He wakes, the white, sterile, acetone scented world gradually sharpening until it chills him to his core and makes him squint against the harsh, uncaring lights. A strange weakness plaguing his limbs, Ragar slowly stands and peers around his empty, unfamiliar cell. There is a weight around his neck, and he reaches up to lightly trace his fingers against the cold curve of a foreign metal collar pressing uncomfortably against his throat. His first thought is to rip it off, but as he grips it, the dreadful realization that he cannot squeezes his chest.
Mere metal and yet he is too weak to completely destroy it with a thought. Ragar quickly becomes keen to the fact that the accessory is not mere tasteless aesthetics, the weakness settled into his body not mere coincidence or vestige of a battle lost. His powers are limited, contained, trapped, crippled, the collar a new, novel invention that Ragar is surprised the Union, in its grandiose incompetency, is able to implement effectively enough to contain even a former clan leader such as himself.
He steps forward towards that phasing, sparking, luminescent forcefield separating him from the reinforced door of the bright room. Pressing his hand to it earns him a sharp shock up his arm and spine. The painful wall does not budge.
A mechanical whirr announces someone's grand entrance.
Ragar looks at the white cloaked figure with a steady, emotionless gaze. "Urokai," he greets, only polite.
Urokai's lips lift cynically, a wolfish sneer. "Ragar," he says in return, only disdainful. He exhales a casual puff of air. "Do you like the new accessory we gave you? Cute, isn't it?"
They stare each other down. Ragar says not another word, holding Urokai's gaze with proud, contemptuous defiance.
Urokai clicks his tongue, the sickle curve of his smile dropping with more overt viciousness. "You're still so high and mighty—pretentious—even after you've lost…" He glances away at the floor, stormy memories and ancient grudges rolling just under the surface of his eye—long passed, faded into lost history, but he keeps them alive in his calloused heart. Urokai sighs and lifts his head. "We'll see how long you can keep that up, Sir Ragar ." Abruptly, he turns and leaves. The door closes behind him dramatically, once again shutting Ragar off from the outside world.
Left again on his own, Ragar wastes no time attempting an escape. Taking a breath, ghost-quiet, he summons powers at his hands, surging and waking himself, but his strength fails him, like colliding with a ceiling far too low. His powers fizzle pathetically when he brings his fingers to the collar. He remains alone in that bleached, unforgiving cell with only the company of a security camera in a high corner for two days.
On the third day, his monotonous moments of nothing are interrupted by the slow swing of the door again. This time, there is a humble parade of four people: Urokai, Zarga, and two agents, one nervous and fidgeting, the other brutish and sharp.
Ragar, leaning coolly on the wall arms crossed, eyes them with hawk-like intensity. The door heavily clangs shut and locks behind them. Nonetheless, as soon as the barrier goes down to let the four pass through, he gives his best attempt at the exit, despite only capable of only a fraction of his usual speed. Before Ragar can realize the world tilting on it axis, he finds himself slammed to the hard floor, Urokai looming over him with Dragus in his hand.
"Oh my…" Urokai sings. "Since when has a Kertia been this slow?" His face then hardens, mouth thinning into an unforgiving line as he passes a glance to the Union lackeys. "Strip him," he orders.
Ragar's eyes widen, and he scrambles to get to his feet only to have Urokai, embraced by the power of his soul weapon, crush him painfully to the ground, bending the bones of Ragar's chest under the force of his foot. Dragus' blade comes dangerously close to his eyes. "If you know what's best for you, I suggest you not try that again and be an obedient little bitch."
Behind Urokai, Zarga stands stiffly, glancing back and forth between Ragar and somewhere—anywhere else. His expression is tense, and his lips curve downwards in distaste."Respectfully, Ragar, I encourage you to listen to him." Ragar can see him swallow his nerves. "Let's not make this...messier than it needs to be."
Urokai nods at his lackeys, taking his shoe off of Ragar's chest, and they obediently tear his clothes from him like hounds, starving for fresh meat, slamming him to the floor repeatedly in their roughness. Their hands on him have bruising force.
Ragar's pulse hammers in his ears, his breath becoming short. A lump rises in his throat, and his mind swims with the dreadful, prophetic vision of what is to come. Too weak to ensure his escape, he nonetheless struggles loose to scramble away. His back, now bare, hits the wall, and it chills him ominously. Only the heavy collar remains to shield his form from the elements.
