Ezekiel Mathis

Ezekiel was not squeamish. He was the one who swallowed live earthworms when Corliss dared him to. He was the one who grabbed rats by the tail and insects by the scuttling, wriggling leg to transport them elsewhere whenever he was shrilly requested. He was the one who did not scream like a baby when his guts were on the verge of tumbling out of his stomach. He was the one who placed himself beside dying and bleeding warriors and children, patiently listening to their fears and regrets, watching their tears evaporate with their breath. He was the guardian angel of the squeamish, the savior of the scrupulous and easily disgusted.

Why, then, did his left nostril twitch at the behest of Amaryllis?

It wasn't enough that she be lip-bitingly upset one moment, then her usual chipper and hand-clasping self the next. It wasn't enough that she gazed upon him with a look as fond and as chastising as a mother did her toddler. No, that would be letting him off easily. He felt she must have been manipulating all of this on purpose, each of these miniscule outputs of emotion and behaviors she knew he noticed were planned and executed with discreet perfection. It was as if she were malignantly attacking him with tickles, trying to pry out of him an... apology or something.... What for? Killing that one Tainted? (Well, he supposed he got blood on her face, which must be rude somehow). Or was it because he had said something to the talkative and overly sensitive one? (He didn't even remember what it was anymore, it must have been truly vile). Or was it because he hadn't stepped up to smack the tactlessly talkative one for speaking to the overly sensitive and talkative one?

... It must be the tactless one's fault somehow, thought Ezekiel dismissively, weary of trying to figure out the inner workings of Amaryllis's mind. Still, an uncomfortable sneer found its way on his features. Of course, that damned elf wasn't around for Ezekiel to prudently sidestep behind before Amaryllis could finish making her request of him! Of all things accursed in nature... He recalled a time when he stepped on a shard of glass, and how it seemed so wrong to tug on something already embedded in his flesh. He recalled a time where a particularly sharp blade of his was caught in a man's ribcage, how it squirted and screeched against bone as it slid out so agonizingly glacially, mere inches of the sword peeking out at a time. He recalled a doctor's leeches--damned, nauseating animals.

Yet an order was an order, even when posed as an inquiry. Should he hesitate any longer, the others may suspect his loyalties lay elsewhere--perhaps even doubt Amaryllis's ability to command, which he would not stand for. Mentally bracing himself, he reluctantly picked up his pace till he was at a respectable distance, small enough for her to close without hurting herself. "You will hold still?" he grumbled, in case she suddenly felt like dancing and tearing apart his concentration.

His arms were tense below his elbows, and each strained joint seemed to be shrieking in horrified protest. He abruptly flexed at the knuckles to relieve the stress from them, sweeping his free hand across his Parasitic blade as he focused on its shift. In battle, he used a size and thickness better suited for bludgeoning and parrying; this was not battle, requiring delicacy, a fine point and a size with manipulable precision. Yes, this would be much like sewing, merely the other way around: Slicing into parts rather than repairing into a whole. Her armor would willingly fall apart, and all he had to do was take care not to stab her the way he stabbed himself with a needle.... And figure out where Amaryllis wished him to cut. Ezekiel stood idle with discretion, awaiting her direction.

Lucas Truesdale

He perked up visibly out of his drawling and slouching when he heard his name, brows curiously arched. He always had an ear to lend when someone said his name as sweetly as Amaryllis did. It was true he wasn't immediately attached or attracted to her, but she had a soothing touch to compliment her role as leader. He preferred her more than he would prefer anyone else in that position, anyway. Lucas cocked his head forward at an angle, a smile growing and curving like a young fern.

"Look at me, just gabbing away. Sometimes I swear I’m becoming an old hen."

"Aw, you, Ama? Nah. You're not old till you're old enough to be my mom." (Which was a compliment in that that would be "never.") While his face was glib and carefree, his mind was running checks on his past experiences. In an open field, he could probably feel the entire world all at once, let alone a thousand meters. A city though--a city had obstacles, distractions and dozens upon dozens of things that breathed. Even when focusing in a very narrow and very specific direction, he would have trouble stretching his senses out to a thousand meters, it would be spread more sparsely than butter on a piece of toast.

