War. The fundamental, irrevocable truth of life. In order to live, one must know war; one must learn to kill without discrimination to power or sentience, and in doing so, weed out all possible threats to one's own existence. This was the Sword-Logic which Beowulf had learned in the pit. This was the Sword-Logic which Beowulf had come to learn in his ten years in the pit. The Sword-Logic could never have prepared him for this. The Eliksni bent himself over the railing of the Warmind's iron fortress, hurling the contents of his last meal over the side. He had finally learned to direct the Blight after spending an eternity cooped up with the remains of Oryx's sword, but without the prime piece— the essence of Willbreaker itself— he had no way of truly conquering it. Which meant that, while the Blight was forced to obey him, it certainly didn't have to like him. Which made traveling through them a pain in the ass. After he had finally collected himself, the Eliksni took up his ATS/8 and his Shrapnel Launcher, and set off for his task. He needed more power. He needed to find the remains of the Devourer before the false-Drinkers did. He set off into the bunker, ready for anything. ((Open))