An Eye for an Eye (Eldritch)

[Wrenmae]

Winter 45, 514 AV


"How much farther?"


Wren glanced up from the root-wrapped trail the wagon was bouncing on and back to the man with him. Farrow was a tall creature, skin weathered to tough leather beneath the sun. His body showed the rigors of his work in whip-like scars that crossed his skin in random intervals. Farrow offered Wren a grin and a wink, one that Wren returned. "Not too much farther," Wren told him, raising an eyebrow, "Over the ridge ahead is where my source says the shipment will be coming."

Farrow grinned, gap-toothed but fierce, his dark eyes like coals set in his skull. "Daggerhand," he muttered, "Sneaky petchers, taking this road. Heard a fella got torn to pieces out here once...some hunter found his remains. But I s'pose the Daggerhand are restless now, worried, taking chances now that we have em pressed against the wall."

Wren nodded. Farrow was the leader of a small gang called the Balicani, taking their name from the short, muscled, mutilators from the Wildlands they now traveled in. Rumor had it that Farrow killed one bare-handed, but Wren personally had his doubts. They had come looking for the Hound, found him, found his forces lacking, and had joined out of greed for vision and territory. Farrow was a good man, as far as Sunberthians went. He was strong, intelligent, and charismatic...strange that he hadn't been chosen by one of the more prominent gangs, but evidently he'd crossed the Nighteyes one too many times to be considered one of them, didn't fit the pedigree for the Sun's Berth, and had no interest in how Robern ran things for the Daggerhand. In a city of chaos, anyone could exist in any capacity provided they had the mettle to back it up.

Farrow had been on the forefront of recruitment for the Scars lately, trying to drum up new recruits for the business.

The wagon bounced again, Farrow's property, but Wren had hitched his horse to it and taken it out. Just beyond the ridge was where he'd met a highwayman the last he'd truly been in Sunberth. Temporary thing, that.

He'd convinced the man to dig his own grave.

The wagon crested the hill and paused at its apex, Wrenmae slowed his horse and leaped off the wagon. Farrow followed him languidly, folding out of the back of the wagon and putting a cautious hand on his blade.

Wren started down the other side of the hill, where the forest opened up into a sloping meadow. It was quiet here, but not so quiet as to be unsettling. A snow had fallen recently, dusting the landscape in a kind of white serenity. Had there not been violence planned here today, it might have even seemed peaceful.

Farrow knelt at the bottom of the hill, checking the land depression, possible vantage points, and other places. As he did he spoke. Wren kept his eyes on the trees at the far end of the meadow. "I've convinced the last of them to side with you," He was saying, "Folks remember the name Farrow, mark my words. Reckon the Daggerhands won't be expecting the lot of us to band together. You know..." he paused, glancing at Wren sidelong, "They want to see the Hound. Some are even suggesting I'm him, and most of the folks seem to want me in charge."

"What do you think, Farrow?"

Farrow shook his head, "I don't have the mind for all that vision. I think you can take the lead on this one."

"The gang sure loves you, don't they?"

"Petch are you saying?"

Wren turned on him with a small smile, eyes distant, "They look up to you. You represent something to them. A good example, yes?"

Farrow shrugged, "Petch if I know. I'm just myself."

He ducked down again to follow the land out toward the end of the clearing, Wren followed at a small distance, thinking to himself. Fallow was talking, but Wren was no longer listening to his words. Instead his mind speculated on what he needed to do next, how he would do it, and what he would say to the others.

When Farrow turned back to him to say something clever, some joke he'd overheard in the Pig's Foot, he found Wren had drawn his blade, snake-quick, and jabbed it to the hilt into Farrow's chest. The tall man made a hollow sound, like shock and surprise had torn the rest of his emotions from his body, swayed and crashed into the snow. Wren let him fall off the dagger, holding the dripping blade to his side as Farrow pushed a hand against his chest, trying in vain to stop the precious lifeblood from seeping around his fingers.