So, what is he to do about his job when he can't do what he's asked of? "West, then? Got it. I'll be right back with you on that." Do it anyway, for the sake of being helpful. While scouting ahead wasn't his favorite activity, it was a hat he wore often enough to be used to. As he began to jog off, he lifted his dominant hand, and seemed surprised to find it empty. He chuckled wearily through his nostrils, rubbed his shoulder, and continued on his way. Being completely unarmed outside his dashing good looks, Lucas had to stay active and focused, make sure he didn't run into any more Tainted ambushes or breeding grounds. He was lucky he came out of the last scuffle unscathed (though he may also owe it to a thorough desire to not experience pain, because he wasn't like other people; he can't stand pain, it hurts him). Before he knew it, he was panting, and felt a ruthlessly gripping, squeezing sensation below his ribs, around his lungs.

Shit, had he gotten so weak? He gulped down air as he stopped, one hand clasped reassuringly over his throat and the other over one of his knees. His eyes were screwed shut even as he straightened. Right, asthma. Good goin', Lucas, always forgetting about the damned thing when it was least convenient... Or... With his eyesight muted and body working hard to restore itself to homeostasis, his nerves were sensitive. Besides, surely by now he was close enough to find her.

His fingers wriggling like the legs of overturned insects, he stretched his arms out before him, and hummed quietly, briefly. Invisible strings extended, and a web was spread out. Dirt, dust, garbage, he sifted through the unneeded as his senses traveled through each couple of areas simultaneously, checking corners and swerving around bodies in which he was disinterested... Except, hello, this one woman seems to have a fiiiine pair of--

An alleyway was shot through to reveal a tent, a small breath emanating from soft lips, a light pulse--a larger, drumming one nearby, echoing against cold metal--

Lucas inhaled sharply as his focus returned to his body, nerves prickling and stabbing. He always figured it was what it felt like to be struck by lightning, just slightly less dead. "Found 'er," he managed after several moments, holding his head. His thoughts seemed to be physically running into each other, and everything throbbed. Thank the Gods Ama was a senser of hearing, because he was well enough acquainted with his limits to know that he would not be able to run to the group and back here. Though, he could at least try to speak more clearly: "Straight ahead, she's in a tent... there's someone else there. I'll, uh, make sure nothing happens. I'll wait here."

He could feel a wet substance as he dragged his hand from his temples to his chin. Great, he had blood dribbling from his nose into his mouth. Lucas sniffed, knuckling his nostrils. Dammit, the shit was gonna stain his clothes and scare the kid.... At least whatever was in there with her didn't seem to be attacking, and she didn't have the hitched, panicked breathing of one in danger. He just hoped she was going to be all right... Come to think of it, gee, it would have been awful stupid of him had he run out, got himself tired, and the girl wasn't here... but luckily that wasn't a predicament, so he won't worry himself over hypotheticals.

He opened his golden eyes, just slightly, and something in the atmosphere indicated another presence approaching them. Fallon regarded the Elven woman curiously, arching an eyebrow high beneath his hairline, until she answered his rhetorical question. For once, he was glad for such a response. It wouldn't have been so well received if it'd been Lucas drawling like a sarcastic pariah, flourishing gestures and all. Though, he was slightly disconcerted with her alluding that he also didn't know where he was going. Or at least, that's what he gathered from it. As illogical as it was to feel snuffed by it, the truth still stung. He didn't know where he was going, and could only state the obvious. They weren't making any headway lingering through the sobering slums, sifting through buildings with a 'giant's blindness.' His hands went limp, completely lax. With a turn of his slender wrists, Fallon examined his open palms, mutely contemplating the puckered scar tissue lining his lifeline, and pressed his fingers against his bare chest, just above his thumping heart. He knuckled his fingers in Elven acceptance.

