The excitement is palpable even for those not necessarily invited to the grand and very prestigious event. Ripples of energy are easy enough to feel in the air, and while he's incredibly aware of the importance of these types of statement, Bhaal's Chosen had been glad that staying away was imperative. That he and Gortash shouldn't be spied in the same place with any kind of regularity with the sheer volume of eyes in the vicinity.
At least, he had understood and seen the need in not attending. It's not entirely simple to tease apart the driving force behind the change in heart. Perhaps the fact it likely has something to do with his heart at all means it's currently outside of his grasp. He can still know with clarity that it's a risk and choose this path anyway.
He doesn't inspect the departure from the plan too much beyond noting it's different, sets the thought aside to look at later before describing the items he'll need to one of his cultists. There isn't time to wait around for her to return, his last order to Sceleritas is to let him know once the items are ready.
There's blood to let to cure his victims of life and, without really naming it so, intends to sacrifice twice as much as usual to his Father by way of apology. A simple sorry for what he plans to do.
The day passes and he returns to Sceleritas, sated and calm, like a man without the twitchy reactions of needing anything at all. Fresh from the warmth of blood cascading, slippery through his fingers, the cloying iron still on the tips of his senses.
The butler bows and scrapes and thanks him for the blade the bhaalspawn chooses to store in the space between ribs. He doesn't have time for anything more elaborate and has the manners to look apologetic about that.
By the time he reaches the heart of the celebrations, he's fully dressed for the part. Head to toe in black with only a few hints of red, the wolf mask sits perfectly on his face. He cuts a formidable figure, fabrics rich and form fitted, impressively complimenting his broad shoulders and the ribbons of muscle woven and bunched beneath his skin in delicious curves and swells. Heads turn as he stands surveying the room, titters of whispers starting to rustle like leaves in a breeze as the partygoers take in the sight, some more openly lewd than others.
And he basks in the attention as though he hasn't just come from a mass murder, as though the fact he's so incredibly steady, powerful, has nothing to do with how deeply he's satisfied the urge in his unholy blood.
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At least, he had understood and seen the need in not attending. It's not entirely simple to tease apart the driving force behind the change in heart. Perhaps the fact it likely has something to do with his heart at all means it's currently outside of his grasp. He can still know with clarity that it's a risk and choose this path anyway.
He doesn't inspect the departure from the plan too much beyond noting it's different, sets the thought aside to look at later before describing the items he'll need to one of his cultists. There isn't time to wait around for her to return, his last order to Sceleritas is to let him know once the items are ready.
There's blood to let to cure his victims of life and, without really naming it so, intends to sacrifice twice as much as usual to his Father by way of apology. A simple sorry for what he plans to do.
The day passes and he returns to Sceleritas, sated and calm, like a man without the twitchy reactions of needing anything at all. Fresh from the warmth of blood cascading, slippery through his fingers, the cloying iron still on the tips of his senses.
The butler bows and scrapes and thanks him for the blade the bhaalspawn chooses to store in the space between ribs. He doesn't have time for anything more elaborate and has the manners to look apologetic about that.
By the time he reaches the heart of the celebrations, he's fully dressed for the part. Head to toe in black with only a few hints of red, the wolf mask sits perfectly on his face. He cuts a formidable figure, fabrics rich and form fitted, impressively complimenting his broad shoulders and the ribbons of muscle woven and bunched beneath his skin in delicious curves and swells. Heads turn as he stands surveying the room, titters of whispers starting to rustle like leaves in a breeze as the partygoers take in the sight, some more openly lewd than others.
And he basks in the attention as though he hasn't just come from a mass murder, as though the fact he's so incredibly steady, powerful, has nothing to do with how deeply he's satisfied the urge in his unholy blood.