He leered, crimson eyes glancing at your direction. Almost scoffing when he was asked whom he was, "I am Six." Sorath said it like a prayer.

Reverential, exalting, like honey on his tongue. It tasted of hope, of possibility, thrilling and exciting and intoxicating like no drug on earth.

It covered the bitter aftertaste lingering from past defeats, the acrid flavor of them building on one another like ash in his mouth, until he could barely remember the way his stomach turned and his teeth hurt with the burn of it.