Apollo Wargrave could be seen sitting atop the branch of a tall tree, a piece of fruit resting casually in his hand as he stared down at the assassins surrounding him. He bit into it with an almost insulting nonchalance, chewing leisurely as though the ring of killers encircling him simply did not exist. Resting across his lap lay his soul-bound weapon, his scythe, pure black in color, as though it had been carved directly from the abyss itself, its presence alone exuding an eerie pressure that seemed to weigh upon the forest.
"Why are you lot here?" Apollo asked lazily, continuing to munch on the fruit. "Can't you sense the difference in power between us?"
He swallowed before continuing, his tone casual and almost bored.
"I'm a Wargrave, you know. The chances of you winning against me are abysmal. You'd have better odds against the Wargrave Knights. I'm sure they'd be happy to accommodate you by sending you off to the world of the dead."
