“What has disgusted me most about mankind is its conceit; we see ourselves so high and mighty that we may assume to know the truths of this world and the next.  They will delude themselves with these lies, never to second guess themselves, so utterly sure of what they have assumed, without taking any time to research their theories, to investigate their hypotheses.  Even more insulting is the way that they rage at and shun those of us that dare to question their dream, those of us who live according to logic and reason, rather than superstition and fear.  I am repulsed by their intolerance for we men of science.  They call our discoveries “unnatural” or “perversions” or even that abhorrent word “Rycogn”.  How ignorant!
     “They cannot see the weakness of the natural state, the frailty of the innate!  I took simple serpents chewing their way through rotting corpses, and made them the catalysts for a great and noble ascension.  I laid my hands upon the aether-addicts in tin cans and made them into glorious angels of death.  I redefined the term “Overseer”.  I am behind the greatest strides in Relagian weaponry both mechanical and biological… and those cretins have the gall to call me mad?  I am not mad!  I am anything but mad!  I am an artist!  I am a king of men!  I am a god among ants!  I am a GENIUS!”
      So I said to the man in force-chains.  When stripped of his swords and powers, the mighty Wolf of Relagia was not as fearsome as one would think.  What was he without a blade?  What was he without his aethereal manipulation?  A boy.  A whelp in a man’s shoes. Nothing more.  I had given him his power, and I could take it away.  If Abaddon was the Child of God, then I was God’s executioner.  How grand a position, one suitable for no other.
      “And so the next time you think it wise to disobey me,” I hissed at Abaddon, “Remember who it is that you cross.  My science has bested your magics, and the next time I may not let you have your life.  Do I make myself clear?”
     The Wolf of Relagia looked up at me from his spot on the floor, eyes blazing with utter hatred, and said, “When you die, Masayaf, I shall be responsible.”
      I sneered at him, before drawing my boot across his teeth.  I left the prison in a fouler mood than when I had entered, angered at the dog’s lack of respect.  I am a genius.  I deserved to be honored.  I would be honored.

***

      The man held up his hands in surrender, hoping that by some twist of fate I would take pity upon and spare him his life; he did this just before I shoved my blade through his throat.  ‘Course, at this point you’re probably thinking how much of a horrible person I am.  Cruel?  Maybe, but keep in mind that people dying puts food on my plate.  The day mankind achieves world peace is the day I start browsing soup kitchens.  To get back on topic, what you see as cruelty I see as efficiency.  It was that distinction that set Abaddon and myself on opposite sides of the line.
     Abaddon was not efficient, and I mean that in the aforementioned usage.  Cruel didn’t even come close to describing him; the guy was sadistic.  His aethereal sensitivity was stronger than anyone else I’d ever known in my life, the Dark Knight able to destroy entire legions with a mere wave of his hand.  I’m pretty sure he could have conquered the City of Songs single-handedly had he had the initiative.  But the Wolf of Relagia was easily bored, and that’s where the blades came in.  As great as he was a sentir, the guy was an even better swordsman, and it was then, when he drew his swords, that Abaddon lost his efficiency to cruelty.
     I think “Lion of Relagia” would have suited him better than “Wolf”, because like a cat, Abaddon liked to toy with his victims.  The battles were always the same; different moves, but the same formula: Abaddon would flit and skirt around his opponent, never letting them get too far away but never getting close enough to be struck.  Then the wolf would cross swords with his enemy, landing one or two glancing blows, before ultimately crippling the poor bastard and finally landing the coup de grace.
     I’d watched him kill hundreds of men that way… and yet it was never enough.  The Wolf of the Relagia had a bloodlust, a craze that just couldn’t be sated no matter how many men he killed.  Though this lead Masayaf and Komah to fear what would become of the Dark Knight should he survive the war, I think that it was the quality, not the quantity, of the men he killed that distressed him so much.  I came to this assumption when news reached us of our forces’ defeat on the northwestern border.  Abaddon and I had sent a battalion of soldier to attack Iefriir, aware that the Arkosian and Juanti forces would fight tooth and nail to defend the Northen Eye.  The cunning behind the plan was that that battle was little more than a diversion, for with our enemies preoccupied with the city, they had left the Iefiir Watchtower all but undefended.  A small force of Operatives was assembled to claim the tower in the name of Relagia; only one returned, he bloodied and broken.
     He told us that as he and his comrades had approached the fortress, the gate had opened and a single man emerged, holding in his hand a blade that burned with an orange blaze.  The team hadn’t been aware that Wardens had been dispatched to serve under Arkos and Juantir (and neither had we, for that matter), and before they had time to strategize, the warrior was upon them.  The Warden cut through their ranks like a knife through butter, his burning force-edge accompanied by a talent for pyromancing.  Before he knew what had happened, the survivor had earned his namesake, though not without injury, and the warden bade him return to his master.  And who was this man?  What was the name of he who stood his grounds against Relagia’s finest and defeated them single-handedly?  The High Warden himself: Nathaniel Storm.
     Upon hearing this, Abaddon did something I’d never once thought was possible of him: he laughed.  It started out as simple chuckling and quickly grew into great howls of mirth.
     “What the hell’s a matter with you?” I asked him, disturbed.
     The Wolf’s laughter quieted back into idle sniggering and replied, “I’ve finally found him, Baine.”
     “Who?”
     “A man worth killing.”

