One Error Begets Another

[Visla Eraclaire]

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The mountains rose sharply into the early morning sky, their true mass indiscernible in the darkness just before the dawn. As Aelva glided through the air toward the appointed area, Visla scanned the ground below for a pathway, a flicker of light, an unnatural sound, anything to suggest their destination. The monastery they sought was supposed to be cut right into the mountainside, a formidable enclave for which the defensive capabilities far outclassed its strategic value. Isolated in the rugged crags of northern Salvar, built over a mountain spring, it was simply not worth besieging. As Visla was swiftly discovering, one could hardly know it was there amongst the rubble of long forgotten landslides, the snow still clinging to mountain peaks and the dense evergreen forests.

"Stop looking for it and start looking for somewhere to land. If we don't make a choice, the sun is going to choose for us in a few minutes," Aelva warned.

Visla complied, shifting her focus toward the foothills, looking for clearings, but still glancing up at the cliff faces from time to time, knowing that if they had to make camp and climb, the news would easily reach the monastery before they did. Just as daylight started to glow from beneath the mountains to the east, the smoke of a campsite caught her. She pointed Aelva toward it and the pair dove toward the clearing. Just as they approached the ground, Aelva spread her wings to their full breadth and fluttered them to a halt.

They found a small campfire and a shocked inhabitant huddled behind a fine white horse. The man hiding behind the beast was difficult to see, but the animal itself was barded with fine armor as if he had run straight off from beneath a mighty general. Unlike his erstwhile rider, the mount seemed unshaken by Visla and Aelva's sudden arrival.

"W-w-who goes there?" the man stammered, having just awoken moments before the pair came swooping in from the sky. Visla counted another gold piece she was missing out on.

"We'll ask the questions. Where are you headed?" Aelva said, pulling back her hood to glare at the man, but not yet calling upon her persuasive powers.

"I'm… I'm just a messenger. Please," he said as he watched the fierce young woman walking closer to him. The horse he used as a shield stood perfectly still, looking at the two women nonchalantly.

"I don't think the Church would trust just a messenger," Visla said.

"They… they needed to get through… through the League's lands. They couldn't just… s-s-end a cleric," he said, clinging to one of the horses legs.

"Plausible. What about the horse? Seems awfully nice for a cowardly messenger," Aelva inquired, kneeling down next to him and revealing one of her claws.

"It's the monastery's… master… saint… whatever. It's his horse. It knows the way. They almost just put the message on the horse, but I convinced them to let me take it and they gave me a bag of gold and they told me to go immediately and that there would be even more for me when I arrived and so I did and then I had to stop because I couldn't keep my eyes open and so—"

"Good enough," Aelva cut short his ramblings. "Leave the message. Leave the money. Leave the horse. You can go," she said, turning to pet the animal, surprised at it did not startle at her touch as many creatures are wont to do in the presence of a demon.

"Thank you, bless you," he said, and scampered off into the wood.

"We're actually inspiring fear now? Two women with a dagger between them?" Visla said, surprised with the ease of their interrogation.

"Never underestimate the affect of appearing out of the sky on black wings just before dawn. And I have a bow," Aelva revealed the weapon concealed beneath her human illusion.

"Fair enough," Visla said, taking the message from a container strapped to the horse's flank. It was sealed with wax, but she cracked it open and unfurled the parchment. "As I expected, we can't deliver this. It orders the monastery to kill the oldest child and send the head back… along with the head of the messenger."

"Well now I’m glad you opened it," Aelva said, pulling herself up into the horse's saddle and helping Visla up behind her. "What do we do now?"

"Ride. Hopefully we figure something out before we arrive," Visla said and spurred the horse on. It responded swiftly and began to cantor back toward a narrow mountain path, mostly overgrown, shielded by trees, and almost invisible even as one traveled over it.

[Visla Eraclaire]

The horse trotted ably through the wooded foothills, unhindered by gnarled briars and frequent pitfalls. The foliage around them became gradually less dense, replaced by sparse brush and hardened clay-rich soil. As the overhanging boughs fell into the background, a mighty crag towered in front of them. The ascent began, and Visla still had little idea of what to do.