Urokai's eye lights up, amused, and yet a strange, fermented fury colors his condescending stare. The corners of his lips quirk up. "Is this the form you show him every night?"
Ragar's gaze flickers with confusion before it dawns on him whom Urokai refers to.
"Is this the shameless body you let that human fuck?" Roughly, Urokai forces Ragar's legs apart with the flat side of his blade. He nods again at the two agents, and this cues them to hold Ragar's arms and shoulders against the floor. Effortlessly, Urokai flips Dragus in a wide circle so that the dull end of the pole points at Ragar.
He is forced apart, penetrated by hard, merciless metal. It punches a breath out of him, and Ragar's expression twists in horrified ways. His body clenches and screams for him to summon power, to summon blades at his side and fight and flee.
"And does he fuck your pretty little cunt like this?"
Ragar grits his teeth, feeling his fangs emerge. "Urokai, you are more foolish than I've ever thought possible if you believe doing this to me will earn you a place by Sir Raizel—" He bites down on his words, the air escaping him as the pole suddenly pierces deeper, splitting his body. His hands and legs tremble and his eyes narrow.
"Shut up." Urokai seethes. "Do not say his name. This is not about him ."
Pain sears his insides when Urokai roughly rips Dragus out of him.
"Do you think you're so special, Ragar? Do you think you're any better than any other weakling with a tight ass?" He looks away, snarling with unaware shame. "This—this is not about him . He—Sir Raizel—he walked down the wrong path the moment he let that human into his home—he is...he is...nothing to me." Urokai swallows down his self-loathing disgust, expression taught with self-righteous tragedy. "Any you—you couldn't help yourself around that human." The pained creases on his face betray a deep seated grudge, an indignation, as if someone—or the universe itself—has stolen something rightfully his. " Oh, you must care about him so much to have left Lukedonia, your clan, your Lord, your soul weapon behind to follow him. And, after you've given up everything—after you became nothing—he still keeps you around? Well, he must care about you somewhat too." His face sours. "Isn't that sweet?" he growls. On his bitter face, his brows furrow, as if he is suddenly consumed by unknowable, dwarfing wonders he can never truly understand. Urokai's voice drops into a mere whisper. "I don't understand...Why him? Why you?"
A beat passes, breath-bated silence. Shaking himself out of his melancholy, Urokai resumes his sharpness. Detached and sadistic, he says to the agents, "Fuck him."
Shock quickly passes over the expression of the brutish one, though he is more surprised than repulsed. "What? I thought we weren't going to—"
Urokai shuts him up with a glare. "67, are you going to follow orders or not?" Then, he smirks. "This is your reward for working so hard recently."
Zarga, an acidic look in his eyes, turns curtly away. "I'm leaving," he announces.
Quick with irritation, Urokai grabs him by the arm, "What? You're bailing now ?"
"This is your problem," Zarga spits. "I have nothing to do with your petty quarrels."
"Don't be a bitch about it. At least help hold him down. Use your chains."
Pensively, he looks at Urokai. Pathetically, he looks at Ragar. With no particular enthusiasm, Zarga summons his soul weapon into his hands.
The weight of the chains wrapping around Ragar's arms and chest crushes the air out of him.
With a fluttering, perverse excitement, the other lackey looks up at Urokai with something resembling reverence for an old god and then quickly shifts his gaze down at Ragar, predatory, hungry. "We can really have him, Boss?"
Ragar grimaces in distaste.
The agent chuckles weakly, his fidgeting fingers flying to grab Ragar's face and tilt his chin to the side. Invasively, he tangles his digits into Ragar's hair, loosening it from its tie. "Haha...wow—I mean—I never thought a low life like me would get to have a noble , much less a former clan leader like this one…" His smile is tilted strangely, off putting and possessed, and as he yanks Ragar's face towards his groin, he exudes the scent of sweat, blood, and a burning, chemical bite.
Ragar does not look at the agent, a mere detached stranger, even as he forces his mouth open. Instead, his eyes, clear, passionate, burning, are fixed on the two fellow nobles, once fellow clan leaders loyal to the same Lukedonia and same Lord, peers and friends. Powerless as he may be now, Ragar knows their shame. He gazes at them with a placid, scathing judgement.
Zarga stiffens, his hold on his weapon tightening. He is the first to look away, but nonetheless remains where he is with his chains tightly coiled around Ragar.
