[color=708090]
	Marshall moved in mute silence, taking in the Myconid’s apprehensive judgement of him, and his forlorn expression. He was troubled; by what, Marshall couldn’t bring himself to question or be bothered by it. However, Marshall felt off-put. To be cared for, waited on, by what surmounted to a child? It wasn’t indignity, pride, or even a misplaced sense of masculinity that bothered him, but a whisper of paternal failure.

[center][color=a187be][i]A father isn’t to be waited on hand and foot by his daughter...[/i][/color][/center]
Shaking the eerie thought off, Marshall entered the bathroom, and bade the Myconid thanks, before closing the door. As it shut, he turned the water on, disrobed, soaked himself and his clothing fairly clean, and set them back on. Sighing, he shook his hair once, twice, and turned his attention to the mirror -- driving a fist into his own reflection. Shards of the thick glass stuck, steadfast, in his left fist, unarmored, and blood dripped down into the sink.

Five faces glared back at him, as the mirror shattered like a star from impact...

	[color=32CD32][i][Thinking of running away already? That’s a record.][/i][/color] snickered a voice in his head; years upon decades upon centuries of playing host to blood from veritable gods to indomitable vermin had left him with a fragile mind, and voices of old demons, angels, and all between them taunted him. [color=F0E68C][i]{That is what he’s best at; escaping.}[/i][/color] Marshall shook his head, slapping his right cheek with his free hand. [color=4169E1][i](You shouldn’t flee so soon. You’ll sadden her.)[/i][/color] Marshall groaned, resisting the urge to look back at up at his reflections. [color=B22222][i]<Do you think he cares? He’s a coward. A thief.>[/i][/color] Marshall gasped, as he nearly slipped to a knee for a moment; blood settling, the previous traumatic loss catching up. [color=FFA500][i]｢He’ll die on a cursed pyre. A nobody.｣[/i][/color]

[center][b][color=32CD32][i]A[/i][/color][color=F0E68C][i]L[/i][/color][color=4169E1][i]O[/i][/color][color=B22222][i]N[/i][/color][color=FFA500][i]E[/i][/color][/b][/center]
“[color=a187be]SHUT UP![/color]” Marshall roared, banging his right fist into the sink. “[color=a187be]Damned be you all... shut up...[/color]”

[color=a187be][i]Shut up...[/i][/color]
[center][color=a187be][i]Just let me die...[/i][/color][/center]
[right][color=a187be][i]Please...[/i][/color][/right]
	But, Death was not to be his -- her cold, culling caress was but a phantom wisp upon his cheek; a memory; a wish; a curse. He could feel her fingertips, gracing his skin, and chilling him to the core of his being, as she supped his soul. Primals above, Astrals below, he wanted to see her perfection, and stay. But, he couldn’t -- not with his mistress clinging to his leash on life so tightly; the ugly spider-woman of blindly beautiful light casting him a everlasting shadow to do her bidding from within.

[i]Perfection in the Darkness, Perfection in the Light, and he, Imperfection in their mingling Shade.[/i]

“[color=a187be]I...[/color]” Marshall let the words die in his throat, as he drew his fist from the mirror, and set upon cleaning his mess; glass in the trash; blood in the water; misery in his silence. His damned life pressed on.
[/color]