Aelva seemed preoccupied, rehearsing a series of gestures as she bucked about in the saddle. She would be of no assistance in formulating a plan, and so Visla turned to what little she knew as the mount made its way up the rocky trail. A single man with a sword was almost enough to defeat the pair before, and so a frontal assault on what could be a well-fortified outpost was obviously ill-advised. With Visla's clumsy gait and her companion's unsubtle tendencies, sneaking in was almost as bad, especially when anyone perched on the mountain would likely see them coming. A much cleverer plan was necessary, and Visla suddenly thought she had just the one.

"Aelva, get off the horse," Visla said, worried that her succubus would be seen if they went any further together and with little time to explain. She tried to pull back on the reins and stop, but the animal seemed quite determined to continue. Abandoning that, she took off her signet ring and grabbed the message canister from the horse's saddlebag, things that would likely get her killed immediately.

"Excuse me?" Aelva said, glancing to her left and seeing a precipitous fall awaiting her.

"I can't stop the horse. Get off and take these," she replied curtly, shoved the ring and message toward her. "I'll Call you once I'm inside."

"As you wish. I hope you know what you're doing," the succubus replied calmly, transforming into her demonic form and tumbling off the back of the animal, gliding gracefully to a stop on a cloud of shadows. She leaned up against the face of the mountain and began to invoke a veil of shadows to conceal herself, prepared for a somewhat lengthy wait.

"So do I," Visla muttered to herself. Her plan, as far as she had figured it out consisted in being captured and hopefully not killed immediately by whoever occupied the monastery. If she was hurt, Aelva would take the actual wounds, hopefully long enough for them to be curious and keep her around for observation. Once she was left alone, she'd summon Aelva and break out with the children. It was all very simple, except for that last step, and every step before it.

The horse whipped around a blind corner and before she could doubt herself further, it reared back and came to a halt. Before her were two massive stone doors, carved right into the mountainside. Elegant scrollwork decorated the rock face around them, weathered by the passage of many years, and obscured at parts with hardy vines that clung to the unforgiving surface. There were no torches and no guards, nothing she would have had any chance of spotting from the air or the base of the mountain. It was the perfect place to hide out indefinitely.

She walked up to the entrance and pressed her hand against the cold stone. Knocking made little sense; she'd likely scrape up her knuckles long before she made an audible noise through the thick portal. There were slots to pull the slabs open, but they looked as if they would take two or three hearty men to move. Visla knew that was a non-starter, but she was not left to puzzle for long. Behind her, the elegant horse let out a shrieking whinny that reverberated through the air. Within moments, the doors began to slowly open.

Visla stood back, almost hoping that the horse had triggered the doors itself, but was dismayed to see a dozen robed monks pushing the mighty stones from the other side. The horse strode casually into the long, dark hall that opened up before them, heedless of the human doormen. The warlock was given no such privilege. As soon as the door was open wide enough to accommodate the steed and it had trotted through, one of them grabbed her unceremoniously by the arm and pulled her inside.

[Visla Eraclaire]

The area within was dimly lit and it was difficult to discern much beyond general shapes in the shadows, but there were many more people than the dozen that opened the door. The faint murmuring of speech from distant corridors echoed off smooth stone walls. By all appearances, the structure was based on a natural cavern, only slightly modified to accommodate its devout population. Visla tried to glance about and get some sense of the extent of the place's garrison, but she was dragged along too quickly to make any accurate count. One was too many for her to resist alone, and so it mattered little for the moment.

"The messenger's arrived, go retrieve his payment," one of the men said, the last word lingering in such an obvious and villainous way that anyone but Visla would likely attempt flight immediately. The robed men she saw arrayed around her seemed almost disappointed that she did not try. Their muscular limbs outstretched, toned at length by their regimens, seemed ready to rip her to pieces. What little light there was in the chamber danced fiendishly in their eager eyes.

Visla could still see the white horse standing at the end of the hall she was being dragged down. A door opened in front of it, letting in the bright light of an anteroom and wreathing the creature in brilliance. A figure emerged with a drooping hood covering its face. Aged hands protruded from a tattered shawl and stroked the beast along its nose. It exhaled audibly and then took off down a side tunnel, leaving the backlit figure unobscured. It was difficult to tell beneath the old robes whether it was a man or a woman, but a rasped voice answered that query.

"Stay your blades for a moment," a woman, her dread voice speaking to a venerable age, ordered Visla's captors.