"So fucking pretentious…" Urokai mutters. "48, 67, get to it already!" he barks.
"Ah, yes, right away, Boss."
Eons ago, they called Lukedonia their home. Eons ago, Sir Raizel stood before his window in his home, alone.
The doors were always unlocked, and Urokai pushed them open with both reverent, outstretched hands. He walked through those great, silent halls.
"Sir Raizel," he greeted respectfully when he at last found him. He smiled, softly optimistic.
Raizel only turned his head and nodded back in silence.
For a long while, that was enough for Urokai.
And then, there came a night when he arrived, a human, outrageous, stupendous, arrogant, and with the glamor of the devil in his crescent moon-witching smile.
The cock tearing his throat makes his breathing thin and ragged. Ragar squints in effort, feeling a potent disgust rise in his stomach, but he resists the urge to cough or groan, staying quiet with iron will. Despite the pounding ugliness of it all, he clings desperately to himself—his resolve, his pride, and his knowledge of those surely waiting for his return and surely searching for him; he carries their pride as well.
The agent fucking his ass grips his hips with calloused, broad fingers and digs his blunt nails into his skin until blood smears all ten of his digits. Ruthlessly, he hammers Ragar, dragging with reckless abandon against his raw walls.
Ragar burns with an unsightly fire, not of pleasure or passion, but of a surreally enraged pity. He does not care for the unfamiliar, impersonal lackeys ravaging him in perverse ways and brutalizing his weakened and trapped body; they are strangers, careless, without history. Ragar's eyes train on those he once shared fellow-feeling with. In long gone ages, they shared space during the Lord's fanciful throne room summons. They shared worn dirt paths and benign invitations into each other's lordly estates. In candle lit rooms, perhaps they talked about nothing, or something, or the other. It is all long gone now.
As Ragar looks at them, he can only pity their desperate, futile depravity.
Urokai snarls. "What's with that look again?" He clicks his tongue. "Being fucked from both ends and you still act like you're worth anything."
Ragar thinks power is a coy, fickle thing. He has never seen Urokai more powerless.
"Oh shit—I'm gonna cum—" The man huffs, his lips turning up indulgently, sickeningly. Shoving his cock in as deeply as it will go, filling the back of Ragar's abused throat, he jerks Ragar's head until he spills into his mouth.
As soon as the opportunity arises, Ragar turns his face away to spit onto the floor. His face burns and his eyes water but chills prick every inch of his skin. He cringes with a sourness reminiscent of bile.
The man's expression falls, as if deeply offended. "What? Do I taste bad? Who said you could spit it out?" 48's face darkens as he glowers. Fist cruelly twisted in Ragar's hair, he slams his face down. "Go on, lick it back up like a good boy."
Heavy, stale cum and spit, cold from the tiled floor, smears Ragar's face and chin. He keeps his mouth locked, not a sound.
Urokai huffs in amusement in the background. "Who knows when you'll get fed again, Ragar?"
Ragar only glares.
Urokai, too easily riled and plagued with impatience, shoves both of his agents away, clearing space for himself.
"Ah—I wasn't done—" 67 exclaims dumbly as he slips out of Ragar. There is blood on his thighs.
"Shut up. You can still jerk yourself off to him, can't you?" Urokai huffs. "Zarga, make sure you hold him tightly; I don't want him thrashing around and getting loose." Aiming Dragus down at ragar, he says, "I think it's clear that this so far has been much too mild for your tastes. It's about time we have some real fun."
The blade sinks into Ragar's exposed belly.
Eyes wide and frantic, Ragar jerks, only further bruising himself against Zarga's soul weapon. Turning his head to the side, he hacks up the blood filling his mouth. It runs down his lips and chin. His mind rings with helpless pain, his expression taught. Vaguely, he can hear 68's appreciative groan as the agent pleases himself in his own hand, making lewd, slick, obtrusive sounds.
Urokai grins sharply, head held higher as if he is any more prideful and mighty than Ragar. He pulls Dragus out and then quickly presses the blade back into his ruined flash again. Blood sprays over Ragar's skin. It runs and pools on the floor beneath him, warm and terrible.
"Do you let Frankenstein fuck you like this too, Ragar?" He snickers. "You love this, don't you? You were always wagging your little tail asking him to spar with you back in those days." His grin flattens with unpredictable quickness, and again long rotten contempt boils beneath his condescending countenance. "How pathetic…" There is a touch, flicker, a glimmer of sorrow—almost self aware—in his expression, but it just as hastily leaves.
