[Suzerain of Sheol]

Macbeth's first sense on returning to life is not unlike the last on which he left it: the sour tang of blood, though blessedly not his own. He is drenched in it, but that is only fitting. Climbing from the basin to stand before the one who summoned him, the tyrant is unsure what to think of the man, though he has the aura of one well-used to murder. They should get along famously. Or well enough, at least.

Without uttering a single word, Macbeth sembles into his newfound demon form, partly to dry himself off and partly to test his Master's reaction. Sparks of dark green mana crackle in the air around him.