Azzael Iymvyll'tana the Affirmation of Orcish Life, Nightreaver of Thar-Eris

Role

Chapter 9

He had been lurking deep within a forgotten cavern, pacing about
scrutinizing his next move, when all went dark. He slumped to the
ground upon his knees, head leaning forward and arms limp at his sides.

The sound of cracking and hissing encircled him. He began to sweat
profusely, his skin scalding to the touch. The darkness twisted and
contorted into a myriad of oranges and reds, the smell of burning flesh
permeating the air. Before him flames leapt to the skies, streaming up
and up until they turned to thin strands of fiery red piercing the
heavens themselves. Men, women and children scattered, panicked,
clothing and bodies set ablaze as the shadows lashed forth from the
flames, entangling them in darkness and despair. A child had made it
to the gate of the city and lunged to safety out of the fiery inferno
when a lithe, cat-like creature pounced upon her, taking her by the
throat and shaking her violently before dragging her limp body into the
shadowy unknown.

As he shifted his gaze upon the horizon, this scenario could be seen
unfolding all about the land, as tho the black, shadowy orb had erupted
at once with a cleansing wave of fiery wrath. The vision proceeded to
drift outward, further from the land he viewed until at last he was
within the mists above, taking in all that lay before him. There were
no more towns, no more beaten paths for beaten men to trudge upon,
there was only untamed jungle filled with untamed beasts.

Slowly he raised his head, amber eyes ablaze as a hushed whisper rolled
off of his tongue, "Iymvyll'tana..." The first and only time he would
utter his name, for in the tongue of the Drow it meant one thing, a
name that had been forgotten in the fall from Thar-Eris and the
politics of men, which, translated into the common tongue, is "The
endless scourge of darkness."

Role

Chapter 1

He came to, his mouth, ears, eyes and every other orifice packed
full of dirt. The blood that had been pouring out of his broken nose
was dried to his face and chest, causing his robes to adhere
themselves to his battered body. The last thing he recalled was
hurrying behind the patrolling scouts as they pursued a fleeing
Dwarf when something took hold of his legs and down he went,
consciousness fading.

Looking at his legs he noticed a gnarly, black root wrapped tightly
about them. His hands grasped the root firmly as he leaned forward
to unbind his legs, a pulsating sensation lurching into his body as
visions of times long since forgotten screamed through his mind.
The visions of shadows darting to and fro amidst an untamed land,
yellowish orbs flickering in the unknown, staring back at him. He
saw shadowy figures dancing and shouting as they leapt to and fro
within the midst of a raging inferno that tore through the heart of
what once appeared to be a mighty city. Deep in an untamed
wilderness he saw the shadowy form of a tree rising higher than the
rest, its roots reaching out and down into the deepest depths of the
land beneath it. Encircling the great tree, figures which seem
almost translucent, as if spirits awakening from slumber, their
features indiscernible, save one. Perched upon the highest branch
of the tree, a mischievous Imp peers down, its bony fingers
reaching forth and pointing at Azzael, almost as if it had been
expecting him...

A shrill cry echoes through the cavern, the sensation gone as the
root releases its grip upon his legs, sinking back beneath the rocky
earth. He leaps to his feet and begins running for the nearest path
to the topside that he knew of, the shrieking sounds of battle and
death rising and falling in the air behind him as he pushes himself
through a muddy tunnel and out of the cavernous Underdark.

Role

Chapter 2

His life up until escaping topside had been that of a priest of the
House of the Matron Mother. Those who survived as a member of the
healing arts were few and far between, thus the amount of candidates
coming in was constant, as the vacated spots were filled. It was
never clear as to how many of these novitiates failed, vanishing in
the night. Many were merely slain within the tunnels while on
raids. Azzael suspected, however, that those who vanished
unsuspectedly were perhaps not embraced by the same gods as the
Mother. Those that were still around had been chosen at birth,
their minds and bodies molded to fulfill her every desire.

As he grew up, he would hear the hushed whispers of his teachers
proclaiming that the boy was "off", something not quite right with
him, as tho the prayers he channeled were tainted, the way they
surged violently in potency to diminishing to near non-existence at
times. Azzael noticed this to be true as well. When he stood naked
within his chamber at night, unencumbered from the burdens of
civilization, his mind raced, his thoughts pure as the cacophony of
howling Imps overcame him, the feeling that anything was within his
grasp, if he would just let go and embrace it.

