Entrenched in one of the corrupted rivers of fel blood in Tanaan jungle, the warlock sat brooding, still staring down at his missing appendage. Cut off just below the elbow, phantom pains from a hand that no longer existed plagued him, though the physical pain of the wound itself was agonizing. A seeping cold that burned and fought against the energies he was attempting to store within his own body though osmosis. The Knight had done his job well, he’d had to admit, though the warlock had grown since last they’d been confronted.
Falsely accused of committing a disgusting crime while perpetrating something much more atrocious had been a surprise. He’d expected the elder warlock and his whore to come crashing down upon his hidey hole beneath the Hearth, not a battalion of Knights led by one of those acid spitting worms.
As he squatted in the green fluids, Talaeesh grimaced, recounting his maddened assault upon the Hearth for the loss of his arm and tallying up the totals. Two dead wolves. A few dead guards. With all luck, the whore who had spurned him was dead as well, her throat slashed open after he’d sent his shelled out puppet of the whore’s daughter to torment the pair. He knew Raisarus had a soft spot for the child, so it had only made the entire thing sweeter.
But it wasn’t enough.
No, they’d maimed him. They’d stolen his sister away from him, the only person in the entire world who’d trusted him, cared about him. They’d failed to bring her back, when they knew damned well she’d been alive. His little Feather. The fingers of his remaining hand clenched into a fist in the fel sludge, a snarl breaking forth on his refined face.
They hadn’t suffered nearly enough.