You can't get rid of the stain on your soul. Even if you scrubbed away at your hands until the bones, you can't change what's in your head, the thoughts that make your fingers twitch. You've seen it in your head already, how easily your weapon punches through flesh, that quiet gasp you'll hear that isn't yours, how close you'll be. It's a personal act, a stabbing, intimate, you could say.

[When he always gives such a reaction, it's little wonder that she has to go pressing down on raw wounds with a smile on her face, excited at the prospect of more.]

You can't restore life. Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, not even a necromancer can raise a thing as it was. Your dragons can't even defend their own lands. Would they have allowed you to plant a seed of doubt, revenant?

[It was there, wasn't it? Who doesn't doubt themselves even in near-death? She only nurtured, let it grow good and strong.]