His mind was made up, he would do whatever it took to free himself
of this oppressive, unnatural state of existence, even if he didn't
know what was waiting at the other end, it did not matter, only that
there was something, somewhere, calling out to him, pulling upon
every fiber of his existence.

Role

Chapter 3

The plan of deception was quite simple. People were always being
lost when on patrol, devoured by the gods know whom or what. He
would simply bide his time, wait until chaos filled the ranks and be
a bit slow with mending the wounds of those in need.

It just so happened that he had his chance to put his plan into
action one fateful day. Unfortunately, the plan fell into place
better than he had anticipated. Rounding the corner, they stumbled
upon an injured Dwarven expedition of some sort. Quickly the Drow
scouts fell upon them, slaying all save one that bolted down the
tunnel and into the endless black. The Drow instantly bounded after
him, vanishing from sight. Had Azzael taken a moment to look about,
he would have realized the Dwarven party had been mauled severely by
giant claws of some form, but in his haste, he too bolted down the
cavern.

The screams filled the air along with the gnashing of teeth and
the scraping of claws upon rock at about the same time the root
managed to entwine itself upon his ankles, hurling him to the ground
and his mind drifting to the depths of the dark, ancient dreams...

Role

Chapter 4

He did what he could to survive topside, everything being unfamiliar
and completely foreign to him. Most of his time was spent darting
to and fro along the fringes of what one might call civilization,
always looking, listening, waiting for the opportune moments at
which to dash in and steal a kill or two. All the while, he
continued to shed the old ways, the decades of subterranean
servitude that had been instilled in him while under the ever-
watchful eye of the House of the Matron Mother.

His burden grew less and less by the moment. The less the
suffocating pall of society had upon him, the clearer the visions of
the Ancients became. He could feel them under his feet with every
footstep, within the winds as he inhaled deeply and feel their
surging life within the frigid streams he waded across. All the
while, the chattering of the Imp a constant in his mind, driving
him, pushing him, but to where, he did not know. Perhaps nowhere,
perhaps everywhere, regardless of the destination one thing was
certain to Azzael, whatever it was, he could feel it growing
stronger and stronger as he worked his way outwards into the unknown
depths of the untamed wilds. He had found clues here and there,
images of long since forgotten times hidden in the essence of the
earth about him. So strong was the call of the wild within him,
that even touching something as mundane as a stone would set off a
torrent of visions that he could do nothing but stand, mouth agape
as the events of the past unfolded before him.

Role

Chapter 5

He sat resting within an open air temple of a seemingly forgotten
enclave, buried deep within the sheltered woods far from the beaten
path. His thoughts danced from idea to idea as he stared off into the
shadows of the forest around him, pondering what mysteries lurked
within, when suddenly a warm stream of bright, yellow urine slammed
right into the center of his forehead. He leapt up, staggered
slightly and began wiping the urine off of his face as it ran into his
eyes and down across his lips. He was still trying to figure out what
was transpiring when erratic sparks of electricity began dancing
haphazardly about him before coalescing into a diminutive creature
with a cunning grin, known also as Lyristeon.

Azzael had never stood before the divine and being before the Ancient
Imp himself took all the focus he could muster to maintain his
composure. The conversation was brief and to the point, instilling
within Azzael what he had felt many moons ago when that root first
leapt up and lashed him to the ground. That each day was to be lived
as if it were the last. Those who do so bow before no being, divine
or otherwise. The power of the Ancient Imp comes with a price,
however, that one either amuses him in the deeds they do, or bore Him
and have it stripped from them...or worse.

Without warning, the chromatic Imp imploded, leaving no trace save the
caustic, lingering scent of sulfur. Azzael grinned mischievously,
forgetting about the urine that was still dripping down his face, he
turned his sights towards the horizon to the east, where deep in the
untamed wilds the Great Tree awaited his arrival. He strode forth
with the blessing of the Ancient Imp, that he might someday walk
amongst the scourge of civilization, known simply, as the Outlanders.

Role

Chapter 6

The first time they spoke, the Nightreaver gave him no hoops to jump
through nor the usual mundane rigamarole that an ordered society would
place upon its members. He was simply set upon the unbeaten path of
growth, of self-enlightenment, a journey the Ancient Imp could truly
amuse himself with...or so he thought.