“A giant's blindness... might be the only accurate description to our grand Redeemer troupe,” The Elven toxopholite conceded through his teeth, though his lips upturned in what appeared to be an amiable smile. It was hard to tell with such furrowed brows, such brooding eyes. “Unless we sprout wings and fly, I cannot see how we'd find the girl any faster.” This was said without malice, without chagrin. It was merely his solemn insight. If only they had those capabilities they wouldn't need to trudge around in back-alleys searching for a mystifying little girl whose abilities in potion-making were apparently uncanny. Again, Fallon's mouth set resolutely. “Lucas might be better suited for such a task,” He finally admonished, frowning deeply. He was a Sensor, though his abilities were far better suited in large fields, open areas, or simply in an environment where they weren't surrounded by huddled buildings made of stone. Such materials hampered his senses. Like the avian emblem sewn onto his belt, Fallon's enhanced eyesight was mainly used for scouting, night vision, and mild heat signatures. Counting the myriad of feathers on the wings of a bird overhead wouldn't help them find a little girl; no less than any of the Manipulators by flailing their distorted limbs about.

Ezekiel's previous statement still resounded in unsympathetic rounds, ringing soundlessly through his head. It was an annoying, buzzing thought. A few physical shakes of his head hadn't dislodged them, so he resumed his ponderous steps, concluding that it might've been words of comfort. He couldn't be sure. They both shared abstract ways when it came to soft words meant to heal, meant to comfort. He'd only watched Ezekiel's mouth slowly form blameless sentences, half silhouetted when he turned his head away, with a dimming gaze. Slowly shutting his eyes, as if to process what he'd said to him moments before, Fallon came out empty, feeling more at a loss. Demons of guilt, of pity, of shame, had always claimed his heart. When hadn't they perched their sharp talons deep in that fleshy organ? And there, they'd continue scratching, and pecking, and devouring until there was nothing left. Chicken scratch. He was thankful for those words, because he wasn't speaking everything that Fallon was thinking.

Still, the Elf moved away from Ezekiel and Amaryliss, whilst stealing fervid glances in their direction. He wanted dearly to aid his foster mother, to steal away whatever pain's she couldn't feel and absorb it into himself. But, he couldn't – or wouldn't – he wasn't sure. A morose expression eased itself on his lips as Lucas threw back his head, willy as an eccentric fool decked in motley. He shot him a look that said I-won't-ask-who-that-was-geared-towards, though he'd already guessed that it might've been Ezekiel, and eyed the shoddy buildings ahead of them. Not that it was his business, but it didn't seem like his foster brother liked the loudmouthed Sensor. How unsurprising. Again, Lucas' lips moved to splutter some more nonsense, which Fallon replied with a curt, “Not likely.” A small snort escaped him when Lucas thumped his chest, adopting an entirely different uniform of motley. Though, it vanished like wisps of cancerous smoke as Snow's footfalls drew closer, so that she was walking alongside them.

Had Fallon been a more whimsical character, he might've shot Lucas' two generous thumbs up at his flowery compliment regarding Sensor's and their abilities. Unfortunately, he only offered a curt nod. Sensor's were regarded with a mutual respect; not for their strengths, or grace, or abilities in battle, though they might've been adept in all such things, but rather for their sensitive enhancements. He tutted softly, arching an eyebrow. “Transforming into an abomination could possibly be the only thing to shut him up,” He added crossly, eyeing Lucas' toothy grin. Then, flicked his wrist in an easy gesture before scratching the nape of his neck. Scrapping off all the layers of monotonous sarcasm and dribbling acidity, Fallon was joking. He caught Lucas' sneering at him, lips curled back in disgust whilst staring intently at his face, back at his piece of fabric, then back at his face. His mouth opened quickly, then closed.

“What is it then?” He almost snarled, nose wrinkling in distaste. Another snide remark? Something clever? No, no, not at all. The bundled cloth was thrust into his chest, which inadvertently forced him to stumble backwards, grasping vainly at the object Lucas' was so keen to deposit into his gauntleted fingers. Again, he stared. With the explanation, Fallon's jawline tensed, then eased in defeat. He would not admit that he was right. “You—... fine.” Quickly flipping the piece of cloth backwards, the Elf cleaned his face before twisting his bracer around to examine himself, rubbed the metal against his pants, then looked again. He looked fine. He made a chortled sound in his throat, and slung the fabric across Lucas' shoulder before continuing innocently on his way.

