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"Back I see." The voice came from the side of the building, from the shadows of the corridors of the ruined keep, before the man would have a chance to progress further into the depth below. "And no prizes. How disappointing."

He stepped out from the side as he kept pace beside the man, as they took a stroll. Of course, Decruda already knew what happened, but he simply left that open for Moonblade to report his failure and any excuse he could come up with.

It was as if he had eyes and ears everywhere. Or actually, just several spies along with enough spells and magical trinkets to watch over other parts of the world and see what was going on 'outside'.

"You're still soft. Weak."

Silence. Let him soak some of that in and reflect upon that.

"Why should you display honour to those who do not return it?"

Sure, conventionally, one could say that Decruda was an evil b*****d, but that didn't mean he was was a cold heartless fiend... Even if he was. However, he did know of the things which people strive for and perform, that which dictates the way someone acts and presents themselves. Because information in any form was a means to power.

"Let me tell you something," he spoke, as if going on with a lecture, "A wise man once said; 'Do not adorn a battle with flowery words or fanciful language, for a battle is an extremely base and brutal event.' This same wise man once remarked, 'The fight which is most fierce occurs not when it is between two enemies, but rather, when it is two friends who happen to cross swords, and yet there are those that believe that if there should remain a single tear in the eye of one who has crossed swords with his friend, they shall remain the best of friends forever.'

"Do you understand the meaning of such?"

A good question. Were Moonblade and Ryugi not friends? Apparently not.

"I've been watching," he added, "Fierce your fight may have been, but was there a single care in it? Who you had thought was once your friend thought you no more than a piece of garbage. He'd kill you and probably smile about it. when he was done

"Face it, you may have thought he was a friend in the past, but now, just as then, he thought you of nothing more than a convenience to have around. One who thinks only for himself."

Was that a hypocritical remark? Possibly. Though Decruda would take care of his own when they were in need of assistance. But what did it matter? This wasnt about him, this was about brainwashing Moonblade.

"Also, I have something which may interest you. Make your way to the laborotory if you are interested."

And then he'd step back into the shadowy corridor of a branching intersection. First, he had to retrieve something.

The man would emerge later into the laboratory where Moonblade had been granted a second chance at life, carrying with him a large stoppered jar with something shaped like funny teardrops contained in the liquid as well as a tome in his other hand, and once again, the surgeon was present.

"This will be yours," Decruda held up the book before placing it on a table to the side and advanced closer, "But first, I have a gift."

He would have the man hold out his arms, whether or not he felt like sitting down, standing up, or lying down didnt matter. The surgeon of course, already knew what he was to do, and got to work right away. As usual, he didnt wash his dirty hands or take any of those sissy a** cleanliness preperations.

The jar would be opened, and the man would pull out two of the odd items, from the murky liquid, which seemed to flop about on their larger ends. They were not extremely wide, though they were long, and like so, they'd be implanted in the inside of Silver Moonblade's forearms, running from his wrists to almost the crook of the elbow.

It wouldn't be placed in there right away and be done, no, the man had to rearrange the muscle tissure slightly and connect some minor blood vessels into the object. For you see, it wasnt just any object. Moonblade would have the tips of the small pointed ends protrude from his wrists. They were quite simply, stingers, and the larger part of it which formed into a tear drop; venom pouches. By folding his hands back, he would be able to make the stingers protrude out of the wrists about four centimetres, and with a flex of the muscles, they'd press against the venom sack and inject poison into whoever happened to be in the recieving end of the stingers. This was a fully functional organ, a part of the man's body.

Once completed, the man would speak again.

"For your convenience, though you possess the stingers, you do not possess the glands to produce poisons... yet."

Thats where the book came in. It would provide Moonblade with the basics of grafting flesh and organs, however, it ended there. For specifics and advanced techniques, Moonblade would have to develop himself. And his first test would be to find, extract, and attach poison producing glands to add to his body. What he chose to use was completely up to him, but now he had a brand spankin' new tool to play with. Additionally, with his body's new ability to produce poison, it would naturally develop an immunity to the specific poison he would be able to use.

Of course, he'd have to do it the hard way of cutting up his own body in order to graft the body parts, as the surgeon's spiritual surgery was an esoteric skill. It was extremely useful to have the man work in the sanctuary.

And with that, he was free to go and do whatever he wanted.

There was a crackle of warp energy and in less than a moment two figures who once were not there, were there. As this was diplomatic, Alpha did not take them directly into the fortress. That would draw slightly too much attention There was a time for force and a time for grace, the cycloptic figure knew this.

Thus, the graceful one of the two had majority of the power in that teleport. They would appear where she believed would have the most impact, and minimise the chance of conflict.

"Diplomacy is your suit, but are your skills sufficient enough to explain away my presence or shall I take a more... Mundane... form?"

Sadly, there was not much to say about the terrain of the landmark known as Sorrow's Keep. It's boundaries and territory was very distinct though; that being a simple wooden fence dotted with warning signs.

Everything outside of the fence was normal, as they should be, however, everything inside the fence was not, this is how one can tell the territory of the land, for the grounds within the fence was dead, barren, and empty. Trees which use to grow in the area were but skeletons of dead wood now; there was no plantlife, there was no wildlife, there was no life under the grey sky and above the grey land, only the frigid breeze which bit down to the bone, which bit down to the soul.

In the center of the dead land, there rose the former mighty citadel of Sorrow's Keep, now nothing more than a crumbling ruin.

Following the two, moving silently and without harm the obsidian orb floated past the two, the shaded pupil inverting and twisting about as if to take in the surroundings.

It functioned much in the same way as an Arcane Eye would, yet ti was obvious this was more than just that since it was able to cross dimensional planes.

The eye would serve as their guide, but first entry was required within the bowels of what did remain of the Keep. It's yellowish hue took in both the Lady of Eden and the Dark Knight.

From up on high, Victor was observing.

There was a gate? Well, maybe a large archway, where a gate would have once been, but not an actual gate. The ruins were in a state of ill repair, but that mattered little to the inhabitants; they lived underground in the depths of the keep.

There was no gatekeeper, at least nobody waiting and guarding the doorways of the land. Rather, there were simply handfuls of undead scattered around the lands above ground, usually in hiding.

What would appear was a simple wispy shadow which had the general shape of a person and two white dots where eyes should be.

"State your business."

"So I'm not the only one who wishes to occupy ol' Barton Town."

The voice of Darshendros came from a shadowy corner as the deity stepped into the light before Decruda's desk, looking his usual dead self. He was in human form - or at least, his Avatar was - and he wore the black robes common amongst necromancers. His stark white hair fell around his face to his shoulders, contrasting with the dark garments. If there were any questions or suspicions of how he was able to get past any number of magical protections and wards around the place, the answer was quite obvious, if one took a second to think and remember that Darsh wasn't just another necromancer, or even a dracolich. Not anymore.

Obviously, Darsh had received the letter. He was already ahead of the game though, since his followers have had their eyes on Barton for some time now, and even now are about ready to stage their attack. A little extra wouldn't hurt, though. He gave Decruda a charming smile and nod of his head.