Craven sighed contentedly as he leaned back into the overstuffed armchair, enjoying its embrace, feeling the warmth of its leather even through his wet garments. He smiled, turning his face to the roaring fireplace dominating one wall of King Goorm's new chambers, black eyes glittering feverishly in the dancing light. Drinking in the austere splendor of the room, he looked around: walls, floor and ceiling... Everything constructed from the finest black marble, the impurities in the stone shimmering like veins of silver. He briefly wondered what the former master of this place had seen when he stared into the flames. One would think that an Inquisitor devoted to Moriat would have more than his fair share of fires.

Then again, many people truly loved their work.

King Nicodemus Goorm seemed no exception. Much of the furniture in the room Craven recognized from the king's tent: the immense table, the weapon racks, scrolls and paper-laden cabinets... They were all here along with some furniture brought here to blur the bleakness of the room and give it some warmth.

Nobility surely has its rewards...

Right now, dozens of wounded soldiers sat shivering in the mud, frozen to their bones from rain and ordeal. King Goorm would probably be able to fit a good number of them into this room alone but alas, that would not be the proper way of things. Truth be told, it would also be much less comfortable and since this was one of the few moments Craven was actually able to enjoy himself, he didn't feel particularly condemning. He took another sip from the heavy crystal glass in his hand, feeling the rich brandy run down his throat, kindling another kind of fire in his guts.

Smooth, strong, and sweet... he had almost forgotten how sweet tasted. It reminded him of apples and warm summers. Marvelous. He sat and enjoyed the feeling, took another sip and let the warmth spread through his very being. Craven was no expert on these things but expected that each sip he took might be worth more than a peasant made in a whole month of labor. Reaching out to the plate of food beside him, he popped one of the grapes he had taken from a table laden with culinary treats, enjoying its sugary taste, then followed up on it with a piece of peppered cheese. The combination was simply delightful.

Gods, it was good to be able to feel again, even if only for a short time.

Yet even while he sated and enjoyed himself, the hunger tore on him like a rabid dog. It was the hunger for more... always more. Even now, he could hear Reaper's Touch whisper in his mind: more, more, more. Though Craven was never quite sure if it was the sentience trapped in the cursed weapon that spoke to him or the part of his soul he had been starving for so long. Reaper's Touch was the only thing that could make him feel close to a normal human being these days. In his opinion, this boon and burden was by far the most seductive quality of the sentient blade. True, most who sought to wield the saber over the untold centuries did so for its other powers. He, however... well, most would agree with him that he hadn't been like "most people" for a very long time.

As one of the Weapons of Old and magical in nature, Reaper's Touch was not only able to kill most supernatural beings impervious to normal steel, but could also leech the very life from its victims. Feed the blade enough and you need not fear even the most mortal of wounds. Such was the power of the cursed artifact, that it could even fill its wielder with excess life-energy, increasing speed, agility, strength, endurance, and reflexes for a short amount of time. Yet this all paled in comparison to how the blade could make you feel: after you killed with Reaper's Touch, the world is more alive, more vibrant, burning with energy.

Everything tastes better, feels better, smells better... is better.

Killing with Reaper's Touch means to feel pleasure and joy to a degree that only rivaled the most powerful intoxicants. Of course, one could still use these intoxicants in conjunction with using the blade, reaching even higher levels of ecstasy. Needless to say that many of the vilest, most debased villains that ever walked the soil of Ruuin were once amongst its wielders—many of whom had started out as decent and honorable men. Craven smiled. Reaper's Touch loved to corrupt and it was a well-known fact of its dark past that the blade never remained long with one wielder. Eventually, they all succumbed to its dark pleasures, losing themselves in an ever-increasing downward spiral of murder and debauchery.

So far, Craven seemed the only exception... which irritated the blade to no end, which he in turn found quite amusing.

"Still hungry?" asked Craven, leaning forward, looking at the sheathed blade resting together with his weapon belt on the armchair next to him.

He felt a pang of hope, then a kind of mental snarl emanating from the blade. Reaper's Touch had never quite gotten used to Craven's teasing, was often first reacting with hope, then sulkiness. In many ways, the sentient blade reminded him of some women he knew over the years – demanding lovers that were fiercely jealous and that longed to be at the very center of attention, all their needs tended to.

Not that the sentience in the blade has ever given him an inclination that it was female - or male for that matter. The question of gender was inconsequential, yet still... the comparison stuck with him. He probably knew Reaper's Touch better than any of the countless wielders that came before him had. He liked to think that the blade favored him over all the others, even though it had tried to facilitate his demise on more than one occasion. It was these "lover's spats" that kept their relation eternally interesting and he thought that, deep down, the blade felt similarly.

"Ah, come now, where is your sense of humor, we have fed well that night and I fully expect we'll do so in the coming days. The Bloodmaws were powerful enemies indeed, who knows, with us under siege, maybe my Lich Tears will run out and I'll have to fully embrace you in order to survive."

Hope. A wave of hope and joy emanated from the blade.

