The blood of his sacrificed compatriots curdled before him. The sticky sensation, the slightly rusty scent... he had never felt so thrilled. The spirits of the slain wafted around him, exuding a pale, ghastly light as if in protest. Ivoks scowled as dark, ominous waves of energy engulfed him and the departed interlopers. Such was one of the many black arts residing within his depraved soul.