[ti]solo[/ti]watching the world rise up in flames

Lacrimosa dies illa

Mistra was not ominous plains, or a darkened route. There were no murky trees, no dark ash and shadow washing around his feet. There was only cool tile, white walls. A chair, an intricate headrest above it.

An operating room- his operating room. Sarthor surveyed the room with cold detachment. When had his avatar shifted? Logically, when the world had. It made sense- twirling horns could never be made sterile. "Is this intent to scare me?" He asked. They were listen- they always were, here. He picked an instrument from the side tray, and dropped it. It clattered, the noise louder than his own voice, echoing against the tile.

Qua resurget ex favilla

He heard the doors pushed open, and turned. Who would he see? An antagonist in his field? His assistant?

He wasn't expecting a young woman, with bright eyes and chaotic dress. "Oops, sorr-yyy!" She sang, sticking her tongue out and fanning her fingers atop her head in some ridiculous pose. "I musta done this wrong- gimme a minute, okay?"

He cared not for her affect- what caught Sarthor's breath in his chest, spikes of impotent rage and envy pinning him to ground, was the rest of her- the ears arrayed on her head, the fox tails spilling behind her.

It was her.

Judicandus homo reus.

She picked her head up to look at him proper, as if realizing what he now knew. "Let's slip into something more comfortable, okay?" She asked, voice sliding into a hiss.

Sarthor said nothing in response. She, too, was chosen by the corruption here. Had been picked where he had not. Despite- everything-

The scalpel was grabbed, and he lunged.

burmy || 50/100

Huic ergo parce, Deus:

Sarthor let out a wordless, feral scream. "You can not deny me!" He howled, grabbing at Theron in the darkness, even as old wounds split and caught- broken and shattered bone, burnt and rent flesh. Old wounds that healed, but never forgot the wounds that were made in them.

Theron did not react, lamplight eyes narrowing not in anger, but in distaste.

"You don't wish to be denied?" He asked, voice calm and still- a question, a threat, one hard to overlook-

Pie Jesu Domine,

Were one not already in a fit of rage and self-importance. "You cannot deny me," He snarled, fingers grabbing into Theron's clothes, like he would rend claws into the fine suitcoat, rip apart the silk beneath. But his fingers failed to find grip- and it was only himself who was rent, each old injury coming to bear.

Every learning mistake with the scalpel, nicks and cuts on his hands. Every slap from a disgraced family member, every burnt tongue and split lip and door slammed over fingers.

Dona eis requiem. Amen.

Theron stepped back, straightening out his clothes. "You're being denied nothing, doctor," He said, something utterly cruel in his voice, eyes a fetid glow. Sarthor looked up at him, and hated.

"You will never be denied, Sarthor Caldwell. Debita persolventur omnia."

All debits, each and every one, would be paid in full.

burmy || 0/100