[Mikhail Vashael]

Anger.

It bubbled.

It Burned.

The fire was black and pure, no ether. He hated himself.. he hated nothing. Mikhail Vashael had a drink of whiskey, resting a sullen laughing mask of a face against the ash tree nearest. He couldn't kill enough, he couldn't fletch enough to make it go away. Nothing would. No mercy, no quarter would be given.. He'd only keep on killing, till the end. No truth to a smile, no word to a bond... the shadow consumed him with a drunken slur of bound rage. What in Umblat's welcome arms was this thing pouring down his lungs hot like a plague?

As the man's eyes coagulated into clouded abyss he recognized such an experience as the culmination of pure Anathema. Some would say curse. A fine grade of possession that first ate into him upon the sea of diana.... Nightmares followed, piranhas that wore upon the man like a cloak of shadows as they tested his metal. These memories.. these eniquities.. it was all just a test wasn't it? The incubating seed of black tar had finally germinated as the tendrils ripped open his mouth and mocked him. So be it.

His emotions had been amplified, moody and insanely blank and wild. He could see a street corner from ten times of weight, ten tons of memories.. a whore, a sterile doctor, a child orphan, an Apothecary wearing a long black coat. They juggled like knives pricking his fingers upon passing.

Drinking the firewater made it easy, definitely lingered and diluted the sensation..

Staring down at the boy, his first urge was to kill it dead twice.. his second was to ask a question or say something sharp. His third.... was just to follow..

Vashael blinked black.

The bottle was empty.

"That's a good look for you kid, lead on..."

His smile shimmered into a cresent moon.. Hitting the bottom never felt so good.