And then, they continued walking in... a sort of amiable silence, which was suddenly interrupted with Liltih's blunt, drag-your-ass-across-the-coals rambles. Even as she directed disrespectful words towards Amaryliss, who was busy being tended to by Ezekiel. Fallon tried to bury his flaring jealousy, and took a meandering step towards Lilith, stooping lower so that he could meet her narrowed gaze with his own. Then, he smiled. It didn't look right on his hawkish features. “No one said this would be easy. Sound advice would be, where to next?” He glanced furtively towards Gray, then chuckled throatily, retreating from Lilith's personal bubble. The last tendrils of fermented warmth had already left his belly, and he seemed to recall Lilith carrying a questionable metal flask. Why question the task at hand, which had been given without much direction, when there were drinks to be had? He always thought he could think more clearly with a bottle pressed against his lips.

“You wouldn't have any of that poison left, would you?”
______________________________________________________________________________

Lucas scouted ahead while the group continued on, heckling and jostling each other with impatient glances and useless banter. Fallon's golden-myrtle eyes were clouded with worry each time he chanced another glance in Amaryliss' direction, regarding Ezekiel with both gratefulness and annoyance. He ground his teeth in silence, shoving his sentiments down into the recesses of forgotten thoughts. This was no place for petty feelings. Amaryliss' ears seemed to twitch, hearing something so soft, so quiet, in rekindled determination. He nodded his own head, then eyed the horizon. They'd found Nica. She'd been offsetting, to be honest. He couldn't exactly put his finger on it, but her barren expression spoke volumes of a deeper wisdom, or bottomless sadness. No greeting was sufficient, and so he decided to say nothing. It wasn't like Nica proffered any welcome either, she merely leaned into Amaryliss to whisper something quietly, then stared straight ahead at something unseen. The Elven man's eyes never left her, even as they traveled back into the heart of the splendorous city of Vincere. Not only that, they were being accompanied by a hulking, armored man who resembled a knight. He couldn't help but feel an unrestrained resentment towards him, as if he were another guardsman spitting on his race. Though, his demeanor only revealed a kind chivalry; he was still wary.

The Council Chambers were glorious to behold, but it all meant the same thing to Fallon. Greedy men erecting a grandiose building – a means only possible with the slavish labour of feverish, skinny slavers. So, if the Redeemer's saw brazen pillars with intricate, colossal ceilings; Fallon only saw the product of pious men with innocent blood on their clean, flowery hands. His lips curled back lightly, before resuming a cool, collected frown. When Amarylis' spoke once more, he cocked his head. What more could be said when even she knew little on the matter? To find a God, where would they search? Surely, it would be more difficult than finding a little girl.

He wasn't one to propose resting at an inn. Perhaps, nestled within the confines of the city where erstwhile travelers would be busying themselves with hot meals and fine vintages – rumours, if anywhere, would sprout in such a place. And still, some of the Redemeer's needed rest from their wounds, or over-exhaustion. The sweltering heat of Vincere always took it's dues.

“A giant's blindness... might be the only accurate description to our grand Redeemer troupe,” was Fallon's response, but Lucas seemed inclined to hurry somewhere, and immediately set about... doing something. Sensing, she assumed. Though... what kind of sensing was done like that? Maybe it wasn't so much a unique property of the ability as of the person who decided to use it. She could certainly believe as much without difficulty. "An optimistic thought," she replied archly, though she fell silent thereafter, receding once more away from the world in which she existed and back into the other, more internal realm in which she could be said to dwell. She lived only seldom, and now was not such an occurrence.

