I'm rotting inside
My flesh turns to dust
Hurricane beckons, but it doesn't come crawling; not yet, at least. It isn't a pet or a slave. Its ties and loyalties waver with the changing wind. It wants its power back, its reputation, its fear-instilling abilities. Unfortunately, it is needing to begin from scratch to achieve its past success. Generations have since past. The tales mothers would warn their children of at night now reflect newer creatures that bump in the night. Infection is no longer poisoning their mouths or stories; it is no longer spilling blood across Beqanna.
The temptation to approach is waning. When a deep breath is drawn in it notices another male approaching the empty area. There are only two of them as of yet, speaking outward to a nonexistent crowd. A brow quirks. A talon tears across the snow. Infection eases forward placidly to listen now and is unimpressed with what is heard. The distaste churning in its gut is concealed behind a stoic expression. Its voice is knives against their ears, chilling to their bones. "My, my, how eager," its attention flickers between the two men, "Hurricane proposed the idea to see if the Brotherhood approves the idea." There is no one, it muses with a glance over its shoulders before craning its head back to them. "The proposal is in the air and yet you," it inclines its head toward Tarnished, "are already giving orders." The demands fall on deaf ears. "You jump before thinking. A fault. A rookie and young mistake."
Its voice is raspy and grueling. The unmarked graves of its victims churn when it speaks and the souls eerily scream in its head. "I am not amenable. I don't support him," it glances to Tarnished then to Hurricane as the silence returns.
infection
... because he's an ass