[ The first thing he does, is he fell to the ground, wheezing. His breath pulled in and out in heavy, painful breaths -- a reminder of being alive -- but his hands trembled when he fell to the dirt, when his fingers dug into it. He was still not powerful enough. He could have, of course, called Sebastian here, and let his demon rend them to pieces before him, but Silco refused. He wanted to find his own path to power as much as he wanted to use the demon. If it had been another moment, he would have summoned his contracted demon, but instead, this thing -- this soft-hearted elf, for who would be so kind to a monster like this tree, as well as save him? -- had found him released.

He hated it.

He hated it, he hated the tree, he hated this world more than he had even Piltover. He wanted nothing more than to find this existence ended, the long stretch of oblivion before him and nothing but himself, perhaps his daughter -- for nobody else would ever stay at his side -- and he desperately wanted to claw that reality into being, to forge it from this suffering in this world.

He looked at Voryn with hate -- a mismatched gaze, the puckered and warped skin around his eye now smeared enough for the man to see that it was just makeup that covered it, that underneath it was dark scarring and raw muscle, sick and rotted, like the man himself. Was it so surprising, that he would show such hate for this tree? ]

I hope, that your... [ his eyes flicked toward Ocelot, and then to the tree. ] Grand sacrifice does not come to harm you later.

You'll find that this disgusting place deserves the rot it holds. If you heal it all, if there's nothing left of the destruction here, do not think that I will not punish you for it. It should bear that scar until it spits back out that which it took.

[ He took a step back. ]

Just be happy I thought I should treat you both with children's gloves.

[ Another few steps, and he did not turn around until he turned the corner. He did not turn his back on them until he knew it was safe. ]