Dusk swept her lingering trails over the sky in blood-color and russet, and with her advent, so came the partial cessation of the conditions which were to Snow less than favorable. It cooled and darkened, and she was at last actually able to open her eyes and look around properly. Not that anything was much different than she had initially suspected, of course, and though it was no longer necessity but preference, she left her sable cowl where it was over her head, obscuring her face from proper view. Red eyes tended to unnerve on occasion, actually. Fancy that.

It was in relatively short order that they found the apothecary they were after, and immediately upon entering and catching sight of the one called Nica, Snow decided that she was not the mere human child she'd been described as. What she was, of course, remained a separate question, and the elf was not quite so foolish as to ask it aloud. Instead, her gaze flicked over bubbling cauldrons, nostrils flaring with the intake of acrid scents belonging to several plants she could identify and many more that she could not. The simple fact of the matter was, Nica's nature, so obviously foreign, did not bother her in the slightest. It was a combination of an odd appearance (and hypocrite she would be if that put her off at all) and an unusually grave demeanor, especially for a child. Well, a lack of emotiveness was not necessarily to be lamented, as Snow well knew. So in the end, she accepted the oddity with familiar ease. Whilst the not-child tended to the injured, Snow stood by passively, beside an equally-taciturn Fallon, deciding that the gargantuan man in the corner could be naught but another of their number himself.

It was not long before they were on the move again, sedate of pace by the standards she was accustomed to, but then they had someone of under five feet tall with them now. Twilight heralded more active observation of the city, and she marked the places where she saw or felt one subculture bleed into another. There was the end of the ramshackle slums, to move only three miles in that direction would take a person to the place she had spent most of her childhood, not that she planned on saying as much, and here now was the wealthy side of town, were feet such as hers were not supposed to be treading. She did not revel in the fact that she was; too long had it been since she entertained the notion that anything was truly better up here, aside from the material living conditions which she had no more need of, if indeed such a need had ever truly been hers.

They came to stop in front of a grand building with pristine columns and sweeping architecture, and from the look on Nica's face, it was obvious that they had reached the place they were supposed to be. Amaryllis was speaking, but Snow had not forgotten the words the first time they were said. They keep their god in their own halls? A thoroughly arrogant sentiment if ever there was one... It almost amused her, actually. Where was the god of the merchantmen? Where they made the trade regulations and laws, of course. She would have been even less surprised to hear they'd penned him in a currency exchange building.

Lucas Truesdale

He was slumped against a cold surface; his body relieved of taut, active stances as easily as a machine starved of coal, and all he could do was stare listlessly ahead at translucent, fidgety shapes in the air that looked to him like worms. Or were they implanted on his eyes, and only looked the correct size of worms because they were so close? They vanished momentarily when he blinked, but returned, moving while staying perfectly still. When he felt the approach of his fellows, Lucas stumbled onto his feet, taking his time to straighten up and clear his throat, as well as swipe the back of his wrist against his bleeding nose a final time.

The senser was restless, antsy to get going; dismissing any puzzled glances in his direction with a broad, lifeless smirk and curt shrugging. Occasionally his fingers twitched, and even when returned to their leather prisons were agitated. Lucas was perfectly unconcerned. Wait till he started growing a second head from his shoulder, and had his ribs spike out from his flesh to embrace him like a jacket with its arms tangled. He was well acquainted with horror stories of abominations shared between chummy and antagonistic Redeemers alike. Until the tales unfolded their branches to bear fruit over the fence of reality to "shut him up," Lucas was perfectly unconcerned.

---

"Heya. Your name's Nica, right? I'm Lucas."

His smile was strained, but the affability he did his best to project was no less than sincere. True, the lack of symmetry between her eyes might have been off-putting, but he found the uniqueness in them to be a fresh breath of air. At least, that was what he convinced himself. He needn't convince himself likewise for the lack of a lively glow in her hair that tumbled past the similar hue of skin on her shoulders; he had long been familiar with all sorts of skin tones. To this day he swears he once fucked a woman with emerald green flesh, and what was a frail hue in comparison to that?

