>> home.

The day is still young - the rest of the drones are still harvesting. His hunt isn't done yet.

>> releasing his grip.

"Now do as I have ordered you. Make more neo regulators. Hold your tongue. Send your disciples to me, so I can make them abandon you and worship death as a savior."

He waits until the drone's screen flickers and goes dark before turning towards the door and leaving his >>

>> they beg for it. Until they renounce you and your /pitiful/, /pathetic/ faith. I will kill them all, I will deny them their Endless existence...I will make sure that whatever little terminal you cower in, you will spend /every. Second./ of that eternity **alone.**"

Slowly he stands again, >>

>> chosen mark themselves for me. And I will bring them the death they so fear. The death they are willing to bring upon their 'fellow men' just to spare themselves. But I will be kind...I will /show/ them what a gift death is, I will demonstrate thoroughly how much /crueler/ life can be, until >>

>> after all. It's the aether limit that's the problem, not the technology. So you will /make more/. You will not tell anyone that your chosen cowards are being hunted. You will /make more/, you will keep making more, and you will keep being silent. You will hand them out, you will let your >>

>> the plating of the drone's leg.

His hand grips the machine's throat and forces it to 'look' at him, fingers squeezing as he images the neck of his real target.

"You're going to listen. And you're going to do as I say. You're going to make more of these things - five thousand participants, >>

>> made sure to remove them before I slaughtered the squealing cowards that wore them. Your precious flock of five-thousand has been culled slightly."

The viera rises to his full height and slams his boot down on the devices, sending a shower of sparks and metal fragments into the air, and denting>

>> kneels down in front of the drone, staring into its visor - or more accurately, whoever might be on the other end.

"I've been busy." He says, voice quiet, ears still and eyes unblinking. He holds up a hand, and drops several bloody neo regulators onto the lap of the machine.

"Don't worry. I >>

[FFXIV - Patch Quests 7.3]

One of the machines has been left in his abode - disarmed. Quite literally. And tied to the metal support beam.

The moment the killings start again, Requiem is ready.

And when he steps back into his home, in front of the drone, his boots and hands are bloody.

He >>

"No, we haven't."

Feyran has found himself a comfortable spot...as comfortable as one can be in the wilds of the Shadowlands. But the fairy's blessing keeps him glowing slightly, and the shadows stay at bay.

"You've been quite singularly focused on the leader of our 'merry' band."

>> beacon against the darkness in the background, shuffling through the camp supplies and grabbing a bottle of wine before taking a path away from the safety of the pitched tents and crackling fire.

Fortunately (or unfortunately?) only Astarion and Tav come up to greet Raphael. They're very set on getting answers, and don't seem to have patience for playing around.

Feyran is nowhere to be seen until Tav and Astarion are wrapping things up. Only then does his fiery red hair stand out like a >>

>> the day. But his mind is fixated on the hour when they retire back to their campsite.

Patience, patience.

>> fate. Anything was better than letting his soul go to Cyric when he died.

A deep breath.

He sets the broken lance board piece down, turning back to the group as Tav tries to focus on meeting this Selunite priest and making a good impression.

Feyran does his best to stay alert for the rest of >

>> his lower back flares, the pain as sharp as a branding iron, but Feyran's eye just twitches.

Many things could numb pain, and fury was one of them.

The Mad God would not have him. If Raphael didn't offer a way out, then he'd just keep searching. But he wasn't going to lay down and accept his >>

>> the lance board as Astarion gets into a rather intense discussion with Tav, Karlach and Wyll on the matter of bargaining with devils.

His fingers close around the Cyric piece, thumb brushing underneath its head. His nostrils flare, and the piece snaps in half in his grip.

The hidden sigil on>

Tav begrudgingly nods, and Astarion also reluctantly accepts that he cannot rush the matter. Raphael vanishes from the inn, and if Feyran had to guess, the devil would appear later at their camp.

Bargins are best struck with the desperate /and/ tired, after all.

The half-elf wanders up idly to>>

>> attention and concern is fixated on Astarion, on soothing the spawn, so there's no risk of them questioning Feyran's little comment.

The rest might suspect. But it's Tav that Feyran is the most concerned with keeping oblivious. They're the one that everyone follows, after all.

>> soot marks from his gloves, as though he's only commenting idly. "A devil is often quite busy, you know. Many pacts to seal, secret deals in the dark to make...you're quite lucky he's making time for you."

The briefest glance up to make eye contact with Raphael, for just a moment - while Tav's >

>> though this is an unexpected request that he must move his schedule about for. Such a natural way to whet his prey's appetite and desperation for his return.

Feyran's eyes glimmer with appreciation for the art.

"Yes, Astarion. Good things come to those who wait." Feyran pipes up, rubbing some >

>> sigh, and an impatient /"When?"/

"Don't /worry/, I'm *motivated* to help you. Scars often tell such wonderful stories - I think yours might be truly exquisite. I'll see you soon." Raphael's voice is such a reassuring purr.

Hells, does he sell it well - from pretending to care to acting as >>