Craven grinned. He was also sure that, should the blade ever manage to corrupt him like those that came before Reaper's Touch would not enjoy its hollow victory for long and see to his demise and replacement as soon as possible. After all, who wants to be together with a bore lacking a will of his own? "Hmmm. Then again, I expect with all the thousands of undead roaming the city, Echser will not run out of ingredients to make new Lich Tears anytime soon..."

Disappointment. Anger. Hot and searing, like fingernails raking over the inside of his chest.

Craven laughed. "Ah, don't be like that. I'm just bantering."

The warm glow of the large fire in the chimney was still not enough to make the saber with its skeleton-claw shaped handguard look anything else but hostile.

"All right, that was mean and I apologize. I sincerely do. How about I make it up to you by giving you a good cleaning?"

With a grin, he reached out and pulled the saber from its black scabbard, the leather-wrapped handle—long enough for a two-handed grip—feeling cold to the touch, positively frosty. Gore stained the unusually broad blade, yet it was dry and brittle and fell off like black snowflakes as he unleashed the saber. Craven gently ran a finger over its length, wiping the blood-dust away to reveal the bone beneath. It was porous, like ancient worm-ridden wood, yet harder than any steel known to man. He blew the dust from his fingers and watched as it got sucked into the tiny holes.

"Still that hungry, huh?"

It was a pointless question. Reaper's Touch was always hungry, could never be sated, even if all the oceans of Ruuin turned to blood and you threw it in to feed. In response, the blade let him feel some of its hunger, and for a moment, Craven knew what it meant to be starving, to waste away, and to be eternally devoured. He winced at the pain in his gut. Then pictures of him going outside, of butchering the guards waiting before the doors filled his mind. He saw the blade hacking and stabbing, drinking, gorging itself, felt the elation...

Craven was already halfway to the doors, Reaper's Touch in hand before he was able to stop himself.

He frowned at the blade. "Pushy, aren't we? Fine, be like that."

Sitting down, he sheathed Reaper's Touch again, feeling, more than hearing a howl of displeasure as he pulled forth his silver candy box, the jester face on its side grinning wickedly at him in the light of the flames.

"I'm sorry," Craven muttered, "but you brought this upon the both of us."

He shook out three tears, popped them in his mouth and closed his eyes, then crushed them between his teeth. For a heartbeat, the light in the room dimmed visibly and flames flickered towards him as if drawn in by a great, hungry void. The temperature in the room dropped by several degrees and a thin sheen of hoarfrost spread over body, then his armchair. From one moment to the next, he neither felt the warmth of its leather nor its plushness any longer.

Neither did he feel the hunger.

Craven smiled, and far, far away, he could hear Reaper's Touch desperate howl. He opened his eyes. Gone was their feverish glint, gone too was the resemblance to actual eyes, entirely black as they had been. What remained was more like endless pits of abyssal darkness, cold as the void between the worlds.

With a smile just as icy, he leaned forward, emotionlessly regarding Reaper's Touch. He had taken the blade from the hands of a former king many years ago. Raphael of Morgenheim, that had been his name. Knight of the Sun and Paladin of Ahn... or as he had become known and feared, Raphael the Hollow. When Craven had killed him, he had been a monster of the most dreadful kind, living only for the euphoria of the kill and the sinister pleasures Reaper's Touch could provide. Raphael had been more animal than man, driven by his desires and ultimately a slave to them. Craven would never allow himself to fall that far.

He sighed, took another Lich Tear and crushed it between his teeth, enjoying as the bitter liquid ran down his throat. Bitter. It was the taste of cold, of winter, of death. A pleasant feeling spread from his stomach, numbing him and eliminating any traces of the hunger. Soon that warm feeling, born from the effects of both Lich Tears and the powers of the saber, would be gone too he knew. Only the cold would remain. With a relaxed moan, he slumped back into the leather armchair and stared at the metal bound book resting on the table in front of him. That blasted thing had cost him much... maybe too much.

Mountain was dead. The thought was... bitter in his mind. The barbarian brothers had fought and traveled with him for years and together they had lived through countless adventures and cheated death on more occasions than he had scars. He had valued the big but gentle brute, but could only think of the troubles his death would create.

Even if Draemaugh would not lose his leg, without his brother, he was crippled. There had always been too much of the savage in Draemaugh, too much of the berserker, and only the worry for his little brother had kept him from giving into his brutal nature. Now those restraints were gone...

Idana too would feel the loss greatly. She had cared for the big barbarian like for her own little brother. How would she cope? And there was Brass, pragmatic, but honorable to a fault. Craven knew that the weaponmaster felt guilty for not staying behind. It was this honor code of his, this picture he had of himself of an 'honorable warrior'...

Craven shook his head.

Honor was a handicap. Many men had died for it, falling for its romanticism. Craven was sure that the oceans of Ruuin could be turned red by all the blood that had been spilled in its name.

"Honor," Craven said, his voice almost lost in the vastness of the chamber. "It makes fools of us all." He stared at the heavy tome resting on the table. The stone-grey metal cover glittered in the fire, the runes etched into it filled with shadows like pools of ink. Craven tilted his head.

Honor, he thought, is for the weak.

Then he pulled a small crescent-shaped dagger and cut through the wide leather band sealing the pages shut.