"As you wish, Saint," the man bowed and released Visla's arm. "Send her back to us when you are finished," he added with the same sinister intonation as before.

"Come," was all the old woman said to Visla, before turning back into the well lit room.

Visla squinted but attempted to follow. The crone intended to interrogate her, no doubt. She had anticipated the zealots might want answers from her, but she had expected a more lengthy process, being tossed in a cell or otherwise left alone long enough to summon Aelva. It was the first of many miscalculations in her all too hastily made plan.

[Visla Eraclaire]

Inside the room, two braziers in the far corners lit up the rough-hewn walls and the sparse furnishings. Two chairs sat on either side of a small table and the old woman took a seat in the one furthest the door. She pulled back her hood and revealed a face sagging with the weight of decades. Her eyes still sparkled, set like tiny sapphires in the recesses of dark caves. Her lips were narrow and drawn and she spoke her words tersely.

"Close the door and sit."

Visla saw little alternative to obedience at the moment. In fact, she would have done just that in the absence of any directive, she only hesitated now that she was being told. She pushed the door, that was no more than a wooden gate, shut and sat across the table from her apparent captor.

"You are not a messenger," the woman said, matter-of-factly.

Visla rose a hand, ready to protest, but relented as the woman seemed intent on continuing.

"If the men outside were as perceptive as I am, they would have snapped your neck the moment you walked into this cave, warlock," she said coldly.

"I am not—" Visla began to protest again. She was powerless, after all, though that was more of a technicality than anything else. In truth, she still considered herself a warlock.

"I can smell the brimstone a mile away. Your soul is tainted, your hands bloody. All this, I can see," the cleric averred. "If you are here to kill us, I welcome you to try, but I suspect you have another purpose."

Visla conceded the hag's perceptiveness, but it only made her vitriol for the church more potent. It is possible to hate a fool or an incompetent with enough effort, but hatred comes naturally toward our superiors. It was something Visla realized in the back of her mind, though she'd never confess the old bat's supremacy.

"You're right," she said, but feared that if she admitted any more, it would be just as bad as if the messenger had arrived. "If you see so clearly, why not tell me why I came as well?"

"Ahahahah," the woman laughed not maliciously, but with spontaneity and apparent joy. "The impetuousness of youth. I think you are here for the children."

Visla scowled immediately, not realizing until a moment later that she had given the woman just the satisfaction she was seeking. She crossed her arms and attempted to look unimpressed, but it was far too late for that.

"What would I want with children?" she asked. It was a feeble gesture, she realized.

"I think we've played enough guessing games," the woman said, rising from her chair and turning to face the rear wall. "Would you like the see them?"

[Visla Eraclaire]

The old cleric stepped through the stone wall and vanished without a sound. Visla walked over and attempted to tap on it with her cane before accepting it as a mere illusion. She paused for a moment and wondered why the woman would bother hiding anything in her own monastery, but she chalked it up to some mad paranoia and strode through the figment.

On the other side there was a sleeping chamber with a large bed in the corner. The bed looked like it might have been comfortable, except that it was stripped down to its frame with the mattress replaced by a wooden board. The remnants of its deconstruction lay in three piles next to it, forming smaller improptu bedrolls that looked quite suitable despite their ramshackle appearance. Curled up in two of them were the baron's two daughters, one still a little girl and the other perhaps in her early teens. The eldest child was not in his pile of blankets, which was the most spartan of the three. He was a young man, likely a few years shy of twenty. He sat at a small desk reading a book and hadn't looked up when the aged woman entered, but glanced at Visla suspiciously as she passed through the illusory wall.

“Grandmother, you didn't tell us we'd be having guests,” he asked, still sounding a bit like the spoiled noble's son he was, despite his captivity. Visla paid no mind to his method of addressing the cleric. It was common in many cultures to call old women grandmother.

“She came uninvited. She came for you,” the saint explained.

“I'm sorry, girl. A man of my station can find a much more attractive consort, even in the mountains,” he said, apparently with all seriousness.

Visla scowled, but before she could get a word out the cleric shouted, “Impudence!”

The woman slammed her hand on the table where the young man was reading. It was the first time Visla had seen her rise to anger, and it was a fearsome sight. For all her age, she had an impressive vigor when riled up.

“You'll read five more chapters for that outburst. I will select them once I am done with our guest, who you will address more politely from now on,” the cleric scolded.

