Scar could kid himself no longer; his self-control was rapidly diminishing. A full moon sent his mind reeling, creating visions of madness that wracked his tortured mind. Drink did not drown the images. Nothing tasted right. He was easily agitated and unsettled, avoiding human company. These were all familiar symptoms of his lycanthropy, his past that had now returned full force to torment him.
He was slated to meet with his enemy Torak soon but wondered if the sight of him would shred the last vestiges of his control. He knew not what would come of it - the man was not to be trusted; he surely had something nefarious up his sleeve. He had informed Lord Chanticleer of the situation and that wise paladin had suggested the Fist go along at least covertly. That would not do; Torak was no fool. One sight of any of them would end the game, for that is what it was.
His mind raced back to a time when another enemy had threatened them, Scar and Deminatza - his own father, Scaramandine. The ancient liche-necromancer had tried to woo her even as he had unleashed horrors upon the world in the form of Dark Slayers and use of the Orb of Soul Seeking. He had failed utterly, however, and fled back into his impregnable dark citadel to brood, along with the remnant of his death cult, the Necromari.
Scar knew his father had great power, unusual power, even the ability of which Torak referred - cross realm transveyance. Would he help him this once, for some price? And what might that be? He had not spoken to his father in many years; they were extreme opposites to be sure.
Sighing, he determined he would visit him after this encounter with Torak, if things did not turn out well.
And he was quite certain they would not, one way or the other.