At one point, he asked lamely: "You, uhm. You live by yourself, huh?" While clearly intrigued by her work and watching intently, he kept his distance and gave her plenty of space. It was all rather funny; he didn't notice his how or when his "friends" got themselves wounded. Careless bastards. Still, Lucas was immensely more cheerful, contrasting his earlier hush with lighthearted conversation among his fellow idlers; sharing amiable grins, nicknames, and making genuine, nonchalant smalltalk with the elves (Flower Pot, Tats) and humans (Ama, Lils, Vi, Prince Adam) alike. He even poked his head out and asked Ezekiel if the weather was "still hotter than being crammed between a volcano's ass cheeks out here?" (And thereafter, with lowered eyelids, he went on to inform Ezekiel that his unamused stare was "still colder than being crushed between the breasts of a glacier." Were he in a bad mood, he would have switched up the comparisons.)

As for the knight in great, big armor, he knew not what to think of. He was relieved to discover that the man had not arrived with the intent of malice, but that was where it ended. It was bizarrely convenient for them to acquire a new body with unused energy, and Lucas found himself skeptical of the fact. If the man spoke lies about his intentions, however, he must have been damned good to slide them under Lucas's notice, and by "damned good" he meant impossibly so. "Zachary," he went by. Simple name for a simple man. In any case, it was the circumstances Lucas distrusted, not the man himself, so he settled with pressing the matter to the back of his mind for the moment.

The visit to the tent--small amount of time though it was--allowed him to rest is aching feet, for which he was deeply grateful. Repose and (in his current opinion) good company always did wonders in healing enervation. He even lagged behind much less when they departed, though it seemed to be because he was eager to keep up with Nica's pace. He tried to speak with the little girl at every opportunity, attempting to prompt her to talk about herself, gently probing her about her day, how she came about her "job" as an apothecarist, how she's been treated in the slums and what she was doing there, and even about the drasted weather and whether or not she liked it. With her he even took a special tone; as if treading softly over a pane of glass, whereas with most of the others he would vocally stomp around like he was trying to explain the meaning of life through interpretive dance.

Only when he caught sight of the edifice and its protrusion of pillars did he lay off of her, whistling a long note and glancing at the Redeemer nearest to him in a way that said You seein' this? I mean, I've seen bigger but this is nice, too.

ZackaryKane

T knelt figure before Nica the one bearing tarnished, seeming unsound equipment began to stir like a waking giant. The scarlet banner used as a mantle wrapped its tattered frayed edges around Zackary's silhouette and barely drug the ground. Rising to his feet, it would seem like his knelt form, that of a six foot-one man, seem to exponentially grow and grow before their very eyes eyes, as though he would never stop, it would appear at first that the tent wouldn't be able to accommodate his girth. Finally standing upright, he was enormous in comparison to the others.
S tanding around nine to nine and a half feet tall, he was undoubtedly a very imposing figure. Though they hadn't seen him fight, or his capabilities--they being lower ranked, and even Ama herself could find indubitable aroma of burning wood and incense like those for funeral pyres. Yet, there was a lingering and undeniably stronger odor--that of death. It hung over this as of yet, silent crusader. It was as though he had let the blood and the stench of decay be...'absorbed' by the armor. The armor itself seemed was an amalgamation of three various metals; the adamantine that was left over, bits of mithril and of course the most abundant ore iron. But he had forged it into steel which reinforced the adamantine in certain, crucial structural points such as joints like the elbow and the knee.
Not all of his armor had the luxury of having added alloys. His helm, was rounded to accommodate the skull of its wearer. It had a barbute design; the defining characteristic of the barbute was the fact that the shape of the helmet extends all the way down to cover both sides the face. The type of opening—which could be T-shaped, this characteristic is practically always present. This made the wearing of a gorget optional. On some examples of such armor, there was a central, narrow protrusion extending down from the top of the opening, designed to protect the wearer's nose. Zackary's helm had no such thing. Zackary's barbute was comprised purely of steel and so it had more of a sheen to it, though it definitely told the crew he was soon to be acquainted with, that he had fought much more dangerous adversaries than even a writhing Abomination or a spawned Demoni.
The deep gouges even in his mithril and even adamantine armor would perhaps, give them a glimpse that 'Roaches' were the least of their worries. Stranger still was his weapon. The sheathed bade that clung to his side almost like he were a parasite without ever having the weapon actually integrated into him. The way his hand nonchalantly let his limb deceptively rest atop the cross guard, but god's bless those who dare threaten this veteran of war.
The blue spheres of light that designated his great hostility, and signifying the terrible power he brandished was not there. Yet, he would still have a very uneasy, if misunderstood air about him. Nevertheless, his peaceful demeanor, and ponderous disposition would perhaps, leave the group feeling a bit uneasy as his eyes probed from the safety of darkness that the helm provided. They couldn't see where he was looking at, but as they followed from one member to the next making minute observations; habits, traits things that most would pass off as superfluous or even inconsequential he found insight, wisdom--potential. Already he could gather mixed emotions; resentment, curiosity.
Turning to Amaryllss he would simply take her hand and bring it to the wide portion of the "T" shaped opening as though he were kissing the back of her hand. Vesuvi had honor and lots of it. It was prized above even gold or monetary wealth. A man with honor was a king in his own standing. Merchants had coin, but warriors, the ruled because Vesuvian society was very spartan-like.

