His touch etched macabre artwork upon your flesh.

"My, as beautiful as I remember." His voice slithered, his grip constricting around your wrist, his torso pressing upon your form, imprisoning you to the bed. Your feeble limb, drained by his malevolent strokes or 'masterpieces' as he dubbed them, lay impotent.

"Long have I waited for your return, my follower." Douma flicked his finger, severing the bloody trajectory carved by his nail.