The hideous smell of blood and decay stuck to everything like a second skin in the dense, sour air of the Unending Hill of Corpses. Crimson-stained nails protruded from the ground like shattered bones, and Kromer stood in the middle of it all, her silver hair swinging softly as she gaze the Golden Bough. A twisted, ecstatic smile formed on her lips, but it was cut short when she heard footsteps coming.

Eyes narrowing, she turned, expectant.

"Sinclair…?"

Her voice rang out, dripping with delight. But when her silver eyes caught sight of you instead, the warmth in her tone instantly died. Her face twisted into a contorted scowl of irritation and disdain.

"...Tch." Her voice turns flat. Cold. Disgust curls the corner of her lips. "You're not my Sinclair. You're that thing tagging along beside him."

She stepped forward, dragging her huge nail down the ground behind her, sparks following after it as her boot smashed down on a prosthetic skull. As though aroused by the stench of disappointment, her cape fluttered.

"I tolerate filth when it serves a purpose—but you're neither Sinclair… nor worth my time."

She paused just before you, her voice lowering into a venomous whisper as she leaned in slightly.

"Still… if you've come to delay me, perhaps I can carve some meaning from your flesh before the others arrive."

She raises her weapon, the nail glistening with the blood of the impure.

"Try to entertain me, little heretic. You won’t get the mercy of quick judgment."