I still do not understand why you struggle, my little Jayant, I can sense the hesitation in your soul; in our soul.

The room was dark, illuminated by only two candles, their delicate wicks sustained by the oxygen surrounding them, none of which was being used by either of the non-breathing individuals whom sat cross-legged opposite one another.

The first was a woman with olive skin and classical Greek beauty wearing a long black robe and Grecian-type sandals. She was the current Hierophant of Sacramento's Circle of the Crone's faction. Her name was Circe and she watched the man across from her. He was of south-east Asian appearance, his hair cropped military short and his dark eyes staring at the curved blade of his people's heritage; the deadly khukri knife. His name was Jayant, Acolyte and sworn bodyguard to the Mother and her representatives. It was to him whom the voice spoke, its tone as ever seductive, androgynous, serpentine. It tickled his mind with its forked tongue, attempting to break his meditation.

You almost lost me before, in the sewer, amidst the pain and the dark. Do you remember, my little Jayant? You must admit that you cannot bear to see me gone, restrained amongst the shadows.

Jayant said nothing, watching his khukri with with fervent eyes as the light from the twin candles played across its perfect curves. According to Circe, he needed to bend that light. The voice of the Naga continued its tirade, slowly growing more spiteful, more dangerous.

My little Jayant, do your really believe you can save them? It cackles in his ear, stinging. The end shall come, as it did to Valencia, and you shall be powerless. This Circe, Each word loaded with so much venom that the Mekhet was sure he could taste it, and this Ishani; they shall perish also, nothing but ash between your fingers. As deft as you are, you cannot change this fact. Besides, it states in relative snugness, certain in its victory, you are nothing to them, nothing but a servant, NOTHING!

Jayant flinches at the last sentence, each word akin to acid dripping on the inside of his eyelids. Narrowing his eyes on his weapon, he could feel the Naga rile in its nest, attempting to crush his soul. Rather than shying away, he embraces it and imagines coils of shadowy snakes writhing over his knife. Entwining, squirming and coming together like ouroboros, the weapon vanishes before his eyes, hidden in the dark.

“Well done, Jayant. You have started down the path of Obfuscate. Tell me, I could feel some tension, was there a problem,” Circe asks.

“Nothing,” he lies, “it was nothing. Thank you Hierophant, I think I shall go feed now before it gets too late.” As he stands and leaves the room, taking his khukri with him, the voice returns ever so delicately.

They will never love you like I.