacophony of blood. Next came their muscle. Sinew. And skin. Everything that once was his victims was wiped clean from his bloody advances, Even the stained hand and the guilty dagger were left pristine in the presense of divinity.

In the wake of the ancestral spirits, there was now a calamitous weight which thundered upon their shoulders. A presence which shrieked dominantly within their minds. And should they lay eyes upon the fruits of the Sith's labors, they would witness an obsidian form. Animalistic wings stretched forth, spanning several meters. Four claws now rested upon the dusty earth. Sulfuric eyes burned against those who dared summoned him. And countless teeth hungered for retribution.

WHO.​

DARES.​

With but the utterance of two words, the God's dominance is exercised upon the realm of mortality. Two words, a smathering of syllables, and by their utterance literal whirlwinds erupt into being at its sides. Thunder rumbles above, whilst strands of lightning adorn the heavens. Darth Metus steels himself and steps forward, opening his arms wide to the beast. "Surely, you have felt her?" he began. "The one reeks of the Netherworld? The one whose power challenges yours and threatens all you have wrought?"

In a display of...piety perhaps? The Sith offered an exuberant half bow to the God. "I have beckoned you here, to humbly request your blessing to act. She is beneath your greatness, Oh Fanged One. But let me be instrument of your justice. Let me quell this perversion of your majesty."

Monumental nostrils flared and exhaled at his words, yet nothing was yet uttered in response. Rather, the ancestral Diety of the Dark Side turned its gaze upon the pallid witch.

HAVE YOU ALSO COME TO BEG?​

[member="Jenmae Ophiro"]

 

[Jenmae Ophiro]

Location: Milago
Objective: Restraint​

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The Fanged God...

As the man uttered it's name she could feel her chest seize. The gentle tightening at the edges of her lips and widening of her eyes would be missed by most, but she could feel her own heart skip a beat as the realization of what the spirits had called her to stop dawned on the woman. Her mind raced as she played over the exact way she'd been brought low in the memories [member="Seren"] had shown her... The day would come when the wraith would call this majik herself in the hopes of laying it low - but this was not that time. It was much too soon.

Her eyes dropped from the smirking villain across from her as the mass of bodies and blood began to stir. Her lips formed a tight, motionless line as she took one gentle step back from the alter to avoid all that blood as it started to rise, building the horror that the Vicelord of the CIS himself had summoned. Any urge she'd had to revel in the life that had been ended here died as suddenly as all these people had, and she suspected that it would remain just as dead.

Fathomless black pools tore away from the winged god for only a moment as it finished building itself a body with the offering the man had made, loosing a soft hiss as she glanced at the now spotless Sith. "You're a fool..." Though her time for chiding would come later... Hopefully.

As [member="Darth Metus"] stepped forward to provide a low bow to the god, so too did the witch. Hands slid down to bury themselves in the plush fabric of the skirts she'd chosen as she raised them a touch, bowing low to hide her face behind the curtain of her silken white lockes. As she straightened she heard that booming, eternal voice turned from the one who had summoned it to the creature that stood astride the alter with him. Best not to throw in with the man who assumed he could summon what equated to wrath incarnate and demand a favor.

"No, Great One. I am not foolish enough to disturb you to beg of your interference with simple mortal matters." She did not drag her eyes from the monster that spread it's massive wings before them, but the cold venom in her voice was clearly aimed at the topless fool opposite her. Slowly she straightened, that calm white face turned fully to regard the demon before them. "The spirits brought me here in hopes I would stop whatever ritual this man has used to allow you access to this plain. As your presence here confirms - I did not wish to deny you access if you wished it."

She left her explanations there, keeping her eyes off the Sith that stood across the alter from herself, instead devoting every ounce of her attention to the literal god that the man had managed to summon with the death he'd offered. Should she survive this, she would have the means to summon this god again, however... If nothing else, the spirits had given her something useful out of this mess.

 

[Malok]

The Divine narrowed its eyes, for it was surrounded by half-truths and utter lies.

What did these ambitious fools take him for? Did they not realize that He was the Father of Darkness? That he resided within the realm of their innermost secrets. That he knew what laid within the darkest corners of their souls. Amidst the thunderstorm of his presence, the Fanged God briefly sneered before extending a monumental talon. The appendage was easily the size of a landspeeder and grazed the chest of the Sith Lord. Upon merely touching his flesh, there would be the agony of agonies unleashed upon him.

YOU LIE.​

As his wrathful voice shrieked across the space, thunder rolled hysterically. The Sith parted his lips to speak - but the pain had consumed the totality of his being. All his strength. All his fortitude. Everything that he was paled in comparison to the father of midnight.

