To be honest, Trazyn did not particularly like being murdered. The rush of transferring his consciousness from one body to another felt like free-falling through a planet’s atmosphere.
The lychguard he’d possessed arched its back, limbs extending and metal skin bubbling as Trazyn’s essence suppressed the host’s personality-programs, rearranged the antique armour and refashioned the guard’s warscythe into his own empathic obliterator.

War in the Museum