The thousand and one questions really set Azzael's hairs on edge, the
Nightreaver telling Azzael to impress him with word upon word and yet
when he attempted to regale him with the words of his deeds and
actions, detailing the events as they unfolded, he was then told that
he was too eloquent, that he needed to say what he needed to say in
less words. Basically, after being told to spew out his life's story,
was then told he talked too much.

Azzael was disgusted with the creature that stood before him, he who
was proclaiming that words were more important than actions, knowing
full well that the Ancient Imp would piss in this fools eyes if he
heard such things. He was contemplating all manner of ways to deal
with this monkey trainer, when the words, "I'll teach you everything
you need to know to become the Nightreaver," rolled off of his tongue
and lodged itself in Azzael's mind.

Azzael heard only one thing during the rest of the interrogation,
everything else was merely white noise as he chewed on the idea of what
it would mean to be the Nightreaver, how he would at last have the
power and the strength to destroy everything the Matron Mother stood
for, swallowing Teth'Azeleth in an implosion of roots and rock. The
word that set him upon his next journey, the word that would bring him
closer to what he sought, closer to the force that drove him, that
invigorated his every step, was "Apprentice."

Role

Chapter 7

Time continued on and Azzael remained ever vigilant for a sighting of
the Nightreaver, yet it never came. He recalled that one fateful day,
some countless years ago, when he stood before him, an apprenticeship
presented to him that he hungrily accepted. Then as if an apparition of
the spirits of the winds, the Nightreaver was gone, vanished into the
shadowy unknown. Azzael knew he was there, watching, lurking, waiting
to see that his apprentice was making progress. Which, in Azzael's
mind, he certainly was.

He skirmished with the defilers and saw to the aid of the Huntress for
many a battle over many a years. Some won, some lost, some he was not
so sure how they turned out, but in his mind, a draw against them was a
win, a chance for Thar-Eris to hold her own and surge back again when
She was able.

Azzael continued upon his path, diligent in his undertaking, tho at
times, he just felt like running wild through the woods, barefoot,
shouting to the stars above. Which he did, as often as the urge struck
him to do so. Feeling lethargic one day, he lay resting in the
confines of a seemingly forgotten village, taking what he needed from
the priests there when suddenly and furiously the winds began to whip
around the place and in his ears he could hear the Ancients calling him
out, calling him to run free once again upon the wild, untamed soil.

He heeded the call of the ancient winds and found them strongest beside
an old stone from the times of the Ancients themselves, deep within
some seemingly forgotten woods. There, he was cheek to windy gale with
the Ancient Winds themselves, who, after some time studying the curious
Drow, found him worthy to begin his journey amongst the tree, as one of
the notorious Outlanders.

Not only was Azzael pleased of his progress, but so too was the Great
Imp, who upon seeing his young Drow progress upon his path, must
certainly have been pleased, for he imparted upon Azzael a gift of
deceptive force, drawing him deeper into the shadows of Thar-Eris.

And so it was, Azzael found himself drawn closer to Thar-Eris, the
Great Imp was pleased, and the Nightreaver too must certainly be
pleased, for no word is truly a pleasing word. Now that he was in
place, the great game unfolding before him, he needed now to sit back
and watch his work unfold while preparing for the next mischievous act to begin...

Role

Chapter 8

The plan, as he saw it, was simple.

He would feed the Orc armies whatever trinkets they desired and hurl
them relentlessly upon the Fortress, ravaging the City of Voralia and
the surrounding villages as they stampeded. He had already begun
moving the Orcs into place, his time spent with the Orc they call
Bloodaxe, whispered to be the scourge of the civilized, proved to be
useful. This was just the Orc needed for the cause. He was also not
one to quarrel with those of the other Village, those with an intense
hatred of magic. Azzael had already begun to spread the idea of
Chiefdom to the Orc, calling him chief every now and then, subtly.
The Orc himself now spoke of being Chief, of leading the army and
growing it himself.

Now he could focus on setting the Villagers upon the Island as well as
the Chasm, two foes the haters would gladly devour. He had only brief
dealings with the Drillmaster, the one they called the Venomous Viper
of War, and none with their Commander, yet he was hopeful he could
utilize their particular bloody talents. He had already persuaded the
Viper into assaulting the Fortress to drive away a pesky soul...this
was merely the beginning. As for the Chasm, well, Azzael had thus far
dealt very little with the shadowy characters, only enough to know that
whatever they planned for the the land was utter destruction, everything
being devoured by the creatures they conjured from the gods know where.