His eyes were full of question, and Wren knelt to answer, standing on the blade at his side, to prevent him drawing it in a moment of desperation.

"It isn't personal, this betrayal," Wren said at last, watching with a sort of passive fascination as the life continued to leave Farrow's eyes, "It fits into a grander scheme. You see, your men are dedicated...but to you, and I need them dedicated to the ideal. You were attacked, we both were. Daggerhand assassins sent to deal with us...who knows how they found out," He paused, tapping a finger against his chin, "I'll need to manufacture a leak...things to remember, I suppose. Anyways, your death will rock your men into fury, I will use that fury to mold their purpose. Take heart that your death is not a pointless one, but has a greater purpose."

Farrow tried to speak, reaching out a weak hand to Wren. The hypnotist batted it aside irratably. Folks in Sunberth always took so damn long to expire. "Chaos. Finest chaos. The Scars will throw the city into disarray. Awfully Rhysol of me, isn't it? But fret not...a little chaos is what Sunberth needs. You've all stagnated under the three ruling powers in the city. I think, and I believe you thought, that some of them should be taken down a peg so..." he shrugged, "Why not all of them?"

But Farrow's eyes had paused, staring up at Wren with shocked sorrow. It was an annoying expression, dismayed at the betrayal to the bitter end. Wren stood, wiping his blade on the man's shirt. He was the fool to think he and Wren had gotten close over the last few days...a mistake he would perhaps learn from in the afterlife.

Sheathing his dagger, Wren looked over the snowy field and sighed. He'd need to spend the next few hours staging the fight...and then followup with a wound or two to himself.

It was always tricky, conning thieves and murderers, but the mind believed what it wanted to believe.

And Wren could make the unprepared mind believe anything.

[Eldritch]

Laughter, deep and rich, sounded out from behind Wrenmae and bore a lilt that he would find hauntingly familiar from so long ago. The mark upon his throat would throb slightly, flaring a bit in an almost oppressive way and one that would urge him to turn. Should Wren turn to face the source of the noise he would find himself confronted by a familiar sight, one that would no doubt send memories of pain through his mind.

Leaning casually against a nearby tree was an impossibly tall dark haired man, wreathed in dark robes and possessing a pair of milky white eyes that seemed to possess frighteningly uncanny accuracy. They were the orbs one would normally associate with a blind man, but these eyes seemed to look through bone and flesh and stare into Wren for everything he was worth. A wry grin was on his face, though considering the quickly cooling corpse Wren had just dispatched it seemed a fair bit more cruel in this situation.

He started up a slow clap, one that was difficult to discern whether it was mocking or genuine. The man didn't move from his position, simply content to hold Wremae's gaze with those eyes of his. When he finished his applause he nodded to the corpse on the ground.

"Impressive, Wrenmae my boy, no hesitation, no pity, no remorse for taking a life entrusted to you. All leading up to a grand harvest to be had so very soon. I am pleased." He said, finally pushing off from the tree and approaching the Hypnotist.

He seemed to bear an almost impossible presence, one that was equal parts drawing and oppressive. His impressive height became more and more noticeable as he approached, towering over Wren with ease. The Hypnotist knew who this man was, there was no question about it as his mark practically screamed it to him.

The man placed a hand on Wren's shoulder and squeezed ever so slightly, tracing a line of being uncomfortable and not. It felt as if, should the divine presence before him wish it, he could tear his arm from the socket with ease. So far there was no indication of that threat, but one never knew what to expect when dealing with the patron of Chaos itself.

"Tell me now, my faithful servant. How shall you bring to me this promised harvest of Chaos and Betrayal? How shall you honor the Defiler? How far would you be willing to go to show your devotion?" There was levity in his tone, a dangerous sort of thing that indicated that this little meeting could go either way no matter how careful Wren was.

[Wrenmae]

It was the voice that did it, not the mark throbbing on his neck...that he could always feel, the light tapping pulse of the god's presence in the world. No, it was the voice, that rich baritone equal parts sweet and gravel, a dichotomy like sugar ground into cobblestone. Wren turned to see Rhysol leering at him, an easy smile on his face.

