by Scott “Killraven” Macneil
Pain. Terror. Surrender.
It is a delicious thing to see in the eyes of a target, the slow eddy of their soul freed from a hapless body. Morghoul had witnessed countless other souls freed by his hand, hundreds of round eyes wide open in sheer terror at the unknown destination in front of their very face. Far too often, and to his complete delight, the Lord Assassin was the very last face those eyes ever saw before they passed wherever laid before them.
The Morrowans cried pitifully at the touch of a single blade, of the dozen of swan heralds he had slain in the past month not one had enough fortitude avoid a plea of mercy in less than a minute. Their devotion to technology, their deafeningly useless guns, their lumbering ineffective warjacks, and their foolish pride was a small shield against such an artist as himself. He could strip flesh away in such thin layers that he believed he could fill a library, tomes, each masterfully scribed page taken from the hide of this fat sack of meat on the ground before him.