“Yes, ma'am,” he muttered and went back to reading.

This was perhaps the strangest form of indoctrination Visla had yet seen, but it takes all kinds, she figured. After all, the family is one of the most central sources of religious and social indoctrination in children, why should it not be mimicked by others? She watched as the old woman gently roused the older of the two girls, whispering in her ear. At first, the girl rolled over, unwilling to rise. The cleric pulled the covers from over her, exposing her to the natural cold of the cavern and she reluctantly rose.

“Good morning, grandma. Good morning strange interloper,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

“Have I raised a group of boors? Where are your manners, girl?” the cleric scolded once again.

“But you didn't raise us. Daddy did,” the girl replied, still yawning.

At the peak of the girl's yawn the matronly woman slapped her lightly in the stomach, giving her a small startle. “And look what that got you,” she said with a grim tone.

Whatever she was referencing, it shut the girl right up.

[Visla Eraclaire]

The cleric did not rouse the last child, but let the little girl go on sleeping, curled in a tiny ball. She looked Visla in the eye before she spoke her next words.

“I apologize, but the little one needs her rest,” she paused palpably before continuing. “Disease has left her crippled.”

Visla gripped her cane tightly and stared back at the woman. The most obvious reactions were sadness, sympathy, and self-pity. Visla felt none of these, at least not at first. She felt she had caught the cleric up in her ruse. She felt anger, vindication, and outrage.

“So, you raise these children but you withhold your healing from them? How noble of you,” Visla crowed proudly making sure the two children heard her. “You can drop your grandmotherly routine now. Your church is using these youths as bargaining chips to keep their father losing battle after battle. You may have kept that from them, but I will not. I'm taking them back to their father, one way or another.”

The oldest slammed his book down on the table and glared at Visla, “Don't speak of what you don't know, wretch!”

The younger girl simply trembled a bit and muttered, almost to herself, “I don't want to go back... I don't want to.”

The saint stared at Visla for a moment, letting the rage drain out of her tiny blue eyes before walking over and patting the boy on the back. “I will forgive you for that one, for even I was tempted to lash out at her, but remember that the ignorant are poor in their knowledge and need the charity of the wise.”

The old woman leaned part of her weight on the table and seemed to settle in for a lengthy explanation. “It's not an act, first of all. I am their grandmother. Their father is my son, and that is my greatest sin. The Sway would tell you it was a sin because it was an unchaste act, but they do not know of it. I tell you it is a sin because of what he grew up to be. Immoral, power hungry, and selfish,” she scowled with disgust, but her tone showed that that anger was turned inward.

“The Church is no better, it wages a war of purgation over the whole land,” Visla said, impulsively defending her swiftly crumbling stance.

“A group of clerics is not the Church, and the Church is not the Faith,” she said. It seemed that they were words she was frequently forced to utter. “I have never harmed another creature by my actions. But I have done great injury by my inaction. You are correct. These children were sent to me as captives. It never would have been so if the Church knew of their relation to me, but through divine providence, I am able to mend their hearts now.”

“Then why don't you mend the girl's bones?” Visla said, still unconvinced. The girl's suffering was the nail in this woman's coffin, as far as she was concerned. Without explanation for that, nothing would redeem this saint.

“That is my fault. For not raising their father, for giving him up as a foundling, he is unscrupulous,” she said. The two children bowed their heads, shamefully. “If you came from their house, you have seen the men struck down by a vile poison. The Baron made that poison for the war effort, invented it himself in a flash of dark genius. For a landed man, he was of humble means. He barely had enough men to guard his lands from attack, and so he made it himself, in his own house, with his children as assistants. The older two were strong enough, but the youngest grew frailer by the day. Still, he did not stop. He knew once a workable sample could be completed, the League would praise him, lavish him with all he had ever desired,” she sighed. “The manor was attacked before he could finish, the children taken. The man who ordered the strike was making a cold calculated decision for the war, but he did great good unknowingly. The children had been in my care since then.”

Visla sifted through her words carefully, suspiciously, unwilling to accept the story at face value. The more she pondered, the more she realized there was no other possibility. As convoluted as the tale was, it explained everything perfectly. If it was a lie, it imitated the truth so perfectly that Visla would never discern the two. She bowed her head and said, “I'm sorry.”