That leaves only the Tribunes and Imperials to deal with. Easily
handled by those of the Refuge. None of the branches will take offense
to the relentless slaughter of any of these putrid souls, which should
free up time for Azzael to make his way between the factions, ensuring
the battle rages in his favor.

When the smoke wanes, the Villagers can fight one another and the last
few holdouts of magi. The Orcs can run wild and free throughout the
lands, savagely feeding and terrorizing everything in their wake. The
only remaining issues to be resolved will be how long until we fall
upon the Sunwardens and once they are ripped limb from limb, what is to
be done about the Harbingers...

Immortal Comments

Role

Chapter 10

He stood within the midst of the raging inferno as the howling winds
hurled the fiery embers all about him, charring his flesh as they
settled upon his body. At first, he thought he heard his name being
whispered within the midst of the destruction, he peered about,
searching for whom or what could be calling out to him, yet he found
nothing. He continued to enjoy his handiwork, relishing the
destruction when a roaring, cracking voice boomed out, "AZZAEL!" He
froze, exhaled slowly and whispered, "I am here."

In that moment, a wave of calm overcame him and he knew exactly who was
speaking to him...and he knew why. In his zealousness to destroy
everything that posed a threat to the encroaching darkness of Thar-
Eris, he had become one of the things he despised the most, hope. He
had brought hope to the Orcs, given them the belief that there was in
fact darkness at the end of the lighted tunnel, but in so doing, had
become a crutch for them, just as the Knights he so despised were a
crutch for the civilized that hung on to a dying way of life. He had
become so entrenched in his battle to see their Fortress torn asunder,
that he found himself knee deep in Orc detritus and standing beside
Tremblefist himself, keeping him alive as wave upon wave crashed the
gates and were driven back, the Orcs growing stronger and bolder in
Azzael's presence. Yet, it was a false strength, a strength unable to
be maintained without his enabling them. In fact, all he had really
done was weaken the Orcs, making them less and less able to stand and
face the seething light of the Fortress on their own.

Azzael nodded slowly, a look of disappointment and rage flickering in
his eyes as he whispered, "I understand." He was disappointed in
himself for becoming swept away in the chaos that was destruction. This
was not him, he was more level headed than this and capable of
formulating and seeing his plan through. The rage that swelled up was
one of newfound determination, of stepping back from what he had set in
motion and allowing it to unfold upon its own. He would continue to
wage war upon those he deemed as enemies of Thar-Eris, tho he would see
that his pulling of the strings was less obvious and more behind the
scenes going forward. For he truly believed, that the strongest weapon
of all was fear, and nothing sowed the seeds of fear like the terror of
the unknown.

Role

Chapter 11

Azzael's skin burned and blistered, his entire being writhed in agony
as the Dark Paladin stood over him, its unholy weapon seething with an
unnatural force. As the beatings rained down upon Azzael, each
vicious strike sent a numbing, disconnecting sensation to his very
core, until at last he was brought to his knees, unable to do anything
save bear witness to the next few moments of what would be the end of
existence as he knew it.

As the Dark Paladin's final blow sunk deep into Azzael's crippled body,
the cry of a thousand ravens burst forth as he watched in disbelief his
very soul being ripped from him, stolen by the weapons ravenous grip.
Azzael reached out with every last bit of strength he could muster,
grasping hopelessly at the shadowy image of his inner-self being absorbed
in the unnatural glow. His breath grew short and the visions began to
disappear from his mind as he howled forth to the depths of Thar-Eris, vowing
to finish what he had started, should She only save his devious soul this one last time...

A thunderous crack exploded all around and an immeasurable pain tore at
every fiber of his body as the shadowy form of his inner-self was ripped
apart. Before his eyes closed and all went dark, he bore witness to
what he could only describe as his soul being separated, part of his
essence disappearing into that bastard's blade while the remainder
lunged back into Azzael and then pulled him deep into the earth,
leaving only the hollowed shell of his mortal self behind for the Dark
Paladin to do unfathomable things with.

