Her voice, raspy and sonorous, pierced the stillness of the forest, shattering the silence as her words cut through the quiet. The woods of their settlement had grown accustomed to her predatory disposition but now a new entity, human or otherwise, lurked amongst the birch trees - its presence unwanted and scorned as the night's symphony fell to reticence upon its approach. The blazing sun was gone, the crickets had stopped, everything seemed to have died all in that very moment. Perhaps it would be better if it had. There were worse things than Death after all ... So much worse. Ithuriel felt a shudder of excitement and a trace of carnal desire crept through her being; an unspeakable urge to bring ruin to all - to set the world to slaughter.
Perhaps, she mused, she should thank her wretched Father and his blessings - any genuine peril she could have felt in this moment was thrown to the side in response to the call for blood within her. Rising from her place, the tiefling abandoned her whetstone on the log, the blade cluched in her palm now gleaming in response to Selune's selenic caress; her pale body lit like a beacon in the dark.
Cherry irises darted from one side to another before zeroing in on the stranger, the edges of her pupils sharpening down to the needle. A Devil's whisper urged her to recall the thousands rendered dead from her hands. What difference would one more make?
"Show yourself, creature, lest I deliver you onto Myrkul."
━━ @sinistercall, BG3 Verse
"Myrkul." The words were a sneer punctuated by a cruel chortle. The creature concealed in darkness obediently stepped forth and the shadows solidified into ebony fabric—layers and layers of charcoal from his hood to his boots. Stark against it was the gore-stained, sooty mask he wore, contorted into a horrific scream.
His silent steps brought him closer, yet still a yawning gap was maintained between them. She, lit by Selune's grace, and he, cast into eternal midnight. ( So sharply contrasted, and yet were they not both fueled by an insatiable blood lust? Were they not motivated by blood? ) The penetrating silence was the mark of a predator stalking in the brush. In this instance, two. And though Ghostface could put up a fight, a wolf was no match for a tiger.
"You would be found eventually." If not by me, he thought cruelly, then others far less inclined toward mercy. Yet, it was not mercy that stayed his hand now; it was opportunity, even desperation. Opportunity alone had him several steps ahead of his peers—ahead of Orin. It was the only way to survive in this rot-infested world.
The Deathstalker displayed his empty hands as proof that he was not a viable threat. For the moment, at least. "I am not here as an enemy."
