He's insane. That's what they'll all say afterwards. The crazed look in his eyes should be clue to that. Unfortunately, the cloak hid him well enough as he wandered through the frozen forest, the ice mist curling around him. The dark hides him, and shall hide him if he were to stand there for almost another half year.

He is like a man possessed, they will find out after they catch him. Attempting to assault the capital of Nhirish society, alone, in the dark, a time when most of the city is more vigilant so that the nocturnal predators don't get them. The large stone walls loom before him, the ornate swirls endless and uninviting, blocking him continuously as he begins to circle the city, looking for entrance.

He got lucky they'll believe. Even though the doors are locked, he still slips past them, the guard paid to look the other way. The stone buildings, held together by a sappy material, shadow him as he sneaks between them striding confidently and so not drawing attention to himself. All who notice him will late explain that they thought him noble and therefore stayed away.

He will be called a ghost, as he reaches the creek, slipping the vial into the water, its green contents spilling out and mixing in with the stream. His supplier had told him that the chemical would 'self-propagate' or whatever that meant. All he cared about was destroying them once and for all.

Stalking up the hill towards the Queen's palace, the majestic building made out of a naturally soft and blue stone, he hisses at what to him is just another grey building. His hooves break the light surface of ice as he moves, a small aura of fire creating slush in his wake and causing a mist of steam to now follow him. With his job completed he doesn't care what happens to him, just as long as he can keep them from finding his deception until it is too late.

He will be called a father. He is a father and as he runs his hands along the soft 'grey' wall he watches it scorch, further fire and pain for the people he calls enemy. Absently he scrawls a name on the rock. Niicol. The name he scrapes is that of his daughter, killed by these people because she was born malformed. Killed because malformation is weakness and THESE PEOPLE loathe weakness. Ironic, because these people are weak themselves.

He hates that they would still cull his people of the frail, the sick, and the damaged. Beating his fist against the rock, he silently curses, his throat too clogged with unshed emotions for him to do anything other than grind his teeth together and beat the rock like a silent drum. Its message lost in the silence of the winter's night.

He won't survive. After he is caught, after the substance in the water takes its first victim they will find him lying in a pool of black sludge and they will assume he took his own life. Especially after they find the locket he is clutching of the woman with the golden hair. They will grimace as they pick him out of the sludge, its viscous texture clinging to his skin and cloak and they will fail to notice the bloody gash running down parallel to his spine. It will be so filled with goop that as they chuck his body into his death pit with the other dead he has created they will simply shrug their shoulders and grimace. Vengeance they will want. Vengeance they will never have.