Archive of Our Own ^beta

The temple reeks of boredom. Ever since Master Cyril went away on business a tenday ago, you have found yourself driven mad by the lack of activity. Lady Orin has been busy too, taking her sweet time playing with her new corpse-toy. With no one around to direct their blades the Bhaalist congregation has succumbed to indolence. You heard the Dread Lord's call a few years ago, and it led you to these very walls in worship of something far greater than yourself: the exhilarating embrace of death. You felt it once, nearly, when you faced the Murder Lord's trial to become initiated into the cult. You felt so full of blood you could burst, and then it was over. You want everyone to be able to share that feeling, that escape.

Your role as a Night Blade is simple. Kill, kill, kill again. In His name and at His appointed time. And there had not been enough appointed times given to you recently. Your Death's Head had made sure of that after you hit the wrong target on accident what seemed like forever ago. She said you couldn't be trusted if you were not precise, and that if you wished to aid others in their search for Bhaal's Embrace, you must not get carried away.

This seemed hypocritical, seeing as Lady Orin was always bringing in seemingly random corpse-toys that were not on the list. But she was Lady Orin, and you suppose she has every right to do what she desires, considering her unholy lineage. Or she just has a different list. You still remember that day you had erred so grievously, Death's Head Blythe had imprinted the shape of her palm on your cheek a few times before dragging you into Master Cyril's chambers with a flail forced into your hand. You remember weeping to him, praying on your knees and kissing his blood-soaked boots for another chance. He lifted you by the chin and pierced his glowing red eyes through yours.

"You brought another soul to my Father, yes?" His voice was smooth, sending tingling shivers down your spine. You nodded shakily. "Then I will allow this transgression to be forgiven once, so long as it does not happen again. If our Lord wanted lack-luster carnage on the streets, he would not have established a church. There will come a time very soon that you may choose your victims at your own discretion, but until that time, do submit to your Death's Head." He smiled at you, his ritual scars bending with the movements of his mouth. You stared at him in awe for a second too long before bowing once more and dashing from the room.

You've spent much of your idle time since then ruminating on your Master's prophecy; was the rise of the red sun upon them, as foretold in the stories? You hope so with all your heart. You salivate, losing yourself in the thought of spilled blood, when the sharp clacking of boots echoes in the entryway. These sounds are not ones you recognize, and the smell was different, too. You rise from your perch along the left side wall and prowl toward the entrance. The place is deserted save for a few chanters doing their prayers on the dais, so you're able to get close without drawing attention to yourself. With your hood up, you peek around the corner to find a surprising sight.

A Banite has lost its way.

And not just any Banite. An Iron Consul? A Black Gauntlet even? He had ruffled black hair and wore a gilded black coat. He stood in the entry, as if waiting for someone. The rules on targets did not apply at the temple. Unless they were for a specific rite, any unfortunate soul who managed to wander its way into the Undercity was usually fair game. All you needed was initiative. And you have a lot of built up initiative. Quietly unsheathing your knife, you stalk toward the Banite and lick your lips. Time to play.

"Is somebody lost?" He whips around to face you, not afraid, but certainly startled. "I could help you get home," you drawl, poking the tip of your knife to his chest.

With surprising speed, the man bats the knife from your hand and frowns. "It seems I've caught a little crow. Are all of you Bhaalists so bloody stupid?" The Banite grabs your wrist with a painfully tight grip. The metalwork on his fingers digs into the skin of your forearm and you wince as you try to wrench yourself free to get at your other dagger. "Your Master is certainly not going to like this," he says with a devious twinkle in his eye. Who is this man? And why does he speak of Master Cyril in this way?

You continue to struggle, employing your free hand to scratch at his unrelenting grasp. You refuse to be teased by a bloody Banite, he is obviously lying to you about knowing the Master. This death will be yours, you crave it, yearn for it. The thought leaves you breathless. You are only brought to reality when a warm hand clasps your shoulder from behind. "What have we here?"

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, your mouth drops slack, and your knees falter as the voice of your Master greets your unworthy ears. His aura shatters your defenses, turning your thoughts into mush and sparking dark arousal in your core. You drift into the myriad fantasies you've had about him since you first laid eyes on him, craving for his touch. You don't care if it's torture or sex or death, you just need it. Need him.

