The hard cold grey of Darcy's countenance can't stay forever. Something cracks- blooms, dark red and orange and gold as a sunset, burning.

"Forgive them, father, they know not what they do," he grumbles to himself, kicking quickly into motion. Darcy wears no mask, he holds the sword at his belt in place while he shifts debris, bleeding red heart a mirror to the blood on the ground. There has to be survivors. If there aren't, he'll attend to the dead.