[Suzerain of Sheol]

The night is still over the city, undisturbed by any outcry of violence. When will such a night come again?

When they all lie dead at my hand, their lifeblood rotting upon the stones in the wake of divine judgment. One by one, they will fall, pierced, dying as God died, and the World will know a small measure of atonement for each.

She can never atone enough.

His Master lay resting, gathering strength for the tribulation that would break upon the morrow. Pelles knows little of magecraft, can scarcely judge her worthiness to serve as his Master. The woman, Lucienne, carries herself with an air of dominance, though -- so unlike the the passive, indolent, hypocrite King who once ruled the sovereign land of his home. Vain and wretched, that odious pretender reigning as though she had been seated on the throne of Camelot by divine right, all the while inviting plague and sin into the blessed realm with her every failure, her every act of unworthiness. That the sacrosanct sword had been defiled by such squalid hands....

Lancer is roused from his bitter reverie by a stirring across the room, the Master's hound growing restive. The sorceress does not seem to notice.

Lacking any other means to fulfill his duties as a Servant, the King of Carbonec clears his throat -- coughing up a gobbet of noxious, bloody spittle, and enunciates into the slumbering silence.

"My lady, I believe your Mousse requireth attention. I fear it may void itself if left to its own devices. And I know now that you prize cleanliness. Pray, awaken."

Pelles retrieves a tissue from box on the nearby table and carefully wipes the crimson mucus from his palm, depositing it into the wastebin.