"One of your crows seems to have fled its murder," the Banite speaks calmly with Master Cyril, friendly, even. He releases your hand and you collapse to the floor in a groveling bow, trying to ignore the increasing ache in your wrist.

"I see that. Did she hurt you?"

The Banite scoffs. "Of course not. The little bird is slower with a blade than a drunkard at the Caress." You tremble, knowing deep in your heart that he is right.

"Disappointing," Master Cyril sighs, then taps your bowed head with his boot. "Look at me." You snap your head up, fear and unholy lust bundled together as your eyes find his. "I cannot abide any disregard for order and authority in my temple. Particularly when it concerns my business. And now that my earlier clemency appears to have been premature, there will be penance paid for your recalcitrance."

A lump swells in your throat, and the tingling resurfaces on your skin. You don't know what half of those big words he said even mean, but you do understand 'penance,' and want to plead for it to be delivered by him instead of your Death's Head. You remain silent and still as the grave.

"Follow. We will deliver your punishment in my chambers."

Wait… We!?

…

"Is this how you punish all of your followers? Or just the pretty ones?" You can hear the Banite's sandy voice on your right side. You arrive in Master Cyril's chambers, a delicate silk blindfold is tied around your head, your long hair gently brushed to the side. Every touch of his infernal hands gives you shivers, and you feel wetness begin to soak into your underclothes. You should be ashamed of yourself, but you can't help but swoon as the pointed tip of one of his claws traces an achingly slow line from your cheek to your chin.

"Wouldn't you like to know, tyrant?" the Master's voice rings all sultry and sweet on your left. "Besides, you can't go giving her ideas that she's pretty before she's atoned for her sin." Your heart jumps and your breath stills. "It is her worship that will make her beautiful," he whispers in your ear, hot breath diffusing over your already flushed cheeks. "Are you ready to worship, little bird?"

You gulp, nodding your head vigorously.

"Speak it," his voice adopts a more commanding tone. "A penance paid without consent is naught but worthless groveling."

"Y-yes, Master Cyril. I seek to… atone for my… transgression and… prove my faith to you and the D-Dread Lord." You never were good at saying the prayers, your liturgy dwarfed by your betters, and it is all you can do to remain coherent as his words pour over you.

"Such a good little bird." A kiss on your forehead sees you buckling at the knees, your covered eyes rolling back into your head. It takes all the remaining willpower you have not to gasp out a moan. "Stay still for me."

The next sensation you feel is the prick of a blade at your sternum, just above the low neckline of your tunic. Perhaps you will die today, but you can die happy, rolling in the succor of his kiss as you give yourself to Bhaal. You brace, readying yourself for a stab through the heart, but it does not come. Instead, the blade catches the edge of your shirt and begins to split it as it slices all the way down the length of it. You shudder as the cold air catches your bare front, the fabric peeling away any modesty that you had. The blade never once touches your skin, which surprises you. The tunic, fully opened, falls off of your form, leaving your breasts and midriff exposed. You shudder at the feeling of eyes on you, examining you, feasting on you.

"You're being awfully nice today. Does Bhaal's most sacred son also play favorites?" The Banite's voice interrupts your stupor. You had almost forgotten he was there, and you wish he would leave, so this moment could be shared between you and your Master.

"I take care of my church, Gortash. Harm is administered only when the situation requires it; which is most times, but not all of them." You've heard that name, Gortash, before, but can't place it. Master Cyril continues, "However, since this sin was committed against you, you have some say in the course of this penalty. If your base Banite instincts insist on violence, we are happy to provide. Right, little bird?"

"Yes, Master." You say out of instinct, before even realizing what you had agreed to. You could have practically grown wings by now considering the way you feel.

A sharp cut opens itself up on your right hip, traveling down a few inches before separating from the skin of your thigh. You wince in pain, drawing in a hissed breath, but maintain your composure. The knife has severed the waistband of your trousers, and you feel it traveling down the length of them just like he had done with your shirt. The fabric sloughs off your leg slowly, and you feel blood trickling down from the cut. He is gentler with the other side, though the blade catches your lower calf a few times. The only clothing left on you is your soaked panties, and they are barely clinging to your body. You shudder, praying that what happens next will be what you hope.

The Dread Lord answers your prayers. The tip of the knife graces the inside of your thigh, not enough pressure to cut, but plenty to let you know full well it's there. You shake in fear and want.

