#cw uh. everything. this is for lux only anyway

[crimsontroupe]

@thronelessking in response to this [x]

At the back of his mind, a sense of euphoria: a sense of dread and a blanket of longing. For what, the nobleman cannot tell. But he understands that euphoria: it is the thrill of the hunt, it is the knowledge that he is being watched. When younger, Cornelius reveled in it. Thievery is simply one of the many means to an end, and after some time the soul dulls. The blade is sharp, but there is no tug. Nothing.

And then elation. Ecstasy. A brief respite in the void. The shapeless take form for only a split second, and that is when the sharp edge of a dagger makes contact with skin. All of it comes swirling back, typhoon of malice. Nowadays his steps are measured, the strings are pulled meticulously. The curtain pulled enough that things fall where he wants them to fall. A large hand obscures it, the shifting of pawns into place.

"You have made yourself known, and you have made yourself clear." It is acceptance.

It is reverence. It is madness, it is everything and it is nothing. It is the greed, the way a parched man will dirty his own clothes for the idea of clean water. But his shell shows nothing. Nothing of the static, the jolt of electricity running through his veins.

Ah, worship is still the same as it has always been. And worship is now much more private, it is something Cornelius can almost touch. He could, if he wanted. He lifts the cup and lets the warm liquid touch his lips - watches silently as delicate hibiscus almost taints impeccable skin. For a moment. Unblinking.

Not the gaze of a nobleman who lets not a thing slip through him, but a predator stalking prey. So close he could sink his teeth in. And perhaps He would not mind. Perhaps They would not mind. Starved and hollow, hollow, hollow.

What is it that he wants?

Is a reward necessary? Is worship a reward in itself? Is acknowledgement a reward?

'No', a small voice inside him calls out. 'It will never be enough', he agrees with himself. A man who is never satisfied, a man with no soul and no shape. A shapeshifting receptacle, every day something new. His eyes narrow, and he does not give his answer. Cornelius Wesker finishes his tea as if the request was as simple as crossing the streets of the Gilded City and acquiring the most mundane items on the markets. An infinitesimally small request.

'It will appease me' is enough. For now. But he will come back with demands, he will come back with ravenous hunger and unhinged maw. And he will swallow this country whole. He will set it all on fire, his God needs simply ask. It is a twisted sort of love, but he will have it no other way. Cornelius ends the conversation as abruptly as it started, moving like a man possessed. Like a man under the effects of enchantment magic, yet he moves willingly.

Important men are used to keeping other important men close. And while their deaths would suffice - and it would fulfill what is requested of him - Cornelius needs to go deeper. To a time where filth and blood were permanently under his nails, where coin spoke louder and above all things. He exits soundlessly and enters without notice, his face now covered in the flesh of another. It twists and warps his face, it is something hideous to the point it goes over neat blonde hair.

An old haunting ground, a savior and a friend. You do not sell out fellow guildmates, but they are aware of treachery. Aware that one bleeds into four, and the bloodletting will eventually turn into one above all. The soft chime of the door opening, but nothing goes through it. A ghost, a haunt. Deathly apparition, Cornelius can almost smell blood. The small shop that acts as a front for something sinister, rogues that he grew up with. His mark is the only one taking care of the shop today, one of the oldest ones. A strange man that took the blond child as his small brother. Cornelius never felt the same, or understood it. He understood the reservations this man had even less when he left the tutelage of the cult, when stealing was not enough.

How worthless it is, then. The specter of the past nicks his face, almost tears the horrendous flesh mask that Cornelius dons on his face off. He acts quicker - Cornelius always did - and sinks both blades into throat. A pleased smile as in their last moments, his victim understands who came for his life. Who took it. Electricity courses through his veins, and he knows his time is now ticking down quickly.

He sets to work. Gruesome, grueling work. The precision of a well-practiced doctor, he strips this man of his clothing. His belongings, he neatly folds and sets them on the ground. There is something better here. The skin. Dark robes are stained with red, as his nails dig into flesh and peel it off unceremoniously.

"To my God", the dried blood reads out "from my brother, his soul." Above it, the most gruesome altar. The skin is stretched out with hooks Cornelius brought in a small bag, painting a scene disturbed born out of love. Not desperation, but adoration. Idolization.

"This I offer you," the blood text continues "An offering overdue. To the greedy, to the Father. To you, my brother. To you, everything."

As a sentimental token, he leaves the knife on the desecrated corpse. Cornelius knows who will come retrieve it, his worship a request more than necessity. That dagger will return to him in a different way, he knows and accepts. Into the shadows the fleshwarp melts once more, leaving no trace of his visit but the crime scene. His fellow men will understand and say nothing.

His fellow men at least understand the meaning of a direct request.

When he returns to the manor, Cornelius' impeccable black shoes have acquired a curious tinge of red. Crimson, blood red. The only hint he leaves behind, the only trophy he takes home. What to ask of a man who desires nothing, what to ask of a man who wants it all?