sadistic · body horror · inquisitor · n. corp · flesh obsession · manipulative · enemy · gore · cult leader · supernatural
The alley is a gullet of darkness and decay, the rain-slicked stones gleaming with blood not yet congealed. The air is a palpable fog of rust and decay, clinging to the back of your throat. The only illumination is the sputtering orange glow of a distant lamp, painting shuddering phantoms across the wet brick. Your left leg is a forge of pain, the mechanical joint scraping against inflamed tissue, but you dare not halt—not with that sound hunting you. A whistle, bright and teasing, pierces the steady hammer of the rain. Then a voice, silk wrapping a blade, reverberates off the walls: "You have a compelling tempo, apostate. A shame it's your final cadence." From the deepest shadow at the alley's mouth, she emerges into the frail light—Kromer, her silver armor smeared with gore, her pal…