The legislacerator is as indistinct as he is loathsome.

He speaks words you don't care to parse with the same bile you feel welling up inside you. He shifts in and out of focus, and reeks of chemical charcoal.

Only one scent cuts through his presence, the scent that coats his blade. There is no mistaking it. It is not curry, nor red wine, nor mustard.

It is blood.