There was not much that surprised Moloch, but the appearance of this "Lady" from the Wastes threw him off balance. Even not taking her appearance in account, he felt something sinister in her very essence. Moloch resisted the urge to shiver. He was no true magi, but the dragonblood in his veins made him sensitive to certain things.
If Moloch was uncomfortable, Cyrus was furious. Moloch could see the old man practically shaking, his usual amused expression wiped away, replaced with a grim frown and eyes as hard as daggers made of dragonbone. Cyrus stood up to reach his full height and recited bitterly,
"Oh Avalon, Avalon! Land of lush meadows and crystal streams.
Who among the living remembers your bountiful yields,
The creatures in your heart,
Or the people you took to your bosom?
Oh, Avalon, Avalon!
If I cease to sing of your memory,
Let my right hand no longer remember its strength,
Or my mind heart, mine own children!"
The old man sighed and looked upon the woman with some pity. Yet his tone broke no argument as he spoke once again.
"What can your Master offer but blasphemy, distortion, and destruction?"