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Yeah. And you smell like the inbred mutt you are. Piss off.

The chains didn't seem to bother him too much. He was a man of his word as well. Two hours with this body...he would have sat there willingly. He HAD made the deal after all, in a sense.

Of course, then he caught sight of his "twin". He shook his head, and offered one last comment before he gritted his teeth in anticipation of the suffering to come.

You HAVE thought this out then. Kudos for prior planning.

His teeth clenched, and hardly a sound came from him with the first stroke.

He had suffered worse. Roan's own artistry upon his back prior to his siring had been infinitely worse. And he had not screamed there, so neither would he here.

The initial work had left him speechless for only a scant few seconds as he collected his wits and words.

Black, I suppose. Blue, if you have it.

The fact is, getting a tattoo to work on Iden's back would be impossible if not for the initial work put in. He still bore countless scars that obscured the clan emblem, and made his back look less like that of a person and more like that of a worn and abused slave. Some of these scars ranging all the way back to when he had first beaten Yoh in his bar, some several months ago....

He waited rather patiently for the whole affair to be done with. This was nothing like he'd anticipated, all things considered. It was still disturbing, though, to have such hands preying upon the back of his body...

Then the question. Ah, for casual conversation.

I can't speak for the others. Best I can say is the b***h is good at finding chords of loyalty. I owe her, and I pay my debts. Until then, I cannot and WILL not turn from her, or die for that matter.

He spoke blandly, like the topic had already begun to bore him to tears.

He sat up, and rolled his arms slowly. From there, he met the gaze of his captor.

Because without her, I would be long since fallen into the same abyss your Cerberus has.

It was the first time he had spoken with any conviction since the game had begun. Very unusual, the sudden shift from dull to forceful his tone took.

His gaze shifted slightly to the timer, then back to that of his host.

I am a man of my word.

And as such, he remained sitting quite still, until such a time as the timer ran out. The moment it had run dry, several things happened within such rapid succession that the only word that could describe them was INSTANT. The easiest way would be to describe them in an order, despite that there was no discernable pause, or even an order to any of the actions.

First, we look at the body. The shirtless form that was "Iden"...was Iden no more. It was a corpse, littered with the markings of Sabbat. The tattooed wings framed nothing more than ruined flesh where numerous bullets had torn into the body, much as the skull had a noteworthy hole placed between the eyes. It had been dead for some several hours, at least, if not a full day since unlife had moved it. Upon the body, in the bloodspattered nest of hair, lay Liela. The innocent little ferret, riding the body as it fell, much as a marrionette with its strings cut.

Second, the "true" Iden. There was no warning. One moment there was empty air, the next, the strike. To describe it, one must first describe him. He was clad in what looked to be his black bodysuit, the one he wore for his mercenary work. Formfitting black material adorned his whole body, with a masked hood pulled over his face. Only his eyes shown through, no longer blue, but a glassed purple. Yet...it was not truly his suit, for it shone with an elusive luster, a barely noticable (even by cainite standards) sheen of deep indigo. This sheen grew in proportion, focused into his hand, which plunged for the back of his host so quickly, that if Seraphim could evade it, it would be little less than a miracle in Iden's eyes. His hand was formed into a wedge, a point hardened beyond anything a human's fingers could form. A point that appeared as if he had the head of a lance in place of his hand.

It all came down to whether he could land the blow. Even the barest graze, a slight brush would yield the effect that would follow. From point of impact onward the sheer RAGE brought to bear would flood into the body and mind of the intended victim, a massive, shattered onslaught that stole the function of the body and subverted the workings of the mind to produce little beyond outright suffering. His body would feel aflame with the nova of roiling fury that was the combined iron will and protective fury of Iden, and the unholy wrath and pure malice of O-Kuni Nushu. It was a combined strike of near perfect cooperation of wills. And as the blow struck, it was two voices speaking as one in flawless unison that tore violently into the mind of the intended target.

The game was chosen long before...and you played well. But you played to MY tune, and I have won.

After the blow was struck, it was just a single tone, an afterthought imbedded within the conciousness of the assault itself that would be conveyed in a single moment of perfect clarity, a sense of calm that was the center of the maelstrom of arcane and near deific force being wielded.

Touch my woman again, and you SHALL die.

It was a quick jab. He pulled away, and let the effect persist for however long the energies could burn of their own imbedded. And if he had missed, an impossibility in the eyes beholding his host, then whatever would come would have to penetrate Okra, the unhallowed weapon bearing O-Kuni, which had taken to the form of the bodysuit. It was crackling with the yet unspent madness of the god therein, and to even touch such a thing against his wishes would result in a more...permanent sort of devastation.

Semantics. You failed to specify WHICH body I owned...

It was clear that Iden did not give a s**t. It was also clear that he was coasting on a great deal of stored rage to allow him focus enough to even move.

The ferret scrambled to his side, then up onto his waiting arm, and he turned and vanished much as he had come. He would not allow himself to be shot in the back, despite that the cheap trick he had played just deserved such retribution.

He reemerged into the upstairs portion of the twisted rendition of the bar, and passed through the doorway home. Once he had returned to the familiar setting, he staggered into the nearest chair. Mentally, he was utterly spent. It was not his voice that called out for aid, then, along the clan's mental link, but Kuni's. Just as it was not Dag that was called, but Roan.

: Your child beckons you, cainite... :

The grin that affixed itself to his features could not have been his own, such was the predatory and deranged nature it held.

Watch your tongue, Daemon. Respect if you please lest I set your older brother on you. What has he done now?

*the answer came swiftly, and from very nearby. As in... the other side of the room, where a bloody smear decorated up the wall had had the audacity to also stain the Cainite mistress as she stood looking disgusted at the mess. She turned, clad in her armour, and gazed down at Iden, sighing as she moved towards him*

At least you kept your promise. No dying. Let him go Kuni. Do not make me force you.