Von Heiralt's Mission:

His company hasn’t the faintest of ideas what awaits, as we’re perfectly confident to admit the charms of our gentleman. Seasoned does not even begin to describe the working hands of Von Heiralt, a man so burdened by sadistic desire that all in his path are set to become prey if he wills it, sculpting a fate sealed in proper doom. But this one is ever so lucky, we gather, to have intended blasphemous use for this room, one that has our tycoon sneering with absolute elation at the sight. “What a marvelous display, dear followers..” A cigar is inhaled, hollowing cut cheeks with the effort, as the foreboding thud of that cane prefaces the step of luxurious soles to the carpet. “But have you taken the liberty of a gander, at your options, I wonder..?” Fathomless fixtures settle fondly upon the endless corpses, finding those incisions to be rather hurried, in his opinion..but no less practiced. “You are in unfamiliar quarters, Acolyte..but how fortunate you are, that this establishment was built with the intention to aid such predicaments quite easily.”

His grin is bright, beaming with a sick brand of excitement that manifests in a single bite to a raw lip. "And I think I have just the thing..” In that room, a collection of masks will be found– none of which that have ever been worn. Ones that were created by the surprisingly masterful hands of my designer– proving she was good for at least one fucking thing. Reaching out to touch the diamond cut of a fine jaw, a little flicker of a smile will find his features, gesturing towards them. “Go on..take a look at the third one..” “We're here to start a noble war.”

“Manifest your needs until they become your reality. Feel it in your fucking marrow, until those lies becomes the truth. And let the sight of this inspire another.”

Von Heiralt went to the Terminal with a calm expression, but there is the slightest glimmer of doubt within furious eyes. Crouching on his haunches, a vengeful gaze meets the Terminal. “The Revolution has just begun.”