The encounter had been quick, efficient, almost calm. The troll's last words had helped with that.

But the sight of the bright red blood does something to Justin's mind, to the part of him that listened so willingly to the voice of the Messiahs. Blood, and he wants to see more, so the blade comes down again, cutting cleanly through the ribcage, then again, through the gut. Again, again, blood splattering the floors and walls, and without noticing, Justin kneels, lets the blood soak into his clothing, drags his hands through ruined flesh. At some point, he started laughing, blood-damp hands running over his face, through his hair.

See? Look at what he has done. Find him worthy of the notice of the gods. He will paint himself with blood.


Eventually, he finds enough inner stability to rise to his feet and leave.