It doesn't take much to break something. To fix it, however, is a whole different story... | ||| || | ||||||||| ||||| || | || ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ||| ||||||||||||||| |||| || | || |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| Streaks of crimson blood ran down the sides of the walls, the red mist of gore staining the air much like the human bits staining the concrete. "W-why... Have you.. Done this..?" One of the fallen sorcerers manages to mumble, slumping further backwards as life leaves his eyes. "Why not?" The figure in the dark responded, taking another step forward. "Power is like a drug." The bleeding sorcerer doesn't respond, simply accepting the embrace of death. An eerie silence befell the area, broken only by the shadowy figure's quiet footsteps. Their stride came to a halt before another one's body, staring down at something on the ground. A red scarf, likely belonging to one of the sorcerers. It was worn but, still, in decent enough condition. The figure winced, a grimace of disdain crossing their face. They pulled a hand out of their pocket, pointing two lone fingers at the garment. "Scarlet Sever." In a flash of crimson energy, the scarf was reduced to a pile of cut, red cloth. The figure's steps hurried forward.