***

     I have been told from time to time that I may have a few problems controlling my anger; usually I responded by calling the person that told me such a thing a liar and then breaking their nose.  The truth is I don’t have a problem keeping my ire in check, I just don’t see the desire to do so.  I’ve watched more than a few men die of aneurysms or ulcers, both induced by keeping such emotions bottled up, and I refused to die that way.  It was a hardly dignified manner for a man such as myself to depart from this world (between the two of us, dear listener, I planned on dying in a glorious manner, like killed fighting off a thousand men, though that’s a tangent).
     Needless to say, I couldn’t help wondering if all of those people that gave me such simple had had a point.  In hindsight it was my temper that had got me into my current mess.  And I do mean current; everything leading up to the present had just been bad luck.  To sate your no doubt ravenous curiosity, presently I was tied to a throne made from petrified wood.  My right arm and legs were bound to the piece of furniture by simple rope, but my armored limb was awkwardly suspended at my side, held up by great silver chains that shone with marks that I would like to describe as “arcane”, but that wasn’t the case; the runes were magical in nature.  The very thought of my captors possessing such unholy talents sent a shiver down my spine.  Speaking of captors, the door to my prison swung inward with a skidding groan, and a faint column of light carved its way through the gloom, bathing me in both light and shadow.
     I would like to think that as a side effect of my... condition, my eyes glowed with a smoldering ire.  I would like to think this so that when my jailer entered my makeshift cell, he saw those burning coals through the gloom and was given pause; as his steps kept a steady rhythm approaching me, I’m guessing that this was not the case.  The sound of footfalls ceased, and I glanced up at him with a baleful eye.  The conventional me would have noticed his disdainful sneer or silvery hair and drawn up a snide remark that questioned his masculinity, but the current me saw every hidden vein in his face, saw every twitch on his neck that accompanied his heartbeat, and thought only of what a glorious ruby tide would emerge from his throat were I to draw a knife across it.  I flexed the claws on my armored limb, vexed to find the chains still held firm.
     It was with a certain measure of frost that my captor addressed me.  “I will not ask you twice, Mr. Daon,” said the Seelie coldly, “How did you come by this world?”
     “What’s the matter, Avvy?” I replied, “No time for pleasantries?”
     “As I told you the last time we met, you will address me by my full title or not at all.”
     “Technically speaking, you and I’ve never been properly acquainted.”
     “You know what I mean.  I must confess: you are a lot rougher in person than in fiction.”
     “You stabbed me repeatedly, tied me to a chair, and chained me up in this ridiculous position, all after I went to the trouble of saving your ailing sister.”
     “Being that I was the narrator for your little venture, I know exactly what thoughts went through your head every time you thought of Nimue.”
     I grinned my most lecherous grin.  “How is Nim these days?”
     Instead of answering my question, Avion struck me across the face with the hilt of a dagger, and I tasted copper.  I sucked on my cheeks, drawing up as much blood as I could muster and spat it out all over Avion’s boots; his nose wrinkled even further.
     “Touchy subject?” I drawled.
     Avion seized me by my shirt-front and pulled me as close to himself as the chains would allow, anger only now becoming apparent on his face, his pale demeanor gaining a bit of a flush, and an irritation rose in me; he was so close, if I could just get one arm free...  
     “I’ve had quite enough of you, Mr. Daon,” the Seelie noble snarled, “You will tell me how you came by this world immediately or else I shall tear your mind asunder and pick out the information I seek from amidst the ruins.”  He released me.  “It’s your choice.”
     It was then that I realized how much I truly wanted to kill this man.  It wasn’t even the Craze talking through me anymore; I actually wanted to see Avion Nimure lying in a pool of his own blood.  It wasn’t blood-lust, it was vengeance.
     “Fine, Avion,” I said slowly, every words dripping with malice, “I’ll tell you what happened.  I tell you how you threw me to the wolves at the end of your little bed-time story, how you let Mab turn me into her dog, and how I in response kicked the asses of your flunkies six ways to Sunday and then beat you within an inch of your life.  I’ll tell you what happened just so you know that it was all your fault.”