I always watch our ductus during the feasts. I dont understand his lack of passion. I understand the reason for it...

When i lose control the worst i do is wind up rubbing some blood rich tissue against my stiff nipples and wondering where i am. With him... well, hes becoming something else.

So i feel its my duty to play Id to his emotionless Superego. I lose control easily, i try to make him come with me. Im rarely successful... But its like a game, a test of his faith, perhaps the only way i could hope to corrupt him...

I lick blood from my fingers looking from brother to brother. I am coated and caked, like a red mask and obviously ruined outfit. It doesnt make any difference. I will be chopping my hair and covering my flesh in fresh tattoos come tommoro.

I have worked diligently for years, training myself to breathe once more. Though my dead flesh has no need for oxygen, it is still the only way to engage the olfactory organs that divulge so many secrets of the world around me. For a moment, I almost lost myself in the sights and sounds of Dust’s ecstatic abandon. Her unbridled revelry can be so very… intoxicating, almost hypnotic. Suddenly my body takes in a sharp breath and I detect the scent of fresh, deep, earth. It is Acid, It reeks of the graves I once dug, I have always found it strangely calming. They say that of all the senses, scent has the most direct access to memory. That smell reminds me of what I once was, and thus, what I am no more.

The Priest is unmistakably alien, but there is an inhuman beauty to It that is equally undeniable. A kind of unearthly symmetry to be found only amongst marble statues of mythological demigods. Before our paths crossed so many years ago, I was lost. I mistakenly thought that the curse of my blood was slowly consuming me and devolving me into a mindless beast. I would stare at my reflection for hours, looking deep into these crow-eyes, studying this black fur-lined torso, contemplating these chitinous, birdlike hands and despising what I saw.

It taught me that it was not my form which was inferior, rather it was clinging to humanity that was the cause of both my metamorphosis and my inability to revel in it.  Through It, I have come to see my own beauty reflected in Its insectile physiognomy. It has chosen to wear this form, caused Itself to be bereft of genitals, navel, nipples, anything that would mark It as having once been human. I have witnessed It become a physical manifestation of evolution. It remembers everything, even the things most of us would choose to forget. It is a glimpse of what we are destined to become. It is adaptation. I study It, and I begin to understand myself.

My lessons have not been wasted on them, truly they are worthy of my insights. Extracting my stinger from the spent abecedarian, I see the Ductus’ eyes ablaze with the Beast as Dust plies her subtle craft before he summarily dismisses the urge. It is a testament to each of them. That she was able to tempt one of such iron resolve and that he has such mastery of his demons in the face of a succubus of her caliber.

Enoch, on the other hand, for all of his rote and habit is yet a seething mass of revolting biological desires beneath the veneer of his code. Still, he is an intriguing experiment, his actions are at times meticulous, and seemingly haphazard at others. He calls upon old gods of war and wears the fatigues of a modern militant. He speaks of order and control, but becomes as a berserker in battle. There is a method to his madness, and I will discern its pattern.

We are victorious in our conquest. Strength and honor. This place shall serve as our base of operations for the coming battle. Verily, I say unto thee.

"Father Mars, I pray and beseech thee that thou be gracious and merciful to me, my house, and my household; to which intent I have bidden this suovetaurilia to be led around my land, my ground, my farm; that thou keep away, ward off, and remove sickness, seen and unseen, barrenness and destruction, ruin and unseasonable influence; and that thou permit my harvests, my grain, my vineyards, and my plantations to flourish and to come to good issue, preserve in health my shepherds and my flocks, and give good health and strength to me, my house, and my household. To this intent, to the intent of purifying my farm, my land, my ground, and of making an expiation, as I have said, deign to accept the offering of these suckling victims; Father Mars, to the same intent deign to accept the offering of these suckling offering."

I notice that Its eyes are upon me. I must have been speaking aloud again. It is the metric and meter that distract me from the overwhelming need to rip the heart from the chest of the vanquished and devour it whole. Sawney understands these things, the others do not. They all frown upon my cravings, though they seem to have no quarrel with the power it grants me. So be it, I will stave off my appetence, if only for their sake, but when Acid’s pet returns, we shall feast anew.

Though he is a small and frail looking man, he and I have much in common. Perhaps not in an ideological sense, I have my doubts that he could even read the code of Milan, but certainly we both long for war. I have seen him shrug off wounds that would cripple a warrior twice his size, and though he prefers the rank and file of the archers to that of the spear and shield, he can handle himself surprisingly well on the frontlines when he must. Had we been here to wage war in earnest, his mighty hellhounds would surely have claimed many lives already.