[Suzerain of Sheol]

The Fisher King stared at her for a moment longer, bowed his head and suppressed a sigh. She was his Master, after all.

"Merely know, my lady, that covering such wounds doth naught for the anguish that I bear. I prefer to wear my suffering as a mantle, spun by cruelest fate, but for thy sake, I shall gird myself more befitting of thy noble company."

Pelles slowly raised his head, and as he did, power streamed from his sores, his lacerations and stigmata, his eyes and mouth, forming around his cadaverous frame in a chrysalis of dun feathers. It lasted merely an instant, the inverse molting sheathing his entire body until the magic subsided, taking form and hardening into his kingly armor. So very, very regal...

Fresh blood ran from beneath the crown of thorns upon his brow, trickling into the ruin of his eye, down his stained and battered armor. Such as he was, it would have to suffice.