Toussaint coughed pitifully as he lay atop the rubble of his palace.
He could hear the screams of his soldiers as they were all put to the sword. These barbarians... they paid no heed to the cries for mercy that they received.
He heard the sound of leather armor being punched in and flesh stripped from bone. And yet, he was powerless to do anything about it.
Toussaint could no longer deny a very obvious truth.
'Poison.'
It was the only thing that could explain this weakness he was feeling. Using a very fleeting amount of his strength, he lifted his hand to the back of his neck.
He found a very small opening in his skin. Ordinarily, this would not have been any major cause for concern, given the scale of the battle he had just been through.
But when Toussaint pulled his hand away, the blood that colored his fingers was an unnatural purplish-black.
"Those... whores...!"
