The young noble, his opulent silver-threaded robes entirely ruined by his previous groveling, stood with his back pressed against the carriage door.
He was vibrating with a profound, mortal dread. Having just witnessed the Supreme Flesh-Crafter effortlessly purge the illusion-arrays from his flawed Venom-Macaque, Fen explicitly believed that his own life was currently dangling by the thinnest of frayed soul-tethers.
He desperately needed to offer an absolute, undeniable tribute to appease the monster standing before him.
