When a Void-tunnel opened or closed, it sent forth a nigh-imperceptible pulse. This pulse wormed through all things within the tunnel's radius; metal, stone and bone alike. Such was the way of Void Magic. Now that silent seraph's mournful aria touched gently with the tapestry of corporeal Aedrasil; delivering Lloyle Waraz and Verrod into the Vaaldian Palace. Materializing in the blink of an eye, no one bore witness to their arrival; though it seemed that chaos reigned nearby.

The high ceilings, traced by sloping archways and pillared sections, rumbled with an impact that the Black Adder leader could only assume was an explosion. If he were to wager a guess, it would have had something to do with the malignant lingerings of the Undead; given how their scent, their aura lingered lightly in the air, mixed with the acrid taste of magical exertion. The corridor, itself seemed to be unoccupied; thanks to the aforementioned event, or perhaps the Lunar Festival. A perfect entry point. The Crystalline Chamber was sequestered, but no so far as most would suspect. He would first find the false door and speak to it a simple Word, revealing it for what it truly was.

His feet, covered only by the strange leggings he wore, sliding easily across the smooth stone; his passage silent and swift. The hallway was long, as many were within the Palace; and sparsely decorated. That was true for most of the stronghold, save for the Councilor's chambers and the Resplendent Court itself. This time of year, with winter's teeth beginning to gnaw at autumn's soft flesh, banners were strung throughout the streets...yet little changed within the Palace. That, moreso than the tension in the air, pleased him greatly. Subtle was the art of leading from afar. Subtle was the knife that cut, but left no laceration.

Lloyle Waraz salivated. There would be no subtlety in what awaited the Unsung. It would be a plain message, to those who would behold it. A red reminder that there were those who had not forgotten when Strife had come to claim his world. His sundering had not ended his influence. Nor would the actions of mortals ever truly stop his machinations. Even now, much as the Void-melody that lingered on the edge of his mind, he could feel Strife's approval...his guidance...and perhaps, his greed.

Despite his thoughts, Lloyle was still fully focused on his immediate surroundings. A man was approaching, though not yet in view. Armored and of an even gait. The Black Adder tasted the air...and paused; holding up his hand to Verrod. Avoiding the stranger would have been easier and put them more hastily on their way, but curiosity was perhaps the greatest vice Lloyle Waraz possessed. He leaned against the wall, nearby the corner where the man would be making his rounds.

"Hail, guardsman. A word, if you would."

The Royal Vaaldian Palace Guard stiffened. Though he was familiar with the leader of the Black Adders, the sight of Lloyle Warraz and his abomination of a nephew, Verrod, was enough to make any man’s senses prickle with deep-seated unease. The name Warraz was enough to conjure notions of ruthlessness in battle and in politics. Wherever the pair were found, discord was sure to follow.

“Oh, Patrician Warraz,” he exclaimed, “You gave me quite the fright.” The guard looked with apprehension upon the hideous body that the Black Adder called ‘nephew.’ Verrod’s mouth twitched chagrin as he watched repulsion spread across the guardsman’s face. Perhaps it was cruelty that lead his father to bestow upon Verrod such a loveless visage, or perhaps it pertained more to his function, but the cohort thirsted for more noble--or even palatable--features. He had no need to disguise himself as beggar, and instead wore clothes better suited to a man of his courtly birth-rank; he had no need to feign sickness or injury, disease or disability, but still others saw him as a lesser being than the charismatic and chilling enigma of his Uncle Lloyle.

“I heard about the success of your organization. Did you come to speak to the Council about that special permit again? What was it?” The palace sentry asked. With a callous self-consciousness, he pulled a silk scarf up over his mouth and nose, veiling the lunar scar, the discoloration of his patchy complexion, and his putrescent teeth, which tarnished his face. “I suppose that’s not really my business, but today is the Lunar Festival, m’lord. The Council isn’t issuing charters or anything such.”

The Vaaldian guardian and his uncle continued their conversation, but Verrod had no interest in the small talk of an armored insect. “To be honest, Patrician, the only exciting thing here lately has been the arrival of the Silver Glint. I apologize, m’lord, but if you want to see her, you’ll have to wait for the festival.” Words about the guild’s recent exploits, the mundane facade of daily life, boring, vacuous, banal drivel spilled from the man’s mouth. Instead, the mage inspected the architecture of the palace, waiting.