“You are forgiven,” the saint muttered. The four of them all stood downcast for a moment before anyone had the courage to speak again.

[Visla Eraclaire]

Visla was the one to finally break the silence, raising her head to look at the pitiable grandmother. “Why are you telling me all this? You said yourself, I am an infidel, a pact-bound warlock,” she asked. “What can I do about this?”

“What you always intended to do. Take the children and go,” the saint said, reluctantly.

“No! Don't abandon us,” the boy shouted in objection.

“You'll never find a wife in this cavern, boy. Your ambitious spirit is too much like your father's. I hope that I have tempered it some, but caging you with stone will do you no good.”

“Grandma, where will we go?” the girl asked.

“Wherever this woman takes you,” her grandmother answered. “Divine providence lead you to me and now it comes to take you away. I do not question the will of the Sway, though it may come in strange guises.”

Just then, the young child stirred from the back of the room, rustling out from her bedsheets. She leaned awkwardly against the wall of the cave, her tiny legs shaking. “Why's everyone so loud?” she said with a youthful irreverence.

“I'm sorry, Caroline. You need to get ready now,” the old woman bent down and explained. “You're going on a trip.”

“Yay! Gramm's takin' us out of this icky cave!” she cheered.

“Hush now, gather your things,” the matron commanded to all three of them, then turned back to Visla. She leaned in close and whispered, “I am as much a prisoner as they are. I may be saint of this monastery, but my words hold little sway over the young monks. Their loyalties lie with Valshadar, the man who ordered the attack on the manor. Whatever your plan to take them was, I hope it was well-considered.”

Visla swallowed hard and went over to the table where the boy had been reading. There was a small vial of ink and enough surface area on the wood to suit her needs. She dipped her finger into the inkwell and began drawing the sigils to summon Aelva. She hoped the succubus was waiting in human form, so as not to terrify her new charges, but she sincerely doubted it.

[Visla Eraclaire]

When the ritual was complete, the children stood ready with little hemp satchels. They watched in amazement as the warlock painted out the last lines of the circle and uttered the final words to bring forth her companion. A swirling maw of darkness appeared for put a moment and Aelva was pulled through. She stood before the group in full demonic fashion, ready for battle. Her claws were bared and her horns curled up through her hair. The youngest squealed and her elder sister cupped her hand over her mouth.

“Change of plans. We'll be walking out,” Visla said simply.

“Interesting. You'll have to tell me about it once we're clear. These are the children, I take it,” Aelva said as her appearance shifted back to that of a relatively unassuming young woman. She smiled at the terrified little one and handed Visla back her signet ring.

“May the Sway forgive me,” the saint muttered as she stepped through the illusory wall, leading the way out. The group followed her as she pushed open the door to her unfurnished office and stepped out into the main hall.

“The saint graces us with her presence!” one of the monks announced as he caught sight of her. The others rose out of respect, some more reluctantly than others. None questioned her as she walked with her new entourage toward the massive stone doors.

“Indeed she does,” a more sly voice called out from one of the hallways. A tall ruddy-haired man with leather patches of armor over his robes strode out into the open and glared at them. At his appearance, two of the monks took up positions near the doors, blocking the way. In truth, Visla found the heavy gate as impediment enough, and she wondered how they would be able to open them without the monks' assistance.

“I am going on a pilgrimage, Valshadar. Tell your lackeys to step aside, or better yet to clear my way. It is not your place to question me,” the saint ordered with a confident voice and a heavy heart. She knew her words would not be obeyed, and the men by the door remained.

“It is very much my place to question why our saint is abandoning us, taking our important captives, and in the company of two strange women. What heresy are you perpetrating now, harlot?” the commander snapped, a growing number of monks standing beside him as he approached the group.

“How dare you speak to me like that,” the woman replied.

“Ah, but I speak the truth. Your bastard son is the one who made the poison that cripples our men. I know many things, so-called saint, and now that your treachery is manifest, I will tolerate you no longer.” He had grown nearer to her the whole time as she stood proudly unshaken. The man took a final step toward her and drew a short sword from his belt. There was only a flash of steel and he had buried it up to the hilt in the saint's chest.

“Heresy!” one of the monks who had not yet joined him shouted as the saint fell to the floor. Her hands glowed with white light and she pressed them against her flesh again and again, but the wound still bled a deep crimson.

