There's a rustle at the table beside Nephele and Ox as a broad-shouldered man settles onto the bench beside Crow.  He, too, wears sleek black leather that covers his neck to feet, complete with fine leather gloves and a fur-trimmed collar that resembles the raised hackles of a black cat.  Lean-jawed and with a neatly-trimmed beard, the man doesn't seem to pay them any mind, and instead drinks from a bottle of what looks like rye whiskey from the bar... a fresh bottle, in fact, though the bar is not currently open.  His piercing eyes are swirling green, and auburn curls tease at the fringes of a devilishly handsome face.<br/><br/>Crow bristles at the man's presence, actually going so far as to bare his teeth and hiss a quick "fuck off!", which the stranger doesn't seem to hear, seeming instead absorbed in the proceedings with a faint smile.  Crow, perplexed and affected, scoots closer to Ox and Nephele.  He reeks of lantern oil and cheap wine.  He opportunistically seizes this as a chance to defer the conversation-- taking the moment to glance perplexed at Nephele as he attempts to rationalize his sudden shift in feelings toward the strange-- but fiercely beautiful-- woman.<br/><br/>"You, er..." squinting, Crow tries to speak and instead his teeth clack shut and he averts his sallow face.  "No."  He simply wrinkles his chin in a grimace of discomfort as he glares back at the stranger in their midst before turning his attention back to the stage.<br/><br/>Despite its proselytizing, the creature on the stage is moving more hastily, less confidently and with more pronounced frustration.  "YOU!" The fierce thing's arm levels at Mina and Malia, wagging its finger in anger, demanding them both.  Guards are quick to oblige his demand.  "YOUR FATES ARE ENTWINED.  COME FORTH... WE HAVE WAITED FOR YOU.  TWO MURDERERS... ONE, A COWARD.  THE OTHER, BRAVE IN HER SPITE.  BOTH ARE GUILTY."<br/><br/>Mina and Malia are cast forth across the small expanse of stone and sand with rough hands guarded by thick cowhide gloves, brute strength versus their exhausted bodies, the leverage and binding chain making them like rag-made dolls to be flung about onto the makeshift stage.  The brute crowd roars to life again, eager for this, priapic with sadistic joy at the humiliation of the two beautiful slaves-turned-prisoners.  They will land hard, unable to catch themselves properly, and without even the most meager of garment to top the bruising of rough boards on their flesh.  Now in the forefront of the madness that they had been forced to witness, the blood on the boards still warm and wet to the touch, they are assaulted by the roaring heat as if they had been thrust before a forge.  The reek of fresh death is everywhere, as is the scorched stink of burning human tissues.  Before them, the brazier stares back, the wicked glow having seared a hollow into what is left of Cris' father's skullcase, and the glow of the embers below winks out through the empty eye-sockets.<br/><br/>"LOOK NOW UPON YOUR DEATH, MURDERERS.  YOU... COLLABORATORS.  YOU DEMON-SPAWN WHORES.  THE INFERNAL HAS COME TO CLAIM YOU, AND THE ABYSSAL WILL AID YOU<b>NOT</b>."<br/><br/>Striding closer, the hollow gleam of the jeweled-eyed skull with it broad rafters of horns looms then over the two, and they can see up close the elongated bones of fingers, the black mummified flesh that wraps them like oiled paper, reaching, extending in an almost loving gesture to cradle their faces.  The touch is vile.<br/><br/>"YES, ILL-CONTENT TO POISON THE DUKE'S HOME WITH YOUR WANTON DESIRES, YOUR UNSOLICITED LUSTS, YOU COULD HAVE KEPT YOUR LEGS CLOSED... BUT YOU ACCEPTED HIS ROYAL COCK, UNDESERVING, AND TOOK IT INTO YOU GREEDILY.  YOU THOUGHT SOME ADVANTAGE IN THIS?  WELL ENOUGH, SLAVES... YOU WERE HIS PROPERTY-- IF HE HAD WISHED TO CUT A GASH IN YOUR THROAT AND FUCK THE HOLE, HE COULD HAVE.  YOU.  WERE.  NOTHING."  The crowd cheers at this, a few spit.  The monsters in the most detestable offal of man's unswept stall revel in the image of such deplorable acts.  "AND YOU WERE GIVEN SUCCOR BY HIM."<br/><br/>Intensifying, the anger giving way to self-righteous sadism, the Walker begins to pace a double-looping circle before them.   "THOUGH YOUR VILE CONDITIONS, A RESULT OF YOUR CRIMES, DO NOT SPEAK TO THIS, THE PROOF STILL REMAINS... LOOK UPON YOUR FINE BODIES.  HE DID NOT STARVE YOU.  WHEN THE GUARDS SEIZED YOU, YOU WORE CLOTHES FINER THAN THEIRS-- SAVE THE BLOODSTAINS OF YOUR MASTER'S HEART'S BLOOD WHERE YOU STUCK A BLADE INTO HIS CHEST IN GRATITUDE.  LOOK UPON YOUR SKIN-- NO SORES, NO FROSTBITE-- HE GAVE YOU A ROOF, A BED... YOUR HANDS ARE NOT CALLOUSED, YOUR FEET ARE NOT SPLIT WITH SORES, SO YOU HAVE NOT EVEN WORKED THE DUKE'S FIELDS.  YOU ARE FILTHY OUTSIDE, BUT UNDER THAT GRIME YOU HAVE NOT LOST YOUR LUSTER."  [/color]<br/><br/>The beast laugh mirthfully.  "HOW IRONIC.  FOR IN TROTH YOU ARE VILE WITHIN, AND YOUR VIOLATED BODIES ONLY NOW BEGIN TO RESEMBLE YOUR STAINED, MURDEROUS SOULS."  With that, he turns his back to them, and they are, at least, given a moment's reprieve from the stare of cold hatred from the headdress.   "SO I ASK YOU, GUILTY ONES.  WHICH OF YOU DESERVES TO LIVE, HM?  LOOK UPON THE OTHER FIRST, AND THEN ANSWER.  IS IT YOU, OR THE OTHER, WHO SHOULD BE SACRIFICE TO ASMODEUS TONIGHT?"