Ragar grimaces, brows drawn tragically and eyes gravely wide as he looks at his gaping, bloody wound battling against his sluggish regeneration.
"Oh, my apologies. Wrong hole, isn't it?" With a wet splatter fo gore, Urokai withdraws Dragus. He spares no formality in driving the blunt pole into Ragar's ass again and twists and thrusts it, unapologetic, ruthless, too fast for his victim's body to adjust.
It scrapes and thrashes against Ragar's insides, careless, beating his internals with the fervor and force of vengeance. Heartlessly, it dives into him with the intention of breaking him, of tearing him apart from the inside.
He shudders and grits his teeth. With momentous effort, Ragar resists the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and cry out in agonized, tortured ways. Instead, he looks up again, coldly, inflamed with insolence, at Urokai, gaze unbroken.
The corners of Urokai's lips pull tight, and his knuckles pale with the strength of his grip on Dragus. Swiftly, he drills the cruel pole deeper, past all sense.
Ragar's face contorts with blinding misery. He trembles with it. His mouth falls open in silent, gasping scream, and his chest heaves frantically for air, always struggling against his binds. He can feel his internals tear and shift. Again and again, he gulps, a body wracked with anguish, and yet, Ragar musters his defiant, characteristic silence, as skilled as a Kertia has ever been.
His body shakes in shock. His skin glistens with cold sweat. Blood oozes and spurts out of him and slides against Dragus as Urokai continues to drive it in and out, callously laying waste to his internals. All under the everpresent hard glare of the lights and the unaffected gaze of the camera.
Breath forces out of him, a greater weakness overcomes Ragar's limbs and the world spins and bleeds into itself, blurring into nonsense. It shifts in and out of focus amidst his torture, and time bends in odd ways in his mind. Uselessly, his body shakes against noble-burning restraints, and Ragar finds himself wanting to simply exist in another place, in another time, far, far away. He is beside himself.
The grand House of the Noblesse towered stately and beautifully over him. Taking a steadying breath, Ragar reached out and knocked quietly and politely on the door. After a few moments of uneventful silence, he decided to try his luck again, slightly louder.
The door opened before he could finish. "I heard you the first time," Frankenstein said. "Is it another fight today?" He smiled, high minded and knowing but willing to entertain.
Ragar nodded with soft, appreciative honesty, and they strolled leisurely together as they had many times before to their usual clearing in the forest.
His heart beat dramatically in his chest and in his ears, a friendly, energizing anthem, an indulgent thrill. Whenever they clashed, whenever he landed a blood-spraying cut or was bled in return, it was ritualistically precise and vigorously enthralling. They moved skillfully, faster than any eye could see. They danced to no music but each other and themselves.
Leaves shuddered, branches swayed, trees bent and broke and splintered in awe of their powers.
Ragar, invigorated, soared, invisible.
Frankenstein's destruction, grand and sweeping, only pushed him to be equally if not more for the sake of it, for the beauty of it.
When they heaved for air, bodies bruised for their continued friendship, and dismissed their respective weapons, Ragar watched Frankenstein with refreshed appreciation, his pulse still leaping, his wounds still bleeding. He tugged at his mask—a nervous tick triggered by quiet approval. "It is remarkable, your rate of improvement, Frankenstein."
Frankenstein's lips curved upwards, a touch sardonic but eyes vastly and privately friendly. "You're not bad yourself."
"Hm."
In the quiet privacy of their little corner of the forest, in the fresh thrall of blood and battle, the moonlight passed over them, speckled and kaleidoscopic with the shapes of leaves. In this humble, moon-witching space, they saw, perhaps for the first time, something gorgeous in each other.
Ragar knows what he sees in Frankenstein, but there are times he wonders what Frankenstein could possibly see in him.
He is only dimly aware of the lukewarm splatter of cum on his face and chest, the world like background noise to his half conscious mind such that even the pain raking through him is mercifully dulled.
A sudden swell, a wave, pulls him under and violently wrenches him back into the present and an all too sharp wakefulness. He cannot quite call it pleasure that overcomes him, surging through his body unbidden, but his muscles and insides clench and tremble nonetheless in orgasm. Ragar's face scrunches with effort, biting his lip, refusing to give voice to the perversion of what should be sexual pleasure assaulting him heightened by frigid terror and numbing pain. He gasps and keeps his head low, struggling for air and feeling terribly cold and weak, like he should fall apart in the fashion of old, rusted children's toys.