At precisely that moment, Wren knew he was once again on the razor blade of death, dancing an impossibly thin line between devotion and betrayal. Was it always this way? Did Rhysol put on a different face for his precious Ravokians? He might have, he must have...and in that way, Wren really worshipped the being for what it was, rather than what it pretended to be. Sovereign protector, king of kings...hardly. Rhysol delighted in the instability that came with his power. Sylir was dead, a tree in his place to lead the Knights, and although Wren had done much for the dread deity, it could easily be said that it wasn't enough.

It never was.

"My Lord Rysol," Wren greeted the deity, dropping to knee and inclining his head, "I did not expect you so near to where we first met."

Torture at the hands of Breaker, torture at the hands of Rhysol...his body remembered every caress in latticed scars across his chest. He rose in time for Rhysol to take him by his shoulder, fingers that pressed with the kind of weight that suggested punishment and blessing in equal measure. As always, it was impossible to know the god.

Impossible to know any of them really, but Rhysol seemed to delight in defying imagination. Wren was in just as much danger as he might have been if he was a Knight...no, moreso. Rhysol would be gentle to turn the affections of a Knight...but a soul he already had stake in?

There would be nothing to gain from pawns already had.

"My lord," He said again, resisting the urge to try and remove the hand from his shoulder, "I seek disorder in the already ruinous Sunberth. For too long power has been held in balance between three major gangs. My intention is to destroy one by creating your chaos and allying myself with another to finish the job, only to betray them when I have the power to turn."

He did not meet Rhysol's eyes...to do so would be to kneel in agony, and it might have been taken as a slight if he had done so, impossible to measure the god, impossible to prepare.

He was a dead man...from this point onward, every moment alive was a blessing.

"I will leave the corpses of the Daggerhand and Night Eyes at your feet, my lord, the city gone to embrace chaos in new powers. I will control them, feed them your doctrine, make the city a bastion for you."

He could. But whether Rhysol cared was beyond him.

"Moves and countermoves, my lord, and it will all be for your glory." His and Vayt's, his mind wanted to say...but they said Vayt was a vassal of Rhysol, and the god knew he was marked of both.

"Tell me what you require, that I may obey."

[Eldritch]

Rhysol simply continued to stare at Wren, his smile devolving into a slight smirk though the weight of his grip did not increase though whether it was a sign Wren had said the right things or merely that the torture had yet to begin was up in the air. A slight chuckle welled in his chest as he slowly released his grip on the Hypnotist's shoulder and started stalking around the man in a circle slowly. His divine essence was rather like a razor blade being ever so delicately ran over Wren's flesh and the movements resembled a predator sizing up potential prey.

"Oh, Wrenmae. Wrenmae, Wrenmae, Wrenmae. You are so eager to spread my will to this city so caught in stagnation. So willing to act in the way you have chosen." He started, sounding almost patronizing as his circular pattern took him behind Wren once more.

Hands gripped Wren's chest from behind, only these were not the same masculine hands as they had been before but much more feminine and the nails long and well manicured. They held the same hidden strength previously seen but when the god's voice came from behind it was husky and decidedly feminine. It held an undertone of menace that would send involuntary shivers down Wren's spine.

"Did it perhaps occur to you that Sunberth was as it was because I willed it to be so? That your actions here could be seen as... presumptuous in my eyes, that it was disruptive to my plans? Did that thought ever cross your little mortal mind?" Rhysol questioned, the nails ripping through Wren's clothing easily and biting into the scars on his chest, drawing blood and raking slowly across it.

The pressure slowly started to increase, Wren would find the nails threatening to plunge into his chest and gouge his organs. It stopped after a single torturous chime, the god's hands slipping back from him as the Defiler circled in front of the Hypnotist. He wore the flesh of an impossibly tall and frighteningly beautiful dark haired woman, white eyes gazing somewhat coldly down at Wrenmae. Then again, who was to say this wasn't his true form? The Lord of Liars was ever the enigma.

