Chaos ensues as the Crusaders are beginning to make an appearance. The loathing that exists between the Infernal and the Redeemers is palpable, and so very delicious to me. I cannot wait to see what happens when the battles begin, especially now that Dark Liege is aware of the Undead Lord's plans for his throne.

The Undead Tower, chipped away in brittle fragment betwixt a mass of forces, enemies drawn to them from their past actions. Even more amusing is the fact that these forces do not much get along amongst each other either, opening the possibilities to a melee of anarchic death and destruction.

Rest assured, I shall be certain to attend, entice, promote, and connive further circumstances to my own ends. What those are... are none of your concern, yet.

The cowl lifts but a fraction as Avarren's attention raptly locks upon the figure exiting the citadel, enough to reveal his glistening eyes, a pale yellow, touched with swirling specks of green, the slightest traces of madness tweaking the corners into a blinkless stare. A permenent, wide grin creases a corrupt face, erupting in uncontrollable, hyenaish mirth that he reflexively muffles with a billowing scarf that swallows all sound. Wrapped in a shroud of nebulous cloth, nary a trace of his body is seen, though his proportions indicate he is of smallish stature... obviously no bigger than a five year old human... were he human.

The power courses through him. Exhileratingly, maddeningly. His shoulders rock up and down in the throes of his muffled laughter as he watches the Undead Lord's manservant direct the cleanup of offal about the Citadel. The scavengers are run off, slinking back to the forest, peering on the loss of their banquet with hunger filled eyes and poignant sorrowful howls and caws.

Snorting derisively at the disgusting beasts, Avarren glides past the milling undead, unseen, unnoticed, undetectable. He pauses near the butler, a million devious plots and ploys playing through his mind, each precipitating its own laugh, before he shakes his head to clear his thoughts and moves on.

Into the very depths of the den of the Undead Lord he traverses, taking stock of the amassing troops, the sheer number of dead being raised by necromancers, the neophyte vampires lingering in the shadows awaiting the call of the dread master. Weaponry is being prepared. War looms upon the horizon. He laughs again, its just too deliciously intoxicating for him to take it all in. It draws him, like a moth to flame, he feeds upon it... the intrigue... the tense energy... the emotions of the place swirl, unseen by the inhabitants... tantalizing.

"Covetous of a title." *laugh* His weaselish voice sidles through the interior of his own mind as he shakes his head slightly. "Traitors... traitors... and more traitors in the midst." Gliding onward and ever inward, through the depths of the hall, he goes, unseen, unknown, even by the Demon Lord himself, mentally ticking off figures and statistics like an abacus.

Avarren's malicious thoughts tickle at his mind, prompting action, a plan of sorts takes form. His impromptu raid finished... he cannot help but snicker, shifting like the falling grains of sand through a crack in the wall and away, as formless as a shadow.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Lightning strikes across the sky as the small figure appears at the gates of the great castle. An ominous sign, to be certain, perhaps of wicked portents, ill meaning designs set in motion. Approaching the gates, the figure whispers in a conniving voice to the guards, "I have information for the Dark Liege." His voice grating to hear, like nails raked across slate. Supplicating himself appropriately, he hides a wide grin and muffles a laugh.