What happened next Azzael will never truly remember, for when he
emerged, his mind had been wiped of all his days gone past, leaving
only the beast that would emerge from the fiery depths of Thar-Eris as
the true Iymvyll'tana. His body itself had changed, shrinking in
stature, his features becoming more prominent, from his smaller,
pointier ears to his vicious shark-like teeth. His voice was broken,
able to speak only in short, raspy bursts. The only thing that
remained of his former self was one fiercely amber eye, the other had
turned to a lifeless black.

Whatever he had been, was gone. What he was now was what he was meant
to be, what Thar-Eris had summoned him for to begin with, to be the
scourge of her darkest, deepest desires, to return the land to its
natural state, a place of ravenous beasts and untamed wilds, free of
the pox of all civilization, including every last Theran race...
every...single...one.

Role

Chapter 12

He took to his calling with a hunger matched only by the fires of
Thar-Eris Herself, a desire to see all that was unnatural before him
burn and laid to ash. As it was in the days of the ancient darkness,
for every moment of triumph, many souls must be consumed by the flames.

So it was, and so it shall be.

In order to see this through, he first had to devise a plan, one that
would leave those unfortunate enough to be left standing beside him
when the fires waned and the caustic smoke remained, mouth agape, as
their final breaths escaped their mortal shells.

--First on his agenda, was building up the Reavers which had failed and
been consumed back into the depths of Thar-Eris. A new breed he must
find, to nurture and grow stronger than any that had come before them.
Priests, especially those who sought the mischief of the Ancient Imp,
were of particular interest to him, as he found himself ever stronger
in the presence of the faithful, and intended to feed the fires with
their blessings. The lifeless eye could see the inner-selves of all
those it gazed upon, and now he turned it upon the Reavers. Should
what they see within themselves be also that which danced within the
lifeless eye, then they too would find a hollow beneath the Tree.

--Second, he needed to deal with the Harbinger and his desire to open
his arms to the Dwarves and Orcs that traipsed the countryside. Not
that they couldn't prove useful, in fact, to turn one as an example for
others could indeed prove quite beneficial, but to open the way for
them to flock in like chickens coming home to roost, was unacceptable.
Each one must be watched, set free from the shackles of the civilized
and then, and only then, would he consider either of the races as a
means to an end.

--Finally, he needed to keep his own vengeful desires from hurling him
into the oblivion of the fires that raged about him. Time and time
again had his lust for the destruction of the pox of the civilized
hurled him into the fray, a seething lust to instill fear upon the
living compromising his very nature, weakening him and drawing the
wrath of the very fires he brought forth. He realized now, that the
only way to truly eradicate the ideal of civilization from those that
still clung to it, was to be absolutely unwavering in his own
beliefs...no compromising, ever. Tho, what he says and what he does,
well, that shall always be another matter altogether.

Role

Chapter 13

It was a speck, a glimmer of wanting clinging to the back of Azzael's mind
that when at last the Dark Paladin was consumed by Thar-Eris, what was
taken would be returned.

This was not to be. In fact, the moment he bled that last drop into the
gaping, hungry maw of the soil below, Azzael could feel that hope vanish
like the last fading rays of twilight, forever consumed by the darkness to come.

The conflict of manipulating the enemies of Thar-Eris had been resolved.
The Ancients deemed they would not corrupt their natures as a means to
an end. The Orcs, Dwarves and all others shall be consumed by the fires of Thar-Eris.

This was pleasing to Azzael, allowing a long unsettling inner conflict
to finally burn away. The fires of Thar-Eris do not discriminate which
lay before them, all that looms before them is turned to ash.

So it was and so it shall be.

His own inner turmoil gone, he had but one thing left to do, and that
was to build up his Reavers. His thoughts on this were now also made
clear. For as the fires of Thar-Eris rage and burn indiscriminately, so
too shall the Reavers grow. All those who hold a burning desire within
to fan the flames of Thar-Eris, shall be welcomed to burrow beneath the Tree.

Like the fires themselves, those that are too weak to grow and burn,
shall be snuffed out by the lands...or perhaps a ravenous pack of
Reavers, either one, just the same.

Plunging the grizzly totem deep into the shadowed earth of the cavernous
maw, he placed his hand upon it, exhaling a slow, deep breath. When he
inhaled, the shadows came forth, filling his lungs and consuming him
from within. Again and again he repeated this meditative breathing
process, the shadows ebbing and flowing, reaching deeper with each inhale.

