| @moonrots

Ketheric's little daughter was such a PRECIOUS LITTLE THING, a beam of radiance in the pit of fetid squalor. Keeping a close eye on Ketheric's spawn was protection, but it was also so very entertaining. Despite the dagger which was ALWAYS HELD at her back, the changeling could not resist the occasional personal visit. Isobel was too good to live, too dear, too disgustingly selfless. How Orin DREAMED of slitting the skin was it even blood which sustained her now ??? Or had the stale ooze of death replaced ALL OF HER CRIMSON ??? And, EVEN MORE LOVELY STILL, once all of her life juices had been drained all of the inn would FALL TO THE CURSE. Red would cover the grass outside, congealing on the green blades as a testament to the slaughter of this little sanctuary’s DEAR PROTECTOR.

Orin was in the shape of another, bones stretched and twisted so that it appeared as one who was wriggling and groveling for the safety Isobel provided. How her dagger LONGED to dig into the back of her neck, to twist and yank so Orin could bring Ketheric his beloved daughter’s spine. How the GRIEF OF LOSING HIS LIGHT AGAIN would mar his ashen complexion, the blackened veins of his countenance would pulsate with the anger. But not yet. For the moment the animated carcass was necessary to wrangle and subdue the brain, but NOT FOREVER. Soon his corpse will stink and rot on the ground, making the dirt he planned to conquer his grave. No tomb, no candles, no memorial. Just a skeleton turning into ash ALL IN BHAAL’S NAME.

" Sweet little cleric, " Orin cooed in its own voice, aware that now this meat sack had lost its use. " All the weight of their LIVES RESTS ON YOU, on those BREAKABLE shoulders. Will you buckle beneath the pressure ??? Can it hear the bones creak and strain beneath the flesh ??? " they giggled before an arm snapped in the wrong direction, then the other. Neck twisted to the side a bit too far before the visage dissolved into ASHEN REMAINS in the air, revealing Orin’s true face.