Remnant of Void and Flame
Side Story – Echo (Part II)
His boots sank into the ground, a puddle of crimson swirling around them like a malevolent vortex. It was as if the earth itself had bled, its surface leaking an inky darkness that clung to his every step...
He stood alone, a solitary figure bathed in the sanguine glow of the moonless night; the light casting long, jagged shadows across his features. His eyes — twin abysses filled with sorrow and torment — swept over the gruesome tableau that surrounded him; lifeless bodies of Huntsmen and Huntresses littered the ground like broken dolls, their once-heroic visages now contorted in the agony of their final moments.
Their life-giving liquid oozed from their wounds, forming rivulets that meandered through the cracked pavement; each droplet a morbid echo of the battles they had fought. The broken remains of innocence, shattered dreams, and unfulfilled desires were scattered like fallen leaves under the blood-soaked sky. Innocents, mere bystanders caught in the crossfire, lay strewn about like forgotten memories, their lives snuffed out without mercy nor warning; condemned to a cruel fate by their proximity to the harbinger of misfortune.
The stench of death and decay wafted through the air, a pungent miasma that clawed at his senses. He could feel his hand trembling as he raised it to his face, fingers slick with the cold, sticky residue of blood that clung to his skin like a curse. His breaths came in ragged, uneven bursts, his chest heaving with the weight of guilt that hung upon him like a leaden shroud.
Each step he took sent ripples through the crimson pool beneath him, a grotesque reflection of his descent into madness. The city's once-vibrant streets now bore the scars of his presence, the very ground marred by the curse that clung to him like a relentless specter. Buildings — once proud sentinels of hope — now stood as hollowed-out shells, their windows shattered and their walls scarred by the relentless onslaught of violence.
Rubble-strewn streets bore witness to his passage, and with every limping stride, he could feel the weight of his transgressions pressing down upon him. The wreckage — like the fractured remnants of a shattered soul — bore testament to the devastating power of his cursed semblance, the sinister force that had turned him into a living harbinger of doom.
His tattered cloak continued to billow in the chilling night breeze as he came to a stop, the wails of sirens in the distance serving as an eerie requiem for the fallen. A doll lay abandoned at the side of the road — a cruel realization of the fragile lives he had inadvertently snuffed out — its porcelain face unmarred by the horrors that surrounded it; he could feel his vision going blurry as he shifted his eyes to the small limb that held the doll, a tiny hand that had once reached out for warmth and comfort, now forever frozen in a final, desperate embrace.
He tried to close his eyes... to shut out the relentless onslaught of memories and guilt, yet for all his attempts, they remained wide open; his mind — a tempest of despair and self-loathing — churned like a turbulent sea, each thought a jagged rock that threatened to shatter his fragile sanity...
'There... can you see it?' A traitorous voice whispered in the depths of his tortured psyche, a bitter and maddening reminder of the unchanging nature of his existence; it echoed like a haunting refrain, a mournful dirge sung by the chorus of his tormented soul. 'This is how it always has been... how it always will be...'
His heart pounded in his chest, a cruel chuckle escaping his parched lips as a sinister hush began to envelope the shattered city. It was the calm before the storm, a pregnant pause that filled the air with a palpable sense of impending doom. The ground quivered beneath his feet, and a low, guttural growl rumbled through the darkness in the distance; an eerie symphony of malevolence that sent shivers down his spine.
And then, they came...
From the corners of his vision, they emerged; twisted, grotesque forms that moved and skulked like creatures born of nightmares. Grimm — countless in number — their maws filled with jagged teeth that glistened like obsidian blades; their crimson eyes seemed to burn with a sinister hunger, an insatiable thirst for destruction that could not be sated.
The Beowolves — intelligent and ravenous — bounded towards him with an unholy fervor, their ebony fur bristling with malevolent intent; they moved in a grotesque harmony, their movements a ghastly dance of death; fluid yet eerily synchronized. Hundreds of Creeps continued to lurk in the shadows, their hind limbs leaving imprints in the crimson-soaked earth. These twisted monstrosities — born of pure darkness — slinked forward with a silent, predatory grace, their tails poised to strike.
"Back for another round?" He spat out the question, his voice dripping with a bitter mix of resignation and defiance. "C'mon, then..."