"Stay very still. I don't want to damage you," his sensual whisper floats. "At least… not yet."

Your frozen response to his words aids you in your effort to follow his command. You feel his blade dance a fine cut across you, cleaving the undergarment, but leaving the supple skin untouched. With another flick of the knife, the waistband gives out, and your panties crumple to the floor.

"I don't want to get in the way of this lovely encounter you two are having, but may I touch her?" You hear the Banite's voice hum as he appraises you.

"Her errant wings have created this sin, so your wandering hands may assist in its absolution." Master Cyril speaks in poetry, the flowery stanzas similar to those you hear in his sermons.

The click of his heavy boots approaches, stopping when you can feel the Banite's emanating heat on your naked form. A hand clamps around your crotch. He grips tightly, pinching your tender folds between those adorned fingers, groping at you until they find your dripping entrance. You hear him snicker. "As I suspected. She is so wet for you, pet. Are you certain that this form of punishment will allow her to learn her lesson?"

"Give me your hand, Gortash." The realization comes to you. You knew you had heard Gortash's name before. This was the one Lady Orin always ranted about whenever Master Cyril would travel, and if she could be believed: the Chosen of Bane himself. Your Master's forbidden lover. The severity of your crime begins to set in and your breath quickens. "Let me taste her," your Master can be heard sucking on the Banite's fingers. "Oh I don't think she will be forgetting this lesson for quite some time."

"So needy." Gortash's hand returns to your cunt with a harsh smack, laying claim to you once more. "So eager to be punished." You would prefer the hand to belong to your Master, but you have become so flustered you no longer care whose it is. His rough fingers find your entrance and dip inside, just enough to stretch you out, but not so much where you are satisfied. Your hips buck involuntarily, yearning for more sensation. He tightens his grip on you until you gasp in pain. "Too needy," he says darkly.

"I thought I told you to stay still, little bird." Master Cyril's voice appears behind you as Gortash's hand retreats, though you are so lost in sheer want that you can't tell what's up or down or sideways in this darkness. "Do you need help with that?" His left arm wraps around your waist and pulls you flush with him. The heat of his body spreads itself over your back, and you feel his hardness pressed up against you through his robes. You just about faint from sheer adoration. Your Master is hard for you. His other hand snakes its way slowly down your core, the soft pads of his fingers finding your clit. You jolt, losing yourself to the sensation. He tuts, flicking the spot where he had just rubbed with his sharp talon. You jolt again, then hum in shame as you have once again failed to obey orders. "Bad girl."

He lifts you as if you were a feather pillow, slinging you over his broad shoulder, and the world turns upside down. You squeeze out a yelp of surprise. Gravity embraces you as he sends you flying and you land sprawled awkwardly on what you can only assume to be the Master's bed. You feel the softness of the velvet comforter underneath you, sliding against your bare skin as you collect yourself. Unsure of what he wants from you, you sit up on your heels with your head bowed, the position straining the cut on your hip.

You feel the weight shift on the bed until you feel someone sitting behind you. Then, those warm, soft hands clamp down on your shoulders, and the Dread Lord's highest priest whispers in your ear once more. "My little bird, so unrestrained, insubordinate," he coos it like a praise, "your lust for blood does not go unnoticed. There will come a day where you will soar above the rest, but we must tame your wings first."

His hands slide down your arms, and you let him draw them behind your back, curving your shoulders to elegantly display your chest. You feel the distinct texture of rope around your wrists. It's wrapped around several times and tied off when it's secure. He manipulates your fingers around a solid object that feels familiar… yes, it's the hilt of your knife. You would know those ornate carvings anywhere. After some adjustments, you feel the slightest prod of its tip on your upper back. It's positioned in such a way that if you were to arch your back any further, it would break through the skin.

"You pointed your blade at my tyrant." Master Cyril's voice is far less gentle now, and he pushes your shoulders down so the knife tip kisses your skin. "Only I am allowed to do that." The blindfold falls from your face, and you see the Banite fiddling with his trousers to free his length as you adjust your eyes to the light. "You will let him use you, and then you will worship me. Only then will I declare your penance paid."

You nod slightly, trying not to move your shoulders too much. "Yes, Master."

"Move to the edge of the bed, and follow his orders," his instruction is paired with a nudge at the blade. You awkwardly shuffle toward the Banite, doing everything in your power to keep from moving your shoulders or hands. The process is slow and humiliating, and you see him twisting his face into a shit-eating smile.

