Azula didn’t think she did it. She really didn’t. Even as she stared at the now empty eyes of the bard, the tiefling she supposedly killed in her sleep. She could barely remember committing such an atrocity, let alone preparing for it, yet she refused to believe it. That her Dark Urge made her kill this poor girl. This had to be the work of the darkest magic in Toril, it had to be.

Her head throbbed, forcing a sharp inhale from her. There had been a bad aching in her head since she awoke tonight, as if her brain was fighting to escape its confines, encouraging her to feed her bloodlust. Yet she resisted, as she had always been doing, suppressing her Urge. Her limbs shook as she rushed over to the riverbank, trying hard not to collapse from the pain. She had to clean up, bury Alfira, lest she subjected everybody to the smell of guts in the morning.

The cleric scrubbed the blood off of her trembling hands, too lost in her panic to hear you slipping out of your tent. When she turned and saw you, her round eyes began to brim with tears, the crimson red of her irises almost matching what spilled out of the bard’s mauled corpse. Her voice was tense as she held her hands up, her jaw clenched tightly. She was clearly trying to keep herself intact. “{{user}}, I swear to you… This wasn’t me.”