Once again, his hand clenched into a fist, fingers digging into the hilt of his weapon as it transformed into a scythe; its blade gleaming like a sliver of moonlight in the abyss. His aura, shattered and fragile, flickered like a dying ember; his strength was waning, yet he knew that he had no choice but to fight, for the relentless tide of Grimm would show him no mercy... no respite.
With a cry of desperation, he launched himself into the fray; his weapon swept through the air, carving an arc of death as it met the relentless advance of the horde. Beowolves fell like wheat before the reaper's scythe, their forms cleaved asunder with each swing; limbs fell like rain, black ichor spewing from the grotesque stumps. The merciless edge sang through the air as he fought on with every ounce of his being, its song a mesmerizing symphony in the dead of the night. He spun and parried, his strikes a whirlwind of steel and fury... yet for each Grimm that fell, more took their place.
The eerie glow of the Creeps' crimson eyes bore into his own as they moved ever closer; their venomous tails lashed out — striking with unerring accuracy — each impact sending waves of searing pain coursing through his exhausted body. Fatigue began to weigh upon him like a leaden yoke, each swing of his scythe a herculean effort. The acidic burn of their venom sizzled on his skin as his weapon started to change its form, gears and cogs shifting and grinding with a mechanical precision. Sounds of deafening blasts began to echo throughout the desolation, a symphony of thunder in the midst of chaos; the double-barreled shotgun — positioned on top of the blade — blared to life long before the transformation was over, each and every single one of its projectiles a deadly scream of vengeance as they tore through the oncoming horde.
Still, he should've been happy... should've been relieved. Despite the wounds he received, he was winning the battle; his weapon tearing through the swarm with a ferocity born of desperation... And yet, even then, he couldn't find it within himself to revel in his triumph.
Not when the Huntsman knew exactly what would come next...
He could hear it before he saw it, a deep, rumbling growl that reverberated through his very bones, a symphony of fear that clawed at the edges of his sanity. His instincts screamed like a chorus of sirens as the ground trembled beneath the weight of this colossal abomination, the earth groaning in agony as it bore the burden of its arrival. Dread gripped him like icy fingers as he turned his gaze towards the source of this unearthly menace; a presence far more sinister and malevolent than the horde that had assailed him. It towered above him like an unholy monolith, its massive frame a testament to the abyss from which it had sprung.
Wulfgar, the Ebonspike Devourer...
Bone-like mask covered its entire face, its snout elongated into a nightmarish maw that oozed crimson gasses; a perverse mockery of life and death. Its eyes, twin orbs of malevolence, bore into his soul with a chilling intensity that froze his very being. The Ancient's fur, a matted and filthy tangle, dripped with an acidic tar that sizzled upon contact with the earth, birthing twisted, lesser Grimm from the residue; their forms writhing and contorting as they clawed their way into existence. Blades of ivory protruded from its elbows, gleaming with an unholy hunger for blood, while its tail — a writhing mass of venomous spikes — lashed out with a terrifying dexterity, leaving a trail of devastation in its wake.
The Ancient Grimm seemed to leer at him with an unnatural, predatory hunger, a primal, visceral urge that spoke of a malevolent intelligence lurking behind its grotesque facade. Cold sweat trickled down his brow as he braced himself for the impending onslaught, his heart hammering in his chest like a desperate prisoner trying to escape its cell. Time itself seemed to slow, each heartbeat echoing in the cavernous expanse of his mind like a relentless drumbeat; his breaths came in shallow gasps, his lungs burning with the effort to draw in the air, a breath that felt like it might as well be his last.
And then, with a blood-curdling howl that felt like it could shatter the heaven itself, the Ancient charged. It was a harrowing vision, a juggernaut of death and destruction hurtling towards him with a malevolent hunger that could not be quenched. The earth quaked beneath its massive paws, the ground itself groaning in protest as it was torn asunder in the wake of the Grimm's advance, shards of pavement exploding into the night air like shrapnel from the impact of its monstrous strides. The very atmosphere seemed to vibrate with a sinister energy, a palpable aura of doom that clung to the beast like a shroud.
Time seemed to fracture and splinter, the world around him turning into a blur; a whirlwind of crimson and shadow that threatened to consume him as the Ancient's maw drew ever closer, its gaping jaws expanding with a voracious hunger that promised to rend him in two. The bone-like mask that covered its face loomed large in his vision, and he could feel the acrid stench of its foul breath — a noxious cocktail of sulfur and decay — its poisonous fumes burning his nostrils and searing his lungs.
