[Suzerain of Sheol]

Following Feenai, and checking his MID periodically to check that they were heading the right direction, Shealtiel eventually finds himself at the end of yet another far too crowded street, finding Michael, Lev, the woman whose name he still had not learned and two hooded assailants, though... one was in the process of being consumed by Lev. There is definitely a presence within the man, manifesting itself now. The Kenyan likely isn't even cognizant right now.

Ignoring him, the Servant of Sheol turns his attention to the other psychic trying desperately to stop Lev. Judging by the fact that the woman is still stubbornly clinging to the edge of life, despite the utter ruin of her body, this man will be rather difficult to dispatch by conventional means.

Quite fed up by the way the past few days have been going, Shealtiel draws Sheol's black currents into his soul. Night-dark, lurid radiance bleeds from his eyes, foams like a fulligin fog from his lips. The street fades from his site, becoming only a panoply of various spiritual signatures, none of them capable of resisting what is to come.

Focusing solely on the Babylonian man -- he sees that and more, now that the man's soul is naked in his sight -- Shealtiel reaches out with his free hand, clutching, tendrils of ebon power extending like claws from his gnarled fingers. Shrieking, the power winds itself around the psychic's soul, crushing it; smothering it, but Shealtiel does not stop there. He tears on the tether, dragging the man's essence into himself, tasting it... devouring it.

Rather than sag in numb exhaustion, Shealtiel instead feels a surge of invigoration, bursting with plundered vitality. As the necrotic light fades from his eyes, they shine instead with an exuberance he has not felt since he was a young man. He has never before... feasted in such a way. It is, no doubt, an addictive sensation.