The Death Pool. How... apt. Kuja makes his way towards the appointed location, grumbling under his breath. There is mud positively everywhere. Still, something in the air feels... off. A faint prickling sensation that can't simply be laughed off or ignored.

"By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes," Kuja mumbles under his breath. A bit melodramatic, but a quote from a Lord Avon play seems... apt, here, somehow.