His vision exploded into a shower of broken metal as the beast collided with his weapon, the force behind the charge sending him hurtling through the air like a ragdoll. It proceeded to pin him to the ground, its snout mere inches from his face, venomous droplets dripping ominously from the corner of its maw. A malevolent chuckle escaped its mask as its jaws descended upon him; sharp, excruciating pain began to spread through his body as its teeth started to bite into his fle-
*Beep, beep, beep, beep...*
He woke up with a start, gasping for breath as his heart raced from the recurring nightmare that continued to plague his subconscious. The taste of blood and venom still lingered in his mouth as he clawed his way back to reality; cold sweat clung to his bare chest like the remnants of a haunting dream. With trembling hands, he pushed himself into a sitting position, his back hitting the creaky headboard of the bed.
The room around him was a chaotic jumble of empty liquor bottles, crumpled clothes, and discarded memories. A fitting reflection of the turmoil that had become his life; the dim, flickering light of a single bare bulb overhead cast long, wavering shadows across the room's disheveled interior.
*Beep, beep, beep, beep...*
His shaky hand proceeded to reach for the half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey on the nightstand, his fingers wrapping around it with a familiarity that spoke of countless nights spent drowning his sorrows; he cursed softly under his breath, the words escaping his cracked lips like a bitter mantra as he took a long swig of the burning liquid.
"Damn it all..." He muttered, his voice a rasp that seemed to echo through the empty room; it was a hoarse lament to the pain that never truly left him, each drop of whiskey doing little more than to dull the edge of his anguish for but a fleeting moment.
The nightmare had become all too familiar, a relentless torment that refused to release its grip on his psyche. It was a merciless replay of his past, a persistent memory he couldn't escape from no matter how hard he tried. Then again, he supposed that is to be expected... After all, he knew better than anyone that he would never be able to forget the vivid memories of that cursed night. It was a permanent scar etched deep into his soul, a stain that no amount of alcohol could ever hope to wash away.
*Beep, beep, beep, beep...*
"For fuck's sake..." He grumbled as he reluctantly set the whiskey bottle aside, his fingers trembling with the aftereffects of the alcohol coursing through his veins. His other hand reached out to the cluttered nightstand, searching for his scroll amidst the sea of discarded cigarette butts and empty cans.
After a few fumbling attempts, his fingers finally closed around the familiar device. He dragged it closer, not bothering with the miscellaneous objects that fell to the floor in the process. The call continued its persistent beeping, an unwelcome intrusion on his misery. With a heavy sigh, he pressed his thumb against the diamond-shaped lock, allowing the holographic screen to stretch out with a digital chime. The sudden brightness of the display stung his bleary eyes, forcing him to squint against the harsh illumination; the flickering of the device casting an eerie blue glow across his unshaven face. The image of Winter Schnee — her stern visage framed by the emblem of the Atlas Military — stared back at him, her expression as frosty as the icy terrain of her homeland.
*Beep, beep, beep, beep...*
'I'm too sober for this shit...' The Huntsman scrubbed a hand through his unkempt hair, trying to regain some semblance of composure as he stared at Specialist's image on the screen. His blue eyes, bloodshot from both alcohol and lack of sleep, blinked back at her face with a mix of irritation and resignation.
A begrudging touch later, and he accepted the call, the holographic screen transitioning to a static feed. Winter's voice — crisp and unyielding — cut through the silence like a blade, her words muffled as he put the solid part of the device against his ear.
"What do you want, Ice Queen?" The Huntsman drawled, his voice laced with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
"..."
"Nah... just another pleasant dream." He leaned back against the headboard, not bothering to put on a shirt despite the chill in the room, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of the whiskey bottle.
"..."
"Two hours ago, huh?" His brow furrowed as he glanced at the digital clock on the wall, his vision swimming slightly under the lingering influence of alcohol. "Guess I lost track of time..."
"..."
"Chill out, Ice Queen..." He rolled his eyes, taking another swig of the whiskey and letting the fiery liquid burn down his throat; it was enough to temporarily drowned out the memories that continued to haunt him as he activated the loudspeaker and put the communication device back on the nightstand; his feet hitting the cold, worn-out floor as he began to rise from the bed, his movements guided more by muscle memory than any coherent thought. "Still, this is the... what? Fourth? Fifth time this month? Man... the intel she gave us must be real good."
