Bonesplinter Ravine [M] Viva La Vida

Machiavelli felt only detachment as he stepped forward, movements steady, his ivory face a mask of detached calm. Any remnants of fear or disgust had been washed away, replaced by something colder, sharper. He felt nothing now but a steady loathing, a raging, unignorable hatred for Herod that consumed all else.

Bring the wine, he commanded, his voice low and unfeeling, shattered-glass eyes blank as he looked out over the gathered followers. The disciples brought the bowl, and he took it, lifting it high, his paws steady and expression calm—devoid of any trace of life.

We offer our sister one final drink before she departs. A toast in her honor.