Even hatred can grow cold. I have spent decades on the same 100 acre plot of desolate land. At first exile was interesting, there were secret messages, there was exploration of the forest and there was ample time to perfect the very craft that cost the lives of my children and my freedom.

These nights feel like any other. I am losing track of time. Idling; if you will. I hear my dear enemy Illiandra is doing the same. Word reaches me even out here. Some of the young ones still think I would teach them my ways...

The news of the Princes condition breathed new life into me. I have spent nights with a young Daeva artist. I traded stories of the old times for a painting. A painting of Illiandra. Its a regal thing really, nearly filling a three foot canvas. The oils are still delicate, the Daeva captured Illiandras sour lips with a chilling realism.

I sit before the painting. If the news is true then I am truly fortunate. My exile wont end, but the shake up will lend itself to some opportunities. Time is wearing down even the ageless Illiandra. I have taken it upon myself to remind her just what she faces. I raise my hand and spread my long fingers. Il-I-An-Dra. I select my fourth finger, the ring finger and with a steel conviction bite it off at the second knuckle.

I spit the digit to the floor, where it will slowly crumble to dust. Forgotten and unneeded. I use the bleeding stub to annoint Illiandras painted face. A spiral forms from her lips to the dominant white of her brow. I circle those intense eyes and crush that pretty nose. I smear her face beyond recognition. She is a dream-bred statue with a shotgun blasted face. This is my work, this is my power.

2009-07-03 10:39:09 Anton rolls 9 dice to Rigor Mortis [Cruac lv1] 9,1,2,5,1, 2,8,10,2,10, 2 (4 successes)

Far off in the Necropolis Prince Illiandra will awaken with a true death like stiffness in her limbs. She will be lucky to have the strength to leave her bed, nevermind her haven.  

--Last edited by Anton on 2009-11-03 15:27:10 --