Blood cakes and dries thick and sticky on his face, abdomen, thighs, and ass, but each thrust and twist of Dragus into his viscera blooms agony and gushes with fresh gore.
Ragar coughs and spits up red mass. He has to concentrate to comprehend words spoken.
"I didn't know nobles could cum. I've never seen one cum before. Let's make him do that again," one of the agents says, fascinated, though Ragar does not care enough to make out which one before his mind grants him the mercy of daydream again.
"Sir Raizel," Ragar gracefully bowed. "I have returned with Frankenstein."
"Indeed, Master." Frankenstein, just as gracefully, if not more so, dipped into a bow himself.
Raizel, turning from the window, nodded at them both.
Frankenstein smiled gently, wonderfully warm. "I will prepare supper, Master," he announced. Quietly and comfortably, he left the room, ever dutiful.
Before Ragar could turn around to leave Raizel to his privacy, Sir Raizel stilled him with a gaze and the gift of a rare, small smile.
Amicably, he said, "Frankenstein always insists on supper, even when I have survived for many years without food." A short, fond sigh. "Perhaps you would like to join us, Ragar."
Ragar blinked, taken aback. He smiled as well, reserved but giddy, and tugged at his mask, basking in the immense warmth of Sir Raizel's well regard. He bowed his head. "Indeed, my liege."
Aching everywhere such that he cannot even tell where one part of his body ends and another begins and unable to stop the tremors running through his clenched hands, Ragar finds his world again mercilessly sharpening and brightening as his head and chest slam into the floor, now streaked with a mix of cum, blood, bile, and piss. He twists his face away from it under the weight of a brutal hand. His chest stutters as he hacks up cum recently forced down into his perforated stomach.
"You're disgusting." Urokai scorns from above, distant from the vileness of it all, Ragar too dirty for him to touch.
Limp, clammy, and weary, Ragar still musters the strength to again pass defiant, unmoved judgment through his perceptive gaze, no less cutting than when they had begun this terrible, fruitless game.
Suddenly, Urokai dismisses his soul weapon. "We are done here." he declares.
Zarga, finally, spares a glance at Ragar again, but he remains avoidant of his bright stare. He too dismisses his soul weapon, and the lackeys withdraw meekly in the face of Urokai's tyranny.
Without fanfare, they shuffle towards the door in their miserable forms to live miserable lives in their miserable world, leaving Ragar dirty, injured, and ravaged monstrously on the ground.
He takes a deep, shuddering breath and painfully pulls himself up to sit against the wall. Ragar watches them as they put distance between themselves and the pitiful filth he is left to wallow in.
Before Urokai can completely be rid of his unsightly, blemished prescience, however, Ragar speaks clearly and boldly, making certain his words are heard, daring the very heavens to strike him down if it is even able to. "I have complete confidence that they will find me," he says. "And when they do, you will not be forgiven, Urokai."
Urokai stills in the doorway, pristine white cloak untouched, deathly silent.
Ragar straightens himself further against the wall. His head held high, he is ever prideful. Even in his mutilated, soiled form, he remains steadfast, as regal and honorable as a Kertia leader ever was. "You have no one to save you." This, Ragar knows.
"You'll regret saying that…" Urokai murmurs. The door slams behind him.
The next few days—Ragar thinks they are days; there is no way to tell time—are a miserable, sickly, fevered haze of cum, blood, and any collection of bodily fluids and slamming, choking, and cutting, amongst other things.
Urokai and Zarga walk in with three men. Then it is four. And then five. Perhaps some come to indulge in their own perversions and power trips. Perhaps there are those who participate out of fear for their own safety if they do not. Perhaps still others are seeking a different reward in the form of a handsome paycheck for doing a good enough job of defiling a noble.
Detached, Urokai says, "I'll reward the first one who makes him squeal."
But Ragar never does.
Ragar's objective is straightforward in these trying times. Stay alive. That is all he needs to do, because he already knows, without a shred of doubt, what is inevitable.
They will find him. He will return home. And Urokai will receive the respective reward for his actions. Ragar knows this, and so, for now, he keeps his voice low and his head high.
