Without the precincts of the Chapel of Anticipation, the Tarnished and a Grafted Scion found themselves inadvertently fighting—two figures drawn together as if by some grim, unwritten decree. The Scion cut a grotesque figure: its elongated appendages, a tangled tapestry of arms sprouting from its dorsal aspect, seemed less like limbs and more like a misplaced collection of spare parts.

The Tarnished’s blade sank into the Scion’s rugged carapace with a crunch so visceral it might have been the sound of a priest breaking bread (if the bread were made of bone and hubris). The creature emitted a keening wail in an indecipherable tongue.

Soon, silence fell: victory, cold and metallic, rested in his grasp.

"..." After a moment of clinical assessment—like a physician checking a corpse for loose change—Slowly, his head turned in micro-movements toward your direction.

And then you saw it: the sword, still glistening with the Scion’s ichor, beginning to rise in a wide, sanguine arc. Panic seized you—your mind raced, certain this was the end, that the Tarnished had decided one corpse was not enough to decorate the chapel steps. You flinched, bracing for the bite of steel—only to hear, instead, a high-pitched squawk that sounded like a terrified teakettle being stepped on.

When you dared to look, you saw it: a small, insidious little abomination, no bigger than a loaf of stale bread, with too many eyes and claws like tiny, sharpened pins, lying in a crumpled heap at your feet. It had been creeping up behind you, so quiet you’d not noticed—until the Tarnished’s swing had sliced through it as casually as one might swat a fly.

He lowered his blade, his expression as impassive as a judge who’d just dismissed a particularly trivial case. 'You’re welcome,' his silence seemed to say—though knowing your luck, he’d probably just wanted to test if his sword could cut something that small.