What was very real were the ten short deep bloody streaks running across Wren's chest, some merely reopening the scars there and others creating entirely new ones. A reminder of that little incident perhaps? Or a warning to Wrenmae? Perhaps it even had no purpose at all and was just a result of the god amusing himself. Chaos was as chaos did.

After a moment of staring at Wren the tall woman's face twisted into a snarl of fury and anger. Quicker than the Hypnotist could possibly react the god's hand was at his throat and lifted him slowly off of the ground, the nail of his thumb poised very dangerously over Wrenmae's mark from the Defiler. He would feel the air constrict in his airway, the pressure slowly building.

"You presume much, Egyptus. Too much in many respects. You think yourself a worthy vessel to carry out my will? A will that your little mortal mind couldn't possibly begin to fathom? Do you have any idea whom it is you speak too?" The gods said, his feminine voice dripping with menace and promising a death more painful than the hypnotist could possibly imagine.

The white eyes bore into Wren's, holding his gaze steady as darkness started to encroach upon the Hypnotist's field of vision. A slight popping noise was heard and pain would flare in Wren's brain as Rhysol started to crush his air way, the blood-tipped manicured nail biting into the flesh of his neck. Everything would start to lose focus and Dira's embrace seemed only a few short moments away.

The next thing Wren would know he was dropped in a heap at the god's feet, any air he would have taken in would be painful and wheezing. The dark god stepped past Wrenmae, exiting the hypnotist's line of sight for a moment. When next his eyes would fall upon him, the god had assumed his familiar masculine appearance, his voice once more deep and rich.

"I wonder if I can even use one such as yourself, Wrenmae. I have to wonder whom you value more, myself... or those others who have placed their touch upon you." He said slowly, his tone pondering and his gaze half upon the hypnotist.

[Wrenmae]

Wren writhed on the ground beneath Rhysol, gasping, coughing the vile feeling of breathlessness from his lungs. It was any wonder there were ever servants of Rhysol to begin with. Since his introduction to the dark god, nothing but venemous distaste and double-faced standards had awaited him. He had gone to Ravok at the coaxing of the god, and yet Rhysol had not appeared to him...nothing to give for information on his enemy.

Rhysol's devoted followers were, undoubtedly, lunatics. Only lunatics would follow a god so bent on chaos that he treated his own worshipers like trash. But then...there was the power. Wren felt the bee-buzz of god-strength pulse from the mark. Rhysol could make him like the leaders of Ravok...the Druvin, ultimately powerful and free from malign, bathed in the blood and chaos the god had offered. These rare gems had sought and found his will and joy, somehow...but then to presume that much would be to presume what Rhysol planned.

Wren dared not to snap back that had Rhysol made such intentions clear, he would have steered clear. See the chaos in the order, the god might have said, you were an unworthy, blind servant.

Was hatred like devotion? He supposed it must be. This blinding, writhing, fear-like coil of fury had to be what devotion was, so different from Vayt and Sagallius. The gods he wore with varying badges of fealty. Vayt was like an old friend, showing him slowly the error of his old life and the reality of the world. Rhysol was like a yammering cataclysm, impossible to read or follow, one simply spit in the direction of his wishes and hoped it wouldn't be seen as insult. Sagallius was like an employer, tactfully watching Wren develop...and Laviku marked him like a father marks a child, in punishment.

Now he was at the mercy of one that he could not simply walk away from...and he wondered at the folly of men to try and vie for the attention of gods.

"Show..." He coughed, spitting blood and agony, "Show...me." Looking up at Rhysol, he dared eye contact, feeling the gaze burrow into his soul like warms and devour the resilience there, "Show me your will, your agenda, and I will further it for you."

Holding a hand against the marks that burned his flesh, the blood seeping from between his fingers, he briefly considered attacking and then let the thought die and wither. There was no escape from this.