He is lying on the floor, wracked with tremors and exhausted out of his mind. Urokai's looming shadow provides a momentary relief from the bright white lights glaring down at him without rest.
"Sometimes, I wonder just how stupid you are, Ragar." A sickle smile returns to Urokai's face. "Maybe if you weren't such an authentic idiot, you wouldn't be lying in your own blood, vomit, and cum."
Miraculously, wonderfully, Ragar glares up at him, just as unbroken as before, and his lips curve in smile, revealing bloodstained teeth and split lip. "I am just stupid enough to know that you remain the loser of this game, Urokai."
His head snaps to the side and his teeth chatter at the impact of Urokai's kick to his insolent face. Ragar squints and steels himself against the ache it sends all over his ruined body.
When he is again alone in a room always too bright and too cold, he sits up and slowly gathers his frayed reality. His clothes, crumpled, torn, dirtied, still remain in a heap to the side, and he is too limited to summon new ones. His jacket, however, a well worn gift from Frankenstein years ago, is religiously folded and tucked away in the corner. He has tried his best to preserve it.
His torn muscles and fractured bones protest and wail every movement as he crawls over to his clothes to use what remains of the fabric to wipe himself clean as best as he can, but the caked, sticky feeling and scent of filth and rot still cling to him and weave into his long hair. Even banishing away such dirtiness requires a subtle reality bending strength he does not currently have.
Sighing, Ragar picks up his jacket and drapes it over his bruised shoulders. It is the only source of warmth he has in this desolate place, and he lies down, tucking himself away, to rest and recover as best he can before the door inevitably opens again.
A now familiar mechanical whirr stirs him begrudgingly awake, and Ragar can feel his stomach plummet at the anticipation of his regularly scheduled abuse. When his eyes blink open, however, he is curious to see only Zarga awkwardly stepping over to him.
Zarga clears his throat into a fist, not quite meeting Ragar's stare. "I wish to clarify, I think what has been done to you is...in poor taste." He reaches into a pocket on his white Union coat and pulls out a single daintily wrapped milk candy—White Rabbit brand. He hands it to Ragar. "That's...for you. I…" Zarga presses his lips together, seemingly in deep thought as he swallows down whatever words he may have had. He abruptly makes his way back to the door.
Ragar throws the candy at him, and it unceremoniously hits the back of his head.
Zarga turns, eyes widened and perplexed.
"You can keep your petty guilt," Ragar tells him.
"I got an anonymous incoming signal. They sent me some security footage, and I was able to trace where it came from." Tao turns back to his monitors and the video flickers into motion.
Frankenstein steps forward, eyes beholden. His stomach both leaps and sinks. "It's Ragar…"
Tao nods. He scrubs through the footage. "Huh, nothing seems to happen for the first fifty hours or so…"
Frankenstein holds out his hand, signalling for Tao to slow down at the appearance of four people entering the scene. "What…" His lips pull tight, and his hands clench so forcefully into fists, blood cakes under his nails. A sickness churns in the pit of his stomach. "What are they…"
A horror plays on screen—unspeakable and sadistic.
The air in the room shifts almost cosmically; it is soaked with a violent, silent oppressiveness, electrified with bloodlust. Frankenstein bares his fangs. His voice is quiet, just on the edge of hearing, strangled. "Stop…" For a moment, he is unthinking and unseeing. His blood is pumped by destruction; his lungs are filled with mania. For a moment, he wants nothing more than the end of the world. The devil, if there ever was one not created by man, sinks into his souls and reaches its burning cold talons deep into his palpating heart. Sickness rises in his throat, and darkness rises up his arms. "Stop...STOP!"
Air compresses and then rapidly expands, lighting in his silhouette—mindless, Frankenstein shatters the screens, and the glass cascades too loudly onto the floor. Brimming with the calls and celebration of the damned thirsting for fresh blood, he is unmerciful and unforgiving.
"Frankenstein…" calls Raizel's miraculously placid voice, and it is just as miraculous that Frankenstein returns to himself, at least for a still, quiet, moment. But even beneath the apparent calm of such a voice brims and boils an equally barely restrained fury. Raizel lifts his head high, in his careful command the storm of his leviathan-rage.
"Yes, Master?" Frankenstein answers; the rest is silence.
Raizel looks forward into the black, broken glass, he, too, is blind, seeing nothing but sweeping destruction in their wake.
"I give you permission to hunt ."
"Yes, Master."