The King had not been part of the group per se. He wasn't even entirely aware that such an expedition had been organized--he being a rather arrogant and self-centered man--and as such his exposure to this... madness... was, to say in the least, a shock to him. Approaching from the rear of a rampaging motley sort, he clutched at the broken sword that rarely left his hand. He took neither the most impressive nor most unobtrusive way there, and in this way went unnoticed. His gait was long and proud, his feet falling silently as if he were nothing but a mirage. A grand mirage to be sure, but a mirage--a mere thought--nonetheless.

The King clutched one of the guards, about to ask him a question when he realized he had inadvertently pulled the head off of a maimed body. Dropping the head in disgust, he padded forward again, the ripping explosions going ignored by the pale austerity of the King's face. His flaming eyes shone blue, empty eye-sockets betraying no thought or emotion. The gas was what worried him the most--he had always been afraid of the things he couldn't necessarily control--so he stayed far from Villiam, darting past a pair of wrestling demons.

A troop of guards stood before him, staring not at him, but to the side, vaguely in the direction of battle. Blinking, the King realized that these were not guards at all, but the lost souls that went unnoticed by all. They watched the battle with pale eyes, unseen, unwept. These were the damned on their passage to the deepest bowels of Hell, where they would never be seen again. Strange, mused the King, that they all seemed to be wearing gold.

A guard tore him away from his thoughts, setting upon him with an electrified club. Dashing away from the swing, the King reached out and gripped the man by the forehead, quickly draining his energy and dropping him to the ground, unconscious. 

He grimaced, muttering to himself,[color=lightblue]"Allies hurt more than enemies, especially if you want the same thing..."[/color]