The door to the old room, seemingly abandoned, creaked open, and Fire Lord Ozai practically ran in, wanting - no, needing - to get away from everything. The door was shut rather roughly, and the older man relaxed, now that he was private. He walked down the steps, grabbing a sharp, dust-free - but not blood-free - knife and casually cutting his hand on the way. Years of repetition made the pain almost unregistered.
He stopped at an altar in the middle of the room. Odd and vaguely menacing symbols covered the surfaces in strange patterns, softly glowing. The Fire Lord placed his palm in the center, on a series of grooves that expanded outward, connecting with the runes around it. A red glow spread through the grooves, and Ozai's hair stood on end. Power ran through his chi lines.
Oh, it felt so good.
It was really too bad that his son would never truly experience this sort of rush. Perhaps it would have knocked some sense into the boy. But instead, he was talentless, worthless, a failure. And then, to make matters worse, the idiot boy had to start trying to impose his idiotic morals on the generals - generals he had handpicked himself…
It was mere minutes into his mental tirade when he felt something leave him, run down his arm and into the altar. The bloody light intensified, then dimmed, and the Fire Lord heard a soft wind behind him.
He didn't dare look.
It didn't last. He whirled around to catch one glimpse of ash grey flesh. Then the door closed behind it.
Ozai rushed out the door to follow it.
