#graphicish descriptions under cut

[silksworn]

𝐃𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 / @finifugality

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 cobblestone, scarlet rivers following grout paths. The stream soon overflows its banks, heedless of the mess it leaves. Iraestra's steps leave behind scarlet footprints. The bottoms of her boots are slick, sinking softly into the mud once the path ends. She lifts her skirts so they do not drag in the filth — viscera, excrement, other innards so defiled that she can no longer categorize what they might have once been.

Concentrated effort is put into keeping her features from twisting as they beg to. Not in shock or even empathy, but revulsion. Of the Three, the Lord of Murder is perhaps the one whose ways remain the most inscrutable to her. Many a life she has taken without remorse, but she does not consider herself so ghoulish as to dance upon corpses. There is much merrymaking amongst the Bhaalyn, who near religious ecstasy. They are rapturous, resplendent mockeries of life itself clothed in despoiler's finery.

The amulet of Myrkul heavy upon her breast marks her as ally. Still, she makes her way quickly through most profane revelry. She is not here to languish amongst these butchers.

It is almost with relief that she finds the head of white hair she has been seeking at the heart of the hecatomb. An irony, that she should be glad to see Bhaal's sharpest blade. At least it is not the pale sister, all twisted snake-tongue and logic. The mark of Myrkul might mean little yet to Orin should she be deep in the throes of her murder-lust.

"Vedui'. You are no longer a myth," Iraestra calls, hiding her trepidation well. Never before has she treated with the ktonos. She prays that the other woman proves to be more reasonable, though she holds little faith. Madness runs deep within Bhaal's seed. "Iraestra Oblodra, Magus of Mykrul. I greet you, godspawn. I have come far to seek an audience."

Directly above their heads swings a man gored through the belly. Freshly killed, he still drips out his wretched offering. Bled like a boar, hands suspended upwards as if in supplication. Eyeless sockets see nothing but the yawning blackness of death.

"May Myrkul take his soul well," a reflex. "An...esoteric display," she aims for diplomacy and falls somewhat short. She steps aside so that she is not in danger of catching his drippings upon her clothing. Her robes are far too fine for the current surroundings.