When he removed his hand, his amber eye flared brightly and the lifeless
eye shimmered dully, revealing the mischievous image of an Imp. To gain
the Imp's favor was the last gateway to assuming the place of
Iymvyll'tana, and in Azzael's mind, this was what Thar-Eris summoned him
for, and why the Imp infused him with his powers of deception.

Role

Chapter 14

Standing before the Huntress, Azzael surveyed the shadows as they
swirled about the tree, climbing up the trunk and enveloping the
mightiest of limbs in their misty haze. The smell of sulfur rose in the
air, the fires of Thar-Eris building and raging all about, when amidst
the sulfuric haze emerged the Ancient Trickster himself.

A stinging bite tore at his arm as a rank, green puss began to ooze
forth. When he turned to examine the throbbing pain, a wide, gaping Maw
was infused upon him. Azzael's jaw dropped as the Maw grinned dubiously
back at him. Turning his blazing amber eye upon the Imp, he grinned
mischievously as he felt the bond between he and the Ancient Trickster
melding into one, the sulfuric mist pouring into his lungs. "Enjoy,"
crackled the Imp, as he dissipated into the mists.

As he stood there breathing deeply of the caustic fumes, he felt the
last of his ties to the old thoughts burning away. The oddities of his
previous choices fading as a distant memory, all that was left was the
sensation that he'd experienced some sort of recurring dream, one that
one recalls from time to time like the tingling sensation of de'ja'vu.

Role

Chapter 15

Azzael had heard the whispers of the Ancient Flames, yet he knew not how
far he could push the devouring of the Wardens without being devoured
himself by the Ancients that stood watch over them.

Slinking quietly into the Tree, he was about to find out.

Seizing upon a moment of weakness, Azzael lunged upon the disgraced
giant Aael, kicking and chortling at him as he cursed his existence

The giant, even tho stripped of his heavenly insight, remained, fighting
and crying out in desperation as to why the Nightreaver was doing what
he was doing.

Azzael chortled dryly, feeding off of the giant's enraged and confused
emotions. The more the giant railed against his confusion, the wider
the grin of the gaping Maw upon his arm.

The giant fell back for a moment, tho only for a moment. Again he
returned and Azzael pounced upon him.

A blinding ray of sunlight pierced the canopy of the Tree as the Ancient
Greenhoof strode forth, putting an end to the Nightreavers mischief.

The Ancient seemed quite displeased with him, as he boomed angrily that
no Outlander shall fall prey to another inside the Tree.

Azzael had found his answer. He needed to determine just how far he could
push the insatiable hunger of the Reavers and not lead them to complete annihilation.

Soon the time would be upon them. He had begun to work up a fervor
amongst the Reavers, increasing their numbers and their hunger as he saw
the shadows begin to coalesce about the Tree, tightening their grip as
the raging flames swelled about it, burning away the sanctimonious
detritus that clung desperately to the remaining branches still bathed
in the dissipating light.

If the Ancient Fires wanted to see him cast off the last thoughts of the
oddities that plagued him, then he would do so with a fervor unmatched
by any save the fires themselves. He would embrace the chattering of
the gaping Maw upon his arm and become the conduit for the irrepressible
flames that surged forth, ushering in a wave of destruction across the
land unseen since before the time of the Forsaken One himself...

Role

Chapter 16

Slowly he breathed, his lifeless eye flaring a blinding white as he
focused intently upon the weed within the crack of the city's street.

He could feel the life flowing within him, the seed from the Tree of
Ages infused within. Yet, time and time again, he failed to so much as
nudge a plant other than by the gale from his dismissive gestures.

The reason for his newfound curiosity arose from having been dispatched
upon a mysterious, foreboding task to acquire some relic known only in
hushed whispers by the Ancient Fires to be the First Laws.

Somewhere along the way, the voices within lead him to the unexpected
discovery of the petrified seed. Passing it between Sivane and Koom,
they looked closely upon it, examining the life that oozed from this
ancient, if not first, seed. The Ancient Flames also broke the silence,
whispering that it was likely something the Wardens sought.

Feeling unruly and growing tired of some secretive, manipulative force
attempting to get him to work alongside the Wardens, he did what came
naturally, he set the seed upon his tongue, grinned mischievously and
swallowed.

Immortal Comments

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