He listened to the man speak, giving a nod where appropriate, but said nothing in return; his mind elsewhere, a place where the sun was in his eyes and an enormous pit of tar roiled before him...his body did not flex, but flow into motion in that place of being-another-self. Yet here a different tension was obvious. Apprehension seemed to cling to those who observed his nephew's offensive countenance. Some would attribute it to Isg use, such whispers had already been bountiful among their lessers. The truth was something that only Atagh knew, fully. Lloyle had only suspicions as to the nature of what calculated abominations of form his brother had created. Verrod was among the less hideous, though, certainly, and utilized as a far more efficient right-hand.

Lloyle had always been cautious with his brother and nephew, interacting with them mostly from afar until there came true cause to convene. Lately, their gatherings had been few; but their interactions many. A new epoch was dawning, and they had long ago prepared for it. Too few knew of the shifting heavens and their disjointed cycles. The Black Adder leader had become intimate with those aspects of reality long before he had donned the mask he now wore. They were Strife's chosen...and were wont to be wary of one another. It was their nature to be suspicious, to scheme and usurp. He wondered how much of that nature had been imparted to Verrod.

Still, the man before him remained and spoke. Through Lloyle's observation, the man was not a fit meal. Used to the rigorous life of a Vaaldian Royal Guard. Too much muscle, too chewy, too sinewy. Seasoned with the spice of mediocrity. Hunger always lingered with Waraz, despite his routine indulgence in flesh. Still, not all in Vaald was fit to consume. He had been given ample opportunity to refine his palate.

"My deepest apologies," he spoke as though from far away, his posture lax and shoulders stooped, "I did not intend to frighten you." The strange magic he had sensed was not attached to this man, though a tiny thread of it had latched on in passing. "I have come here to walk the halls, before the Lunar Festival begins. I have not come for a charter or audience with the Council, but for a life." Lloyle seemed to straighten, his voice losing its previously ponderous tone. His middle finger slid across the pad of his thumb, the resulting snap breaking a momentary silence. As it echoed, the Black Adder closed the distance between himself and the guard.

Verrod had meandered behind the guard as the two conversed, analyzing the layout of the hallway. Based on what he knew of Deladish construction, it was simple enough to deduce where they needed to journey. The maze of corridors that composed the first floor of the Vaaldian Palace was built to be puzzle, but to a mind as sharp as Verrod’s, it was a map. Centuries of nobility had decorated the structure with ornate carving, paintings, marble, banners, and mirrors, but the lavish ornamentation was merely a distraction from fact: this was not simply a palace, but a fortress; like a painted geode, at the center of its stone fortifications was a crystal gem.

The snap roused him from his examination. He reached out for the guardsman, grasping his shoulder firmly. Steam hissed from the junction of flesh and armor. Immediately, the unsuspecting man doubled over in agony. His face contorted with the throes of perdition that now wracked his body. The stench of charred offal filled the air as smoke poured from his mouth and nose. The sentry retched, spewing the boiling remains of his liquefied organs onto the luxurious tiled floor. Skin bubbled as the subdermal fat blistered him from the inside out. The eyes popped with steamy pressure. Flames leapt from his mouth, charred hunks of flesh began to burn away and drop to the floor, and fire soon engulfed his body.

Verrod watched the guardsman die, unable to scream as the fire consumed all the oxygen in his lungs. He stared with a monotonous indifference as the blaze ate away at singed corpse until nothing was left but a blackened skeleton and ash. The mage closed his icy eyes, ending the spell, and heaved a sigh.

“You know I have not the affection for killing.” He looked at his uncle with a worn but white-hot glim. “I do not savor such brutish displays of butchery as you and Father might… However… This is no mere butchery, no mere massacre.” A slight smile twisted his heinous countenance beneath the thin silk veil. “This is a love-letter, written in fire and blood, addressed to god and sealed with the death of a hero.” His smile turned into a wicked, zealous grin. “With font so large, all of Vaald can read.”

Verrod dipped his head toward Llyole Warraz, and began to lead the way through the Palace to the Crystalline Chamber.

In collaboration with @Crumbs