Oh what a tangled web we weave through the lies and macabre truths with which we deceive; be it ourselves, our surroundings, our acquaintances, or our souls. There was very little deceit with which I regarded myself. I know, first and foremost, what I am and what I am not and there is very little that the opinions or derision of others might affect what inner effigy of my person I possessed. There was a horrendous horde of adjectives and even nouns for what I was, but in it's most simple form I was a man victim to experiences and behaviors of a sinister nature, anchored in a sorrowfully deliberate and innate desire to vindicate wrongs inflicted upon myself and others through violent means. It wasn't always that way, no. There was a time long before fog and inclement weather permeated my atmosphere, a time inhabited mainly by a vivacious desire to live and exist in the very moment afforded to me by the exact time and place I was in. How the times changed, and the fog rolled in over my proverbial cliffs, the fingers of said fog corrupting me with tendrils of hatred and blood red foundations of sin. At the root of all my evil was a box much like the fairy tale of Pandora that housed the last essences of innocence, grace, and goodness I was afforded by a childhood ridiculed with wrongs perpetrated by all those who should have shown me the right path. And when the moment came, I was ready to become the man that they proved to me I should be and I was only capable of becoming: a monster. A monster drowning in strangers' blood.

Every fiber of my being wanted to relent this massive charade and let the populace see what was roused beneath my skin. The muscular and skeletal stature of a man cloaked in shame, guilt, and accompanied by nightmares fit for the devil himself. But now? The beautiful sunset I had witnessed in my exodus from my home continent the most recent time had felt like a baptism of the utmost innocence; there was some kind of relief from the burdens of the beasts of hell that I had bartered loyalty to with the very pieces of my soul I had lost along my journey to becoming the man that sat at the head of the mahogany table I had crafted with my own hands in the cavernous 'throne room' that housed what would be the very beginnings of the a coven that had begun to haunt my thoughts. I had been ready for the delicacy of new ideas, of new beginnings... That sunset and the shackles that it released from my wrists rubbed raw from rattling my chains, the skin bloodied from years worth of enslavement to the demons holding those chains... As vulnerable and unstable as I felt, there was a new kind of strength and dominance forming in the well of my heart and soul, gently encouraging me to open my eyes to differing horizons and pour my energies into creating a life and a purpose devoid of my internal judgements and innermost guilt.

The click of heels against the volatile surface of the flooring in the shop alerted me to the arrival of a guest I had assumed would turn my invitation down. As a pretentious, incredibly sharp and intriguing witch, I had initially believed that Rowena would ignore my suggestion of a meeting in the belly of a shop that I knew would disgust her. Often times, the shop disgusted me as well but my eternal love for the craft of the weaponry inside it proved enough for me to ignore the lack of attentiveness to cleanliness and detail until Spencer had enough time to hire employees to take care of that mundane nonsense. Instead of worrying about her impression of the shop, though, I had set my sights towards my idea that would need of the brilliant blonde witch's assistance. I would not bother with flattery, not now anyway, as it would merely get me distasteful looks from the scornful woman. As a direct consequence of recent tumultuous events, I chose honesty and passion as the emotions to accompany me on my description of what I thought would be the best course of action to affront the disease that had been plaguing the city ever since the attacks on the Witchery had become public knowledge. The hunters were indeed a plague that I wanted an alliance with Rowena in order to eradicate, knowing that her strength and aggression as a solitary witch would only prove immensely helpful in my scheming of what, exactly, retribution against the Council might entail. The click of what had to be incredibly expensive shoes getting dirty on an unvarnished floor was a tell-tale sign that her arrival was imminent into my some-what cave, encouraging me to slowly raise my gaze from the ever interesting patterns on the newly built table to the space in the doorway where my eyes were greeted with the ever, infinitely hypnotic form of the witch I had been awaiting.

"A pleasure as always, Ms.Metcalf," I began quietly, every essence of characteristic tenacity and enigma long lost. With a slow exhale of the smoke that had been lazing luxuriously in my lungs, I sighed and gestured to one of the many open chairs. "I'm allergic to bees," I started to say, frowning briefly. "More appropriately, I'm allergic to all thoughts of atrocities I'd rather have left on a continent several thousand miles away. Tell me, though, would you rather hear pathetic tales of personal weakness or discuss a proposition?"