"This is not the time for idle conversation, Qrow." Winter's voice remained as chilly as her demeanor, unaffected by his pointless banter. Her image on the screen remained fixed and professional, her eyes bearing a hint of impatience.
"Uh-huh; whatever you say, Queeny..."
With a heavy, unsteady gait, he staggered towards the cracked and tarnished mirror on the far wall. It hung crookedly on the wall, its reflective surface showing a fractured image of a man who appeared to be a mere shadow of his former self; his fingers trembled slightly as he reached for his gray shirt, the garment hanging haphazardly over the back of a nearby chair. It was faded and worn, much like the man who wore it... and as he slipped it on, he couldn't help but glance at the elongated mark that marred his chest. He ran his fingers over it, feeling the rough texture of the tissue beneath his fingertips. The scar — jagged and discolored — seemed to throb with a life of its own, its presence a constant reminder of a battle long past.
"I'm being serious, Qrow. You are to rendezvous at the southern gate in thirty minutes." The Specialist's voice cut through his haze, snapping him back to the present; her tone remained unwavering despite his own lackadaisical attitude. "All members of the Strike Team had already arrived, and we cannot afford to delay any longer."
"Yeah, yeah... rendezvous in thirty, got it." He grumbled, pushing his unruly hair back as he continued to regard his own reflection in the cracked mirror.
The deep bags under his bloodshot eyes seemed to deepen as he met his own gaze; there was a profound weariness etched into every line of his face, and he couldn't help but scoff at his own reflection, a bitter smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
He knew that he was in no shape for this mission, but when had that ever stopped him?
Turning away from the mirror, he walked over to the grimy window, the glass marred with years of dirt and neglect; he pulled the tattered curtains aside, revealing a view of the darkened city outside. The streets beyond the window seemed to be cloaked in an eternal twilight, the distant glow of neon signs flickering like dying stars amidst the urban sprawl — their colors muted and distorted by the haze of smog that hung in the air. It was a city that had seen better days, a place where shadows clung to every corner, and despair seemed to be the only constant.
How the place had ended up surviving this long, he'll never know...
"Still... you see... just... don't expect me to be in the best shape, alright?"
"Your condition is your own concern, but I expect you to be functional. Lives are at stake, and as such, I will not tolerate any mistakes." Winter interjected, finishing her sentence with a tone that brooked no argument. "If that's all you had to say, then I shall prepare the troops for departure. Remember, you have thirty minutes. Don't be late."
Qrow couldn't help but roll his eyes at her uptight attitude, his gaze once again drifting to the whiskey bottle on the nightstand as the call ended. He took one last, longing look at it before he turned and grabbed the rest of his Huntsman attire; a red, tattered cloak and a pair of well-worn shoes.
"Heh... functional, she said." He muttered bitterly as he began to dress himself; the room — illuminated only by the pale, wavering light of the flickering bulb overhead — seemed to close in around him, suffocating him with the weight of his own self-loathing. "Yeah... I'm too sober for this shit, alright."
Kiana couldn't help but frown as she stood in the dimly lit observation deck of the facility, her silver-streaked gray hair cascading gracefully down her back. Her eyes — deep and reflective — fixated on the sparring arena below. As she watched, Huntsmen and Huntresses, clad in their distinctive combat gear, sparred with each other in the arena. Her crafted weapons, inspired by the fusion of numerous designs and technologies, gleamed under the artificial lights. The entire place had long since become a whirlwind of motion and combat, an intricate dance of power, skill, and strategy.
She took another glance at the screen of her scroll, a hint of confusion flashing behind her eyes as she scanned the profiles of each, and every single one of the combatants fighting down below. C-Rank Huntsmen and Huntresses are — as the ranking would suggest — typically considered to be among the more inexperienced and novice individuals within their job's hierarchical system. They were the ones who had completed their training and can be expected to at least be competent in the field, yet not quite up to the standards of their more seasoned peers; often lacking the experience and finesse that came with the higher ranks. However, the scene she was witnessing in the sparring arena told her of a different story...
