if i fail, let me be wormfood.

A soft press of presence at the gates to the Shattered Keep draws his attention, and he almost ignores it – almost – but a strange flickering snap of threads out of place reveals the presence of much, much more magic than any Faithful or denizen of his should possess.

Cyric curls a wraithlike avatar out of the shadows that coat the Keep and dresses it in a face his visitor will recognize: pale but not pallid, handsomely sharp but not gaunt, attractively flecked with scars that precious few others would remember. A serviceable facsimile. She doesn't notice him slink up through her flickering shadow.

“To what,” Cyric purrs from over her shoulder, “do I owe the pleasure, my dear Lady?”

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