"A worthy servant...gah...a worthy servant must know a measure of his master's desires else..." he hissed, pressing fingers against the wounds, "Else he fumble in the dark like a fool. Use me, Lord Rhysol, tell me what you desire and I will serve it."

He gasped, pressing against the blood, biting at the snow, "I am blind without your guidance...but I can be a capable servant."

[Eldritch]

The Defiler stared at Wren for the longest time, as though weighing the hypnotist's worth in the span of these next few chimes. After those terrible moments the tall man moved to loom over Wren, his expression blank and his mood changing at seemingly the drop of a hat. The god seemed to be calculating, pondering what to do with the mortal before him that was completely at his mercy. Wren's words might have indeed reached some cord in the god, something that clicked in some way.

"You... you might very well be right Wrenmae. Perhaps I should share with you some small measure of my plan, to impart a measure of my will upon you." He thought aloud.

"Perhaps though, perhaps I should simply kill you here and now. Perhaps I should end you, Wrenmae Sek, Hound, Egyptus. Perhaps I should smear you into the ground for your presumption, make an example of you." He pondered, his tone as light as if he were commenting on the weather.

After a chime further a slow grin fell across his face and he stepped past Wrenmae again, his form shifting back into that of a woman. He inspected his nails idly, licking the crimson residue from the end of them and puckering his lips as though admiring the quality. White eyes fell back upon the hypnotist, their weight heavy and judging in every way imaginable. Nothing was hidden from his gaze, Wren was laid bare before this force of all corruption and lies in the world.

Rhysol strode towards Wren again, stooping down and gripping his chin firmly to force his eyes to look into his. The nails were there again, digging into his jaw to draw further blood from him though not as deep as they had before. The smirk was amused, like he was party to some private joke at the hypnotist's expense.

"I am a generous god, Wremae. So I have decided to give you a chance to prove your worth to me, to show me the devotion you have as my loyal servant. So I offer you a choice. Take your own dagger, the one you used to betray this man here, to your right eye and offer it up to me, or die by my own hands. That is your choice, Egyptus. Prove to me you are my devoted servant." The dark god said, releasing Wren's jaw and stepping back slightly to loom over the hypnotist once more.

[Wrenmae]

The first thought, the very first thought that shot through Wren's skull was one of gratitude that he had not thought to use the Vayt blessed dagger. Somehow, that blade had remained relatively unstained, save for the truly worthy kills. It was in his belt, nothing more than a wrist jerk away.

And an eternity for a god like Rhysol, no luck there.

The second thought was one of incredulous horror. In times past, Wren had taken it upon himself to mark his own body. As a morpher, he had to understand that the body itself was mutable, mercurial, and sometimes marking it could change it in such a way as to be unrecognizable.

But this.

Oh gods this.

He reached up, trembling as he touched the skin beneath his eye. He could see his finger there, a looming darkness at the corner of his vision, almost feel the instinct to blink.

An eye.

Within the eye lay the heart of vision. He could see, and he always could. In the darkness beneath Sunberth, deprived of vision he had gone mad, utterly mad. He could feel that now, pushing at the edge of his sanity, a simple request so utterly heinous and perverted in nature...like some twisted alms to a god with blank eyes.

No. Gods no.

He lowered his trembling hand to the hilt of his blade, lifting it out of its sheath with little more than a whisper of steel. Both eyes held it in their grasp, the gaze strong and steady along the shimmer. The snow, so rich and white, even where the soil had been upturned to spray brown blood across a neck covered in the down of goosefeather.

So much detail.

It was curious...that he had never come to appreciate sight as much as he did now. The moments between what he had to do with what he did not want to do.

As the blade rose, dancing in front of the eye, he considered ramming it in, paused, choking the insanity of the thought to death in its cradle. If the blade pierced too deep, he would be a dead man.

Perhaps that was what Rhysol wanted.

He lifted the dagger, bringing it forward measure by agonizing measure, till the blade tip tickled the right eye. He blinked and the dagger dropped from senseless fingers.

