Down on the soil of Sanctuary, walking around at midnight during a full moon was asking for it. Doing so on the fifteenth day during the month of Kathon could be called idiotic. Blood moons were not to be trifled with, and they had an unfortunate tendency to bring out the more dangerous members of Sanctuary. If it wasn't the cults, it was the witches. If it wasn't the witches, it was the magi, searching for ever-more power and control of things they were better-off not touching.
Doing all of the above in the middle of cultist-infested territory was a sure-fire way to get oneself killed in all manners brutal and terrible.
Of course this particular night found Rathma stalking through the Shrouded Moors. No doubt there would be any number of rituals conducted under the Eye of Baal. Destruction was imminent.
Idly, Rathma had wondered if the Prime Evil's imprisonment would have any effect on the blood moon. He would've been more curious if it weren't such a terrible possibility.
He prowled on. Just how many ceremonies would he be able to disrupt this night? The nephalem was not so sure of himself to think he'd stop all of them. But he would certainly rain his own brand of destruction upon those he came across.
The Moors were still ripe with blood and shadow and dark energies.
Rathma had not yet been able to reach the Temple hidden beneath the grounds. The way was heavily barred, and the cultists here were awfully determined to protect whatever demon commanded them. (It must have been a demon - what else could bring such energy upon the lands? He just wasn't sure which demon yet.)
Hunting was easier without anyone else around. Companions could be a blessing, but most were rather question prone. "How are you doing that," "What are you doing" "But that's terrible" were always common commentary. Even when he stuck to the familiar magics of necromancy, there were always the questions and concerns. Let alone what he had planned this night.
Rathma was in no mood to put up with the concern of nice, normal humans. He had nasty, abnormal humans to deal with, and someone like Tyrael or Lorath would only be a hindrance here.
The angel had mercifully stopped inquiring about the physical nature of Rathma as a nephalem. He was not huma, he was mortal, and that could mean an awful many things.
Being the first mortal meant he'd taken on many traits from his parentage. Both Inarius and Lilith had been able to alter themselves at will, and adjust to whatever their needs were. Rathma could too. He had eventually developed a body he preferred, but still the ability to change was his.
And change he did.
A human might have marvelled about how the thing streaking across the moorland moved somewhat like a very quick cat, or perhaps a lacuni. They would've been confused as to why it looked like a deer, but certainly did not move like one. They might have marvelled at the thick mane of dark hair covering its head and shoulders, or the glowing red horns framing it almost regally, or its long sinewy tail, outstretched for balance.
Very few might have suspected the creature of being the forebear of humanity.
The nephalem called Rathma did not look human, not even close. He had no reason to cram himself into that shape right now. His only purpose here upon the shadowy moors was to hunt.
He had been here before, fought these same cultists before, though not in such a beastly form. Doubtful that they might be able to connect the face of a necromancer with that of the veritable monster who brought their deaths. Necromancy had not been the most effective tool here. And so he'd changed up his strategy.
A more base form for a more base task. Track. Hunt. Kill.
It was not hard to find the first ritual, and Rathma knew there were many more. The blood-scent was thick, and the red-red-moon leant itself nicely towards illuminating the moors for him. He ran silently, but oh-so-quickly.
The Blood Cultists were wholly unprepared for the abrupt visitor to their ritual. So engrossed in the channeling of energies they were, that there was no warning of the beast's coming. Only the thrum of power one moment, and the cold snap as it was relinquished the next.
Their chants quickly turned to screams as death and horror overtook them. Claws and teeth flashed, and those who were not blinded by their own blood thought they saw pale skin, illuminated by the red of the moon, and the red of his horns. There was precious little time to try and fight back, but they had not been prepared, and their attacker he;d no mercy in his heart. The blood-scent drove him to violence, and the knowledge of what they were doing, why they were doing it, drove him to cruelty.
None survived, and there would be no warning to the next ritual, or the next.
It was a Blood Moon this night, a night of ritual and screaming and destruction.