"Pardon my delay milady, I have no excuse. I came as swiftly as I could once I had been reassigned, but alas, there was an ambush on the way. A band of marauding but aggressive Tainted and Demoni Spawn attacked. I do bear the flag of Vesuvi, but I am...all that remains."

Zackary removed his gauntlet, first unbuckling a series of leather and metal straps on to peel away the armor like dead skin. The more armore he removed the strong the smell of blood came wafting through the air all must of assuredly inhaled the overpowering stench. But on his marble skin; fissures, deep gouges only caused by non-stop fighting were there.

"Forgive the smell, it is part of my atonement and my curse. To walk the world forever cursed with how much I have killed already, and even those that don't know they are dead yet. I have something to give you however, as you are my commanding officer.""

Zackary pried a very unique ring from the fourth digit of his right hand. It was a signet ring, one bearing the mark and seal of the Vesuvian empire. Laden in a lustrous gold and inset with a ruby and onyx, carved to create a stamp to seal the letters with. It had blood stains and reeked of slaughter. It was the last true heirloom to Vesuvian Empire. He hand the ring over the Amaryllss lending it to her with a marble of colore white arm that looked like it were soot and covered in ashes still yet not burned.

Manon had thrown herself awake from her nightmare, breathing roughly and giving a slight cough. To people who couldn’t see her, it sounded like choppy wind or a dragon breaking it’s flight. And if Manon was lucky, no one saw her large, yet leaf-cloaked body yet. She was sleeping behind Nica’s shop, and had been doing so for the past few days when she got word that more redeemers were coming.

Manon had been in training with a redeemer who coached the newcomers when found necessary. Manon was stumbling with her height and could barely control her strength the first day, so it was very much so necessary for Manon to be sent for training. But apparently, today was the day that the redeemers had shown. When Manon looked inside of the shop, Nica was no longer there. Nica previously wrote Manon a note, explaining where the redeemers would go if they came to the shop. And since Manon knew where to go, she took her time in doing her morning stretches and preparing herself to meet her comrades. She was looking in a big piece of broken glass and talking to herself, trying to find the proper greeting voice for when she would first speak to them.

She tried the Amazonian warrior voice, which was a tad deeper than her own and resembled something close to a man. Manon liked it, but she couldn’t keep the voice up for long, so she decided to abandon it. Then she tried the authoritative voice, it made her sound like a general in an army and almost commanded power. Manon loved it, but her knees shook whenever she spoke in that voice, which would give away the lie. Voice after voice, Manon was losing time in her efforts to impress the redeemers, so she decided to just drop it and get moving.

Manon wolfed down her breakfast, ten pounds of cold pork, and walked the streets of the city. Some people had seen Manon before, so they only opened their eyes wide as she did a speed walk past them. Other people screamed and jumped out of the way. Manon was grateful for only walking the streets at night, since the people who didn’t see her before had cleared a path for her.