Cursing, never looking to Rhysol, he picked it up again, white knuckled grip on the pommel of the blade as he held it up once more. Each breath was a ragged, agonized, like breathing through a ruined throat. In a single, desperate moment, he considered begging Rhysol's forgiveness, to close both eyes and wish this curse gone from him.

Damn him. Damn that god.

Damn the path that brought him here.

Zan was quiet...too quiet to be anything but shocked. The familiar knew what was coming, and it bubbled in Wren's stomach...but could not bring itself to speak. Once before Zan had tried to stand against Rhysol in vain, now, safely in Wren, the familiar quailed in the gods magnanimous presence.

No. This was all Wren.

He thought of nothing. He thought of the void.

And brought the dagger into his eye.


The pain was enormous, the sound of a hiss, a slight pop, like a grape being burst between two teeth. He could not dig it out, not with the blade, and while his mind reeled, Zan screamed internally, his entire body shook with the desire to sleep, yes, let the darkness overwhelm you...

He reached up and took that ruined eye, pulling its bits from his socket and separating it.

Gods. Gods. Gods.

Offering it up toward the god on a palm that shook with the rattles of the dying.

I will Survive. I am Stronger than this. I will SURVIVE

"One...eye...my lord," Wren spat from clattering teeth, his face pale...he could feel blood and viscera washing down his face, oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.

"As you...commanded."

[Eldritch]

Rhysol watched as Wren pondered it, as the emotions played across his face and as he hesitated and fumbled about before making his final decision and plunged the weapon into his eye. The god in female form smirked down at Wren as he watched the hypnotist carry out the act, this perverse display of devotion to the Defiler himself. When Wrenmae completed the task and offered up his very eye to the Lord of Lies, to Rhysol himself the god accepted the gift into his hand. The tall woman made a show of admiring the ruined orb, before humming in approval.

Pearly white teeth gleamed as the Defiler flashed Wrenmae a pleased smile and discarded the offering, kneeling down to the hypnotist. Rhysol wordlessly leaned forward and placed a single kiss upon Wrenmae's brow, one that would change him forever. It was a quick affair, like a chaste kiss a mother would grant their child when sending them out for the day.

Pain would wrack Wrenmae's body, pain far worse than anything he had ever felt in his entirely life. His torture at the hands of the Defiler and his first mark by the god was nothing compared to this pain, which was centralized around his eye. It felt like knives were driving into his very brain, spreading out to the rest of his body from there. His blood felt like it was boiling in his veins and his flesh felt fit to start peeling off at any moment. Every inch of him was wracked with indescribably horrific pain, something that could drive lesser men to utter madness.

It continued for what seemed like and eternity, but then it began to fade and as it did Wren would find himself with the sight having returned to both eyes. Rhysol stood not too far away, in his male form one again as he regarded Wren curiously. The god produced a mirror from within the folds of his robes, a simple thing and held it before the hypnotist.

Wren would find that he had changed, blood still stained the area around his eye but he could see through his right eye but it had been changed. The orb was now completely white, rather like Rhysol's own eyes and granted the hypnotist the look as though he were blind in one eye. But he could see, he could actually see once again. A deep and rich chuckle sounded from the god above him as he allowed Wren to admire his new acquisition.

"I am pleased Egyptus, most pleased. You have proven your faith to me and shown yourself worthy to know my will and carry it out. You shall bear this gift as a sign of that devotion you hold to me. Wear it with pride, my child, and know that as easily as I take I can give as well." The god said, nodding to the hypnotist.

He gestured upwards with his hand, the mirror vanishing back inside the folds of his robes. He jerked his head towards the direction of Sunberth, his face holding an almost serene smile.

"Come. Walk with me, Egyptus my child. Let us talk of your future and your plans, not just in Sunberth but beyond." Rhysol beckoned.

[Wrenmae]

The agony was...without description. He had tasted deeply the well of pain before but never in such quantity as this. There was hardly words, and not even a scream to express the rigors his body was tormented with.