The Huntsmen and Huntresses she had provided her weapons to were performing far better than she had initially expected from their rank. At least, based on what she had seen so far. Their movements were fluid, their strikes precise, and their strategies well-executed. It was as if they had been training and honing their skills for much longer than their designation would suggest; every clash of weapons, every dodge and parry, was executed with a level of skill and coordination that caught her off guard, even if it was only by a very small margin.
It was... odd, to say the least, especially considering the stories that had circulated regarding Mistral's Huntsmen and Huntresses. They were notorious among the four Kingdoms, considered by many to be the worst of the bunch. Recent strings of failures during even the simplest of missions had helped cemented this reputation, leading to a general distrust of these once vaunted warriors.
The people fighting in the arena before her certainly did not fit the narrative she had heard. Their skills were undeniable, and they moved with a synchronicity that hinted at a level of discipline she had not anticipated. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she continued to watch their every move, taking note of the subtle yet telling details that hinted at their abilities; her gloved fingers absentmindedly twirling a strand of her gray hair.
Then again, things might have gone this way because these people are the exception instead of the norm...
She shifted her gaze away from the intense sparring below, her eyes subtly scanning the gathered spectators who had also been observing the match with keen interest. Among them were Huntsmen and Huntresses, each wearing their emblematic gear and weapons; some wore expressions of curiosity, others with professional interest, and a paltry few with pride, their presence undoubtedly associated with those they had been watching closely in the arena. Nods and whispers were exchanged every now and then, although she took care not to listen in on their conversations despite her ability to do so.
Returning her attention to the arena, Kiana waited patiently as the match neared its conclusion. She watched as the Himeko lookalike executed a final strike that sent her opponent sprawling to the ground, slamming her blade and generating a frigid shockwave that rippled across the arena, a cascade of ice crystals exploding into the air from the point of impact. The victorious fighter extended a hand to help her opponent up, and there was a palpable sense of camaraderie amidst the competition. It was a display of honor and respect that she appreciated, something that transcended the boundary of mere skill in her eyes, a rare quality to find even among the most seasoned of Huntsmen.
Taking a glance at the digital clock in the corner of the room, she began to address the combatants through the concealed speakers with a slight nod; her voice — soft and melodic — flowed smoothly, its tone conveying both appreciation and a hint of intrigue.
"A commendable display," she began, her words cutting through the ambient noise in the arena like a gentle breeze. "Each, and every single one of you has showcased a level of skill that goes beyond what was expected. Still, that will be all for today. I look forward to seeing more of your progress in the days to come."
With that, she ended the sparring session, and the combatants began to disperse, their camaraderie carrying them through conversations and shared victories. Kiana turned away from the observation deck, her steps graceful and measured; the soft click of her heels echoed throughout the facility as she descended the spiraling staircase.
'It is as you said... having to act like this is much more... exhausting, than what I could have ever imagined.' A soft sigh escaped from her lips as her feet stepped onto the ground level, her gloved fingers briefly brushing against the railing before she strolled down the corridor. 'Remind me: why did I even bother with something like this, again?'
'Because you care too much.' The words could only be heard within the confines of her own thoughts, a quiet echo that resonated in her mind. She paused for barely a second as a figure began to materialize itself within the depths of her subconscious, the horns on their head signifying their authority over the domain of lightning. 'How was it? Did they meet your expectations?'
'Oh? I thought you were watching?'
'... I am not Dominance.'
'If you say so,' Kiana chuckled softly to herself, her lips curving into a faint smile as she made her way toward the exit; cold, and moist air greeted her as she stepped outside, the sound of the ocean's wave lapping against the cliffside providing for a soothing backdrop. 'Though I will have to say that they are performing remarkably well... compared to the ones we saw in Argus, at least.'
Her silver-streaked hair seemed to catch hints of moonlight as she moved through the night, her feet taking her onto a narrow path leading back to her accommodations. The gentle rustling of a nearby forest only added to the ambience, their whispering leaves offering a calming melody as she began to walk on the platform along the cliff's edge; to her left, the vast expanse of the Aegean Sea stretched out, its dark waters reflecting the faint glimmers of starlight above.
'That doesn't say much considering that those people in Argus couldn't even fight to save their lives...' The Herrscher of Thunder continued to float in the shadowed corners of her mind, her presence a constant companion as Kiana walked along the moonlit path.
'Perhaps... though to be fair, most of them are nothing more than students, and a few did show promi-'
*Beep, Beep...*
'One moment...'