Now catching up to the redeemers, Manon paused. Her blood started boiling and her heart was beating fast. Damn the heat. It was the heat that was making Manon feel this way! For some reason, the heat wouldn’t let Manon get twenty feet close to the redeemers, so Manon trailed behind them, her dried throat restricting her from calling out to them. “I hate the heat…” Manon whispered, though it was a booming voice to the people below her. The people were wondering what heat Manon was talking about, since the day was coming to an end. The heat stored from the day was now making the air a warm breeze, something more soothing than debilitating.

Ezekiel Mathis

Ezekiel would have none of it: neither treatment for any minor scratches he came to discover scattered about his body, nor even the notion of squeezing into a cramped space with the others. He waited outside, under the pretense of standing guard. Every so often, he would pace to and fro; the shadows he cast on the tent beginning have its outline engulfed, and ebb into its brethren. Pacing did not help him cope against the sweltering heat that was present even as day mutated into night, and it did not soothe his impatience in the least bit; but it did subtly silence the sound of his irregular pulse, thrumming, taunting, chewing on his bones, hastening him to action. In this state of growing irritation, much like an overly devoted pet, he would surely have picked (at least) a verbal fight with the newcomer for coming even a foot too close to Amaryllis. For appearances, mannerisms and reputations be damned; how could the man be trusted? Yet as he only tuned in remotely to the shapes and conversations within the tent, he focused on nothing outside quelling himself. The elves, with equal fervor, would not stand for anything Ezekiel would disagree with, he was sure... simple though they were. Perhaps he, too, was simple. The thought was almost perturbing, and likewise would be said of the notion that he minded increasingly less. Yet, why would he vainly prefer capricious humans he could have no fondness for...?

He was very agreeable when the child a parted flap of her tent as she emerged from it, and he followed her obediently despite having caught the girl's gaze in his own. Whether they were empty and soulless or blasé and world-weary, he could not tell; whether he had seen such an expression on another face before, he could not recall. Ezekiel exchanged no words with her. It was unnecessary, and for the first time in a long time, mutually so. She knew what was needed to be done by her hand, and required no idle chatter. Normally this was a quality Ezekiel admired, but when the one embodying the trait was but a child, he could form no opinion. Yet, Nica provided much needed aid for Amaryllis, for Fallon, for Vivian, and anyone else plagued by seeping injuries... What negativity could he hold against her then?

A lone, cautious glance was offered to Amaryllis as soon as he spied her, for he wished not to be deceived about her well-being. It was almost mystical how she, lack of armor aside, held up well against his inspection; having only the outward stains of blood and dirt. No wounds. Likewise for everyone else--filthy, but well. It was curious. Ezekiel could name a dozen names and dozens more faces who would pay generously to have ownership over the girl's abilities, to have her always by their side for insurance. Not only that, but she also appeared to be rather well-known. What, then, was she doing here...?

Curious.

---

"Perhaps we should have brought him flowers." Said Ezekiel blandly, shortly after they arrived at the Council Chamber.

"Oooh," immediately commented the obnoxious senser of the group, "there's an idea. 'Here, sniff these! Can we drink your blood??' Ha...! Nah, I personally think chocolates might work better."

... Sarcastic Ezekiel may have been about the flowers part, he had been serious about finding an offering. The higher powers, be it through nobility or choice, always enjoyed presents; it was in their very nature to expect special treatment from lower life forms. Wasn't it some sort of custom in the area of Vincere, besides? He did not pay enough attention to know for certain. The mild physical exertion of the walk had done him good, and it seemed that the colder the breeze's knives were, the less wound up his muscles got. He could almost feel the cool material seeping out from the construction of pillars. Though no less wary, Ezekiel was relaxed by just a fraction--which was, some may suspect, the most repose he tended to get. It did not last long. With a sneer at the sound of the timid footsteps, Ezekiel faced the offending direction. He had halted immediately, as if someone had drop kicked