"And here I thought I would only ever get to debauch one Bhaalist." His sandy voice floats a melody to match his bravado. "It's good to know that you all look a treat on your knees where you belong."

This remark causes your hands to clench around the knife and your face to scrunch up in a snarl. You want to say something, curse his heretical speech, cut out his tongue for speaking of your people, your Master, in such a profane manner. But you don't want to embarrass yourself in front of him. You must endure, you must prove your faith.

"Careful, she might bite," Master Cyril quips.

"She wouldn't dare." Gortash looks directly into your eyes, melting away your defiance. "Show me your pretty mouth, Bhaal-slut." You gaze at him, bringing your jaw as low as it can comfortably go. The Banite places on hand on your forehead and the other finger on your outstretched tongue, pushing your mouth farther open and stretching your chapped lips. His hand stays on your head has he pushes his cock in, moving back to catch a handful of your tangled hair and twirling it until its pulls tightly away from your skull. This forces your head and shoulders to arch backward, into the tip of the blade. You wince from the pain of a cut forming on your back.

"The little bird can't learn self control if you're pushing her around. She can hold herself up." You feel your Master's finger rub over the fresh cut, followed by an exaggerated sucking sound and a pleased sigh. He's tasting your blood, and the thought makes you giddy. "Isn't that right?" The talon comes back for more and you hum your assent around Gortash's cock.

He releases your hair and your shoulders and head return to a more comfortable position away from the knife's edge. You gather your strength, keeping yourself still as he fucks into your mouth. He tastes like a Banite; all musk and salt and blasphemy. His pompous attitude is certainly not due to any kind of compensation, because he fills your mouth with every assertive movement. You look up at him, attempting a doe-eyed submissive expression to see how he would react.

"Oh, she's trying so hard, pet," Gortash fakes a smug pout. "But I am not satisfied. I don't believe she knows her place."

"Her place is with me, tyrant." Master Cyril's tone becomes possessive, and it sends butterflies to your stomach and a fresh gush of arousal to your cunt. "You're right, though. There is still much she can learn."

The weight shifts on the bed behind you, and you have to adjust to avoid further prodding from the knife. You are so focused on this task, as well as the swift and steady movements of the Banite's cock that you initially do not feel your Master's hand as it gently cups your breast, the growing heat of his infernal skin bringing you to the realization. You sigh, letting your eyes flutter closed as his thumb brushes back and forth over your nipple.

A harsh slap greets your cheek and your eyes burst open, locking onto Gortash's once more. "You keep your eyes open and on me. Don't make me do that again." He continues his ruthless thrusts.

Master Cyril's left hand finds your other breast and mirrors the motion, then brings his fingers together to pinch both buds at the same time. Your moan escapes through your nose, as your mouth is otherwise occupied.

"How do you ever get any work done when everyone is such a slut for you all the time?" the Banite looks behind you, addressing your Master.

"They do not lust for me," he replies, "they lust for Murder Incarnate. And they will do anything to gain his favor." You hear a dark smile through his speech. "A–" he flicks your right nipple, "–ny–" then your left, "–thing." His hand grabs at your cunt, pulling your hips upward from your kneeling position, forcing the knife deep into your back. You cry out in pain and pleasure and exaltation all at once.

A wet tongue appears at the site of the fresh cut, smearing the blood pouring out. You shiver, and you feel the whisper of a laugh on your skin. You've nearly forgotten about the cock in your mouth and Gortash's arrogant eyes. Your sole focus is on where your Master will touch you next. His hands grip your hips and push them back down, then one slithers to the heat between your thighs. You are pretty sure that you have begun to drip onto the velvet bedcovers by now, Master Cyril only encouraging this with the careful circling of his finger around your clit. You take a deep breath, praying to Bhaal for strength to keep both of these men satisfied and pay for your sin.

"Are you almost done?" your Master grumbles impatiently at Gortash, continuing to work on you. "I tire of waiting for my turn."

"I do not have to follow your timetable, Bhaalspawn," he snaps back. "But yes, since you so politely asked, I am."

