Vrinn sat on the ground. It was hard. Slightly damp. But he hardly noticed. Wrapping in his shawl of yellow silk given to him by Rynshinn, he clutched three daggers in his hand tied together in coils of wire as a makeshift holy symbol for The Lady. He was gazing into the fire, muttering prayers, or curses, much the same same at this point. Eyes unfocused not really seeing what was in front of him. Instead he was seeing each wrong he had suffered over the course of his life, and each life he had taken because of it. Each conquest he had taken to his bed appeared before him, wanting him, even as the practical jokes he played as a child danced around them. He could still smell the rotting, burning flesh of the dead Foxglove permeate his senses. He saw each slice his razor made, envisioning Grosilge helpless and afraid having her blood ebb from his sadism. He saw each thrust of his blade penetrate the dead flesh of the ghoul, twisting his sword as he saw Lorran twist in pleasure beneath him. He saw Bobole pulled down by a pack of ghouls before he maliciously stabbed his sword into the goblin's chest as Vrinn should have, instead of having his vengeance denied. He saw the earthen fist of Ukawada splatter the head of Foxglove like a mace to a melon, again denying Vrinn his vengeance. He saw the Pixie's Kitten ablaze, an orgy of fire consuming Her temple, the flames lusting after the wood as he lusted after Rynshinn. Dark figures danced around him. Shadows. He felt comfort amongst them. But one shadow eluded his gaze. One shadow mocked him, pulled his strings. Laughing. Vrinn began to chant, softly as to not wake the others. He clutched the symbol in his hands tighter, kissing the tip of each blade. He tried to feel the mark on his back, the mark of the Savoured Sting. He tried calling to Calistria, willing her to appear before him. (Whether she does or doesn't is entirely up to you) ^_^