THE ONE YOU FEAR - SHE IS NAUGHT. A MORTAL, TAINTED BY THE NETHERWORLD. SHE IS NO THREAT TO ME. BUT SHE IS THE GREATEST THREAT TO YOU.​

And in that instant, the Fanged One retracted his talon...leaving a swirling mass of literal shadows in its wake. The billowing darkness began to expand rapidly, spreading over and across the Sith's body. Resistance was futile. And, before Darth Metus could utter a word, he was up to his neck in the darkness. Restrained. Unmoving. Then, the Father turned to Jenmae and his Talon graced her chest as well. The same fate awaited her. The same pain. The same prison.

THE DARKNESS IS GREATER THAN TIME, WITCH. I KNOW WHAT YOU WANT - OH USURPER MINE.​

With both subject to his whim, the Fanged One unleashed a terrifying din. It was reminisicent of metal shrieking against itself, scratching and wailing. In truth, this was the beast's peals of laughter. Oh how bold the ants of this Galaxy had become. How high they thought they could climb. And he would let them, for it would be all the more satisfying when they failed.

YOU BOTH HUNGER FOR MY THRONE. FOR MY POWER. I SHALL SUFFER YOU A TASTE - I WELCOME THE DAY WHEN YOU BOTH ATTEMPT TO SNATCH WHAT IS MINE.​

And in that instant...silence. The Fanged God departed the realm of the living, and with his sudden disappearance did the storm break. The heavens cleared...and the shadows seeped into their flesh. [member="Jenmae Ophiro"] would know this sensation all too well - the sensation of divine power soaking into her veins. The sensation when Seren first emerged from the morrow to the present. A boon had been given...but with it, a terrifying challenge. The Fanged God knew all - what was the way forward now?

Now freed from his prison, the Sith sank to a single knee. Heavy gasps filled his lungs as the sting of sheer power filled him. A mortal, tainted by the Netherworld? Knowing this...there was hope for him yet.

 

[Jenmae Ophiro]

YOU LIE.

It took every ounce of the hard-won apathy the Witch had amassed over her short life not to gasp at the accusation as it resonated through her bones. The voice that the monster had was like thunder inside her mind as she fought with every ounce of her being not the buckle under the pressure of it. It seemed that despite her best efforts, the Son knew well what her black little heart desired above all else. It should have come as no surprise that He would know her intent, though she'd hoped...

She toyed for only a moment with the thought of denial - of bringing life to lies as he had accused them of, trying to assuage his fury with promises of loyalty and misunderstanding. Though, as the Vicelord himself was brought to his knees at the merest touch from gargoyle's claw, all grand ideas of denial left her. No - it would do her no good to speak another word.

Lips remained pressed firmly closed as the deity spoke to the crumpled form of [member="Darth Metus"], telling of a woman, one who was mortal but plagued the warlock still. She had a moment to wonder at what sort of woman might cause a man to summon the Fanged God in an attempt to stop her... But as those burning umber eyes turned in the massive face towards her, it seemed less important all at once.

There was an instant where the wraith made to speak, but as the obsidian claw of the Beast lay itself upon her chest she felt what had brought the titan of a Sith to his knees. Her breath and all thought was stolen in an instant as pain akin to being flayed alive enveloped her form. It was heat and tearing and crushing all at once - it was every agony she'd ever visited upon the minds of her own victims, but it lacked what she realized now was her own bumbling attempt at focus. No. Whatever this was, it was what she wanted to be more than anything else she'd ever known. This was artistry.

All thought of speech was lost as that booming voice cackled into their minds, the creeping shadows that ensnared her form a blessing for the moment as she felt her own knees weaken with the force of it. I shall suffer you a taste... And all at once it was over.

There was a great sucking in her mind as all that power left in an instant. She could feel the vacuum in the world before her as the massive being simply ceased to exist on their plane, and she crumpled to her knees. All that darkness that had held her fast, kept her immobile while the Son had spoken, now seeped into her skin like slowly dissipating clouds, wisps of it licking across her form before it vanished.

She knew the sensation all too well - that first taste of blood from [member="Seren"]'s lips, that hint of eternity that awaited if she could find the strength to take it. Just a taste again, but this time it was for her alone. The chill filled her chest first, but spilled like liquid ice through her veins, her eyes swallowed by darkness as she finally found breath once again to gasp at it. Just a taste... But it was intoxicating.

Slowly, haunted eyes turned to find the man who knelt nearby. She could feel that little piece of darkness inside of him as surely as she knew he would be able to feel hers. Whatever this gift was that had been bestowed upon them by the Dark One, it would be a beacon from one to the other as surely as it was to the Fang God Himself. She was unsure who this man was, but there was no doubt in her mind there was no greater fool in all the galaxy.

"Whatever this woman is to you, witch... I hope she was worth the price we've paid here tonight."