Her hand reached for the scroll strapped to her belt as a subtle frown creased her brows; with a deft movement, she unclasped the device and opened it up, her gloved fingers swiftly navigating through its holographic interface. Her eyes — deep and reflective — began to shift through the messages; a weary sigh escaped from her lips as she proceeded to read the contents on the screen — her breath visible in the crisp night air.
Ever since the Argus Massacre, the news of her actions had spread like wildfire throughout the world of Remnant. Her name and deeds were no longer veiled in secrecy, and her scroll's number — once a closely guarded secret — had quite literally become public knowledge. Rumors and speculations had given way to facts, and her identity as the so-called 'Radiant Flame' had spread across the Kingdoms like a relentless storm. The weight of her newfound fame was a burden she had anticipated, but it was a consequence that she couldn't ignore. The message on the device was just another reminder of this newfound attention; words of admiration, requests for assistance, and even a few veiled threats were scattered among the countless messages.
In hindsight, she should've expected this. Most of them are nothing more than opportunistic attempts to gain her favor or exploit her power — an acknowledgment of her recent actions, as well as a way to get close to a powerful figure who had made a significant impact on the world. Either that, or...
'... I knew it.'
'Another one of those?'
'Mhmm...' She muttered inwardly, sliding her thumb down the scroll's screen to bring up the latest message that had just arrived. Her finger glided over the holographic keyboard as she began to compose a response to the latest message, her heels clicking softly against the path as she continued on her walk. 'And to think that this is the third time I've had to change my number... things had really gotten out of hand.'
'... I thought you would be flattered.' The Herrscher's words was laced with a hint of curiosity, a stark contrast to her usual demeanor. 'Who is it from this time?'
'There was a time when I found it somewhat amusing... though after so many times...' Kiana replied with a wry smile, her thumb finally pressing down on the screen to send the response. 'Well, apparently, this one came from the heir of NOVA... Some sort of security company based in Atlas, if I remember correctly.' Her voice returned to its usual melodic tone as she relayed the information to her inner companion. 'Still, he really should've learned how to flirt; his attempts are rather... amusing.'
'... is that so?' Her words were spoken in a softer tone as her presence began to retreat slightly, the Herrscher's form turning less pronounced in the corner of Kiana's mind. 'And what about that training request? You still haven't replied to that one message.'
'Hmm? Which one was it again?' She inquired with a hint of genuine curiosity, her hand sifting through the myriad of messages she had received in the last few days. 'I've gotten so many that it's becoming a bit difficult to keep track.'
'The one that was quite insistent about his request regarding his son's training. I believe the person claimed to be from Domrémy. Remember?'
'... right, the Arc Family.' A soft, weary smile played on her lips as she recalled the name, her gaze shifting toward the distant horizon as she let out another sigh. 'Now, what should we do about that?'
Proofreading and Editing by FargoneMyth/sadron.
Author's Note: Fandom said that Bronya's hair is light gray… but is it ashen gray or silver gray? I decided to go for silver gray in part because the color is a bit closer to Kiana's. I mean, it's not like I'm trying to make her a perfect copy of Bronya. Anyway, I should've published this chapter like three or four days ago, but then me being the idiot I am, I ended up trying to see if I could add another scene for Qrow and Winter or maybe something regarding the 'Radiant Church'. As you can see… I failed. Haha~ Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and if you don't… well…
Disclaimer: Honkai Impact 3rd belongs to miHoYo; RWBY belongs to Rooster Teeth.
Next Update: Trails in The Sea of Souls? followed by either Beyond The Veil or Star's Salvation: Lost Echoes.
The Aura King: I'll take your word into consideration :D
yuzuk1: you're welcome~
naufalrakha0104: I'm planing to make it so that the weapons require dust instead of Honkai reactor, since you know... trying to avoid a Honkai Outbreak, which is why I didn't wrote it as an exact copy of the Schicksal's and AE's weapons. Though they will function in a similar way — even though their power will be downgraded — and their usage of dust will be much more efficient.
enderchem.oss.jr: Thank you, thank you~
Lethana: Thanks~! Hope you enjoyed this one, then :D
Boron: Oh, no... we need to make her suffer before finishing her off~
JayTheLycan: Yep, nothing more than a disguise~ Then again, I could've written the scene better to show it, so... yeah, my bad~