“You'll find that your ill-deserved powers are useless. Your vile offspring has damned you with his own poison, which I have perfected,” Valshadar boasted. “Those who are loyal to me already have their blades coated in it.”

Out of the monks robes, a dozen or so dropped a pair of daggers into their hands. Their blades were slathered with a black ichor and they grinned toward their unarmed former comrades.

“Why would a member of the Church manufacture a poison whose only use is to harm his own people? You're the traitor,” Visla shouted at him. She knew her words would carry little weight in this place, but if even one man could be dissuaded from joining the mutiny, it would make their slim chance of survival that much better.

[Visla Eraclaire]

“I would not dignify that with a response,” Valshadar said, “except that there are those present who need to hear the answer. Saint Denebriel is the traitor. This war has risked all to win all, and while such grand gestures might play well with her siccophantic advisors, I find that we are losing. I will not have our faith snuffed out because of overreaching ambition.”

Visla nodded. This man was immoral, but he was not insane. He had the sense to see the coming future. So too did his victim. The saint knelt on the floor motionless as her lifesblood drained from her chest. Her eyes were glazed over as if catching glimpses of something beyond. Looking up from her to meet eyes with the mutineer, Visla responded.

“Then we are of the same mind and there is no need for further bloodshed. I am an agent of the League. Put away your daggers and bring your men and your poison back with me. You'll be given a fief and you can do what you like with it,” she proposed.

“How idyllic, living under the yoke of noble oppression. I will have nothing of it,” he replied dismissively. “This mountain goes deep and until today was beneath the League's concern. Once you are dead and forgotten, they will neglect it once more. Slowly, I will grow my legion, hone their steel, and empower their venom. Then, when all seems well, I will do what the Saint could not. I will be a scourge upon this land and --”

Even with her frail voice, the dying saint interrupted him.

“You are mad. You will be damned,” she coughed and blood trickled down her lips. “Sooner than you think.”

The massive stone doors behind them shuddered and dust shook loose from the ceiling. The mighty slabs scraped against the floor and daylight shone into the cave. A unit of six score men-at-arms from the League's armies let go of the ropes that had pried open the doors and rushed into the enclosure. Visla raised her signet-marked hand and they flowed in past her, into the waiting knives of the monks.

[Visla Eraclaire]

As the battle was joined, Visla urged the children to flee. The older boy took up his hobbled sister in his arms and the three rushed out onto the mountain path, away from danger. Aelva remained by Visla's side, eyes vigilant for those who would strike at her. As she waited, she showered Valshadar's monks with balefire, spreading panic through their meager ranks.

“Fall to the ground if you wish to submi--” Visla started to say, hoping that many of the monastery's inhabitants would see the sense in surrender after all that was said.

“Slay them all!” came a strong voice that interrupted her. A League commander, saddled on a grey warhorse, gave his command from the mouth of the cave. “Leave none to question our rule.”

Visla slinked back toward the brash man, careful not to be caught up in his bloodlust. As his men thrust their swords into Valshadar's men, she glanced at her ring and saw nothing. There were no streams of white, no faithful spirits for the Godshard to consume. These men truly were infidels.

Valshadar himself would not fall so easily. As he drew his sword forth once more, a helmeted head fell to the ground, severed from its body. Sickly black ichor flowed from every wound he inflicted and even as all his men were slain, still he stood with merely a nick on his face. A group of men trembled in front of him, standing between him and the mounted commander who had yet to move an inch.

Their comrades dug their swords into monks who begged for their lives, cowering in corners and supplicating themselves to the floor. The men were loyal to their orders and they executed every one. These were the souls which sent ripples of white energy into Visla's ring. Those who would not die for nothing, those who still believed in the good of men who stood over them with swords extended. As they perished, so too did the matronly saint, breathing her last as the final faithful monk fell. Her spirit came forth like a torrent of brilliance and made the Godshard gleam.

As Visla looked up from her ring, she stared right into the eyes of Valshadar as he dispatched another of the guardsmen. Only two stood between him and the warlock. Aelva had already wreathed him in balefire and it burned across his back. He was heedless of it, eyes determined, fixed forward. He continued to inch toward the commander and Visla, even as the men who had served as executioners circled in behind him. He lunged forward, the tip of his blade leveled at Visla's throat, dripping with venom.

There was a gruesome sound, sinew snapping and blood gushing.