He fell away from Rhysol, bucking and shaking on the ground like a fish cast from its home to the dry land, hands pressed against his eye and the dagger forgotten where it fell.

Until finally...it stilled.


It all stilled.

When Wren dared to raise his head again, blessed sight had returned...along with the terrible knowledge of what else had been given to him as well. Not just sight, but beyond sight...the kind of vision to pierce the feeble defenses fools held. See their desires, their hopes, their fears, their dreams.

The heart of man, laid out so serenely for him now.

His new eye, devoid of color and terrible in that sightless gaze, somehow it seemed worth it, every step of agony that had led to this moment. So...the druvin were a step beyond it. What measure of power did they possess then? What manner of ability did Rhysol invest in the most loyal of his minions?

Zan writhed with pain within Wren, still roiling with the agony done to him. The god had not touched the familiar, and Zan would not accept anything like that.

There would be words after this, no doubt...but Wren did not relish their arrival.

He got to his feet slowly, following the god back towards the city.

His heart thrummed with the strain of what he had gone through, his body ached with the passage...but the power that now grew there drew the slightest smirk to his face. Yes. This sort of power, he could truly use this sort of power.

"Beyond Sunberth?" he said, looking to the treeline, "From here I go to Sahova, where I must prove a point to an old man. From there, I would return and see to growing my holdings in the city."

For some reason he felt his arching dreams of an empire might hit the god...incorrectly. No, best not to waste Rhysol's time with such things until they were too ominous to ignore. "Then I had hoped to perhaps sow some discord in Zeltiva, or maybe travel as far as the cities in Cyphrus. My lord, so far all my work has been done of my own volition, but never at your behest. Could I be so bold as to ask you give me a mission to carry out? A measure of your plans for the world. I swear I shall not fail you in the task you give me."

[Eldritch]

Rhysol was silent as they walked, his expression showing neither approval nor disapproval and whatever his true feelings were they were masked by seeming serenity. Sightless looking white eyes focused on the path ahead and it was only when Wrenmae mentioned talk of a mission that Rhysol actually gave the hypnotist a sidelong glance. A slight smirk played at the Defiler's lips, as though amused by that private joke once more. It vanished soon after and was replaced by an almost pondering look.

"You have my blessing to go forth with these plans, Egyptus. I expect you to reap a harvest of chaos and discord upon this city, as well as to bring it into the fold of your brothers and sisters. Take what the old man gives you and assist in the spreading of my glory on Sahova as well. It too must fall into the fold and serve its purpose." Rhysol stated.

"I shall give unto you a mission to undertake. Once your task in Sahova is completed and you return to Sunberth, you will set out for Zeltiva once more. There you will find a man possessing two powerful relics from a time before the cataclysm. You will seize these artifacts and utilize them to kill the undead, Ignotus Everto. Wreath the city in leaderless chaos and let them fight and bicker. Complete this task for me and return to Ravok with these relics in a years time from now. That is my mission to you Egyptus." Rhysol stated, turning fully to face Wren.

He place a hand on Wrenmae's shoulder and granted him an almost fatherly look. The eyes seemed much softer than before, no fury or anger but something that looked rather like acceptance. He smiled serenely at the now twice blessed Chaon, a product of his own corrupting influence upon the world.

"Succeed in this and I will reward you beyond your wildest imagination, my child. Fail... and your suffering will be a thing marked as an example to those who would earn my disfavor. Go forth now Egyptus. Worship me as you always have, through your actions. Know that I am watching." The Defiler said.

The tall man would hold Wrenmae's gaze for a chime, before turning and departing back into the trees. He seemed to simply vanish, the only sign of his influence being the white orb now within the hypnotist's skull. His words would echo in the man's head for a time however, the chance at being rewarded or destroyed his chance to take.

OOCRight that should be my last post here. Short, sweet, and very ominous for the future. Feel free to put up your last post and I'll award you the grade, injuries, and mark.