The Banite grunts, slowing and preparing to climax. You hold your breath so none of the vile cum goes into your throat. That is, until you hear Master Cyril's smooth voice whisper in your ear. "Swallow it, little bird. This is your penance." You relax, trying not to make your eye roll too noticeable. This does not work, as you are rewarded with another slap on your cheek as Gortash's seed begins to run down your throat.

When he finally pulls out of you, you take a deep breath. At least now you can focus on your Master fully. He has not stopped his ministrations on your clit, and the tension in your core continues to build. You let out an untempered whine when his hand leaves you. He grabs your chin and turns your head in the Banite's direction. "What do you say?" he prompts.

"Th-thank you," you stammer, "for allowing me to pay my penance to you."

"It was truly a delight," he responds with an air of Upper City politeness. "My Lord blesses me this day for being given such an opportunity." His eyes are boring into you, an evil smile hanging on his lips.

"Would you like to stay and join for the rest of her worship?" Master Cyril asks. He takes the knife out of your hands, and cuts the rope around your wrists.

"I will watch, but I am satisfied enough. She did well… for a Bhaalist." You wish he wouldn't, but are grateful that you no longer have to split your attention.

"Suit yourself," he shrugs, then climbs off of the bed, walking around it until he is facing you. He smiles at you greedily. "It's time to worship me, little bird."

…

You have pictured this moment in your head on countless occasions. Everyone in the temple longs for Master Cyril's touch, his attentions, few receive it— especially not those of your rank. A well of pride grows in you, knowing that you are about to worship your Lord in a way that not many others have, aside from fully receiving the Dread Lord's Embrace. The Banite's cum left to rot in your stomach was your penance, this is your reward. You haven't moved since this started and are quietly awaiting his orders.

You know it's unrealistic, but you want him to shower you with affection, praising you for what a good job you did with 'his tyrant,' making you promise you'll never do it again, and stroking your hair when you do. You want him to worship you as much as you worship him. He unties his robe, and lets it fall to the floor, revealing his body to you. You've seen it before, during certain rites and demonstrations, but never so close. Your breathing slows as you take him in; his pale skin, curved horns, patterned ridges, muscular core, and pink cock. It takes concerted effort to look back at his face, but when you do, you find it reddening with anger.

"When Death's Head Blythe dragged your pathetic self here before, do you remember why I gave you mercy?" His tone is sharp. His aura clouds your senses and sends sparks through your mind. You shake your head, not wanting to assume your Master's intentions. "Speak!" His hand pushes your chest forcefully, you fall back onto the bed, legs sliding out from under you.

"N-no Master Cyril!" You shout frantically, scrambling back to a seat to look at him.

He shakes his head. "Brainless little bird, I gave you mercy because you succeeded in taking a life you were not supposed to! I overlooked your disregard for authority and your ineptitude to follow instructions because you added one more soul to my Father's corpse-castle."

Your eyes begin to well up with tears, just as they did on that day. You weren't expecting this kind of berating from him, considering his swirling poetry and sultry speech uttered not minutes before. He pushes you back on the bed and crawls over you, pressing one of his knees into your weeping cunt.

"Why do you cry?" he barks sharply. "Understanding your sin is how you worship me. Or have you forgotten that you are being punished in favor of being distracted by your lust?" He digs his knee into your needy folds, sending you into a flustered frenzy of raw emotions. Should you feel aroused? Remorseful? Disgusted? In any case, you urge yourself to look into his piercing red eyes as he looms above you and continues. "Today, not only did you defy the structure and laws set in my church, interfere in my affairs, and assault my tyrant, you did not even have the competence to spill his blood!"

You pause, not expecting this explanation.

"I cannot have my ranks embarrassing the sacred name of my Father for matters of personal pride." He takes your blade and places the point just below your chin, nudging your head back and exposing your throat to him. "It. Is. Not. Your. Place." Each of his words are accompanied by the smallest of grazes along your neck, no more than scratches, reminding you that Murder Incarnate is sitting above you with a knife, able to end you without a second thought. You shudder and lock your jaw. You hear the dagger being placed on the bedside table, and his hand finds your chin, pulling your head back to look at him.

"Beg." His face is flawless and frightening, and you hope that if you do die tonight, it will be the last thing you see.

You blink, unsure of what to say.

"Beg! Let Bhaal hear you beg for my forgiveness. Let me hear you beg to worship me in the way your unworthy cunt wants to." He gets off the bed, crossing his arms and awaiting your response. You see the glistening of precum dripping from his tip.

Doing your best to ignore this, you recite your prayers as well was are are able. "Please, Prince of Bhaal, I beg for your undue forgiveness and I beg that the Dread Lord will continue to provide me the breath to worship you with my wretched, unholy cunt." Not the most eloquent, but at least it came out in one coherent sentence.

Master Cyril nods, seemingly satisfied. For now. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed and then flipping you over so that your face is mashed into the velvet. He molds your body like it's an extension of his own, like its a corpse-toy. He folds you into a deep bowing position, your knees tucked beneath you, arms stretched out on each side of your face. He pulls your forearms back so your hands meet in prayer above your head.

"Does the bird have her wings under control or do I need to tie them again?" His finger runs down your curved spine, causing you to quiver.

"Please tie them, my Lord. I fear I am not ready."

"That's a good answer for a good little bird," he hums. A silk tie is woven around your wrists and through your fingers, it's not tight, not enough to cut off circulation, but your hands will not be separating any time soon. "Ass up, let me see you." You follow his command, opening yourself up for his use. His fingers explore you, examine you. You wiggle just a little, encouraging him. He grips your hips and pulls you closer to the edge of the bed. His hand begins to travel around your smooth ass and thighs, sparking effervescent sensations on your skin. "Have you ever worshiped someone like this?"

You've had sex before, short flings with underwhelming lovers, nothing like this. "No, Master," your voice is muffled by your position.

His thumb finds your entrance and presses inside, but not far enough. You let out an involuntary groan. "Know that I do not make a habit of this. You are here because of special circumstances, on my whim alone. I will not tolerate further insolence in a futile effort to receive my cock."

"I understand, Master." It seems that he has predicted the plan you were concocting in your head.

"Now take it, and let me hear you sing your praises to me." Without further ceremony, he fills you, the smack of his hips against your ass echoing throughout the chamber. You don't even have to pretend to exaggerate the sinful moan that flies from your lips. Your Prince has blessed you today, and with every movement, subtle or sublime, the rapture you feel increases. He remains silent letting your praises fill the gaps between the sounds of him fucking into you. One of his hands finds your breast, squished under you and forgotten until now. He squeezes it with increasing pressure until you feel the sting of its strain. "Pray to me," his whisper is sharp and sinister.

Your mind is beyond the point of forming thoughts, with each thrust beating it into more of a ruined pulp, but you refuse to disappoint him and let his name fall from your unclean lips in broken syllables. "I pray… that you will… use… my body… as a… way to… pay for… my sin…" You manage to spill a few words out at a time between each stroke. From this angle, his cock hits places inside of you that you didn't know existed, and your hands strain to stay together in the bindings from the way the feeling makes your fingers curl.

He releases his grip on your tit and runs his claws down your belly, landing in the crease between your hips. You have sunk down a little from your original position, and he guides your ass back up where it belongs. "Show me your devotion by cumming on my cock. Give yourself to me in adulation."

His hand finds your clit, stroking it with intense and deliberate movements. Your moans increase in pitch, each more breathy than the last. It doesn't take long after that for your worship to complete, your entrance pulses, each muscle twitching and spasming around your Master's length. His name spills out of your lips once more before heaving, exhausted breaths take over your throat.

"Such a beautiful, pious little bird!" Master Cyril shouts, seemingly in genuine praise. You melt.

When he cums, his voice rings out, claiming ownership of the room. His claws dig into the skin around your hips, and his hot seed gathers inside you. Your hands are untied, and they flop down on the bed, tingling from lack of movement. He grabs your shoulders and rolls you over to your back so you are able to see him. His face is glowing and sweaty, and looking at you with a sweet smile.

"I declare your penance paid. You err again and I will end your life." You nod solemnly, gratefully. He throws his robe on the bed next to you. "Wear this until you get back to your quarters to change, then set it on the dais when you're done." It's such a simple command, spoken so off-handed, but it sends fresh waves of want to your core. You ease it onto your body, taking in its scent. It's too big, covered in blood, and there's a rather unfortunately placed hole in the back for his tail, but you don't mind at all.

"You are dismissed," he says, presenting you with your knife with a gleam in his eye. "It is time for my tyrant to worship me, too."

You bow deeply, and when you leave his chamber, you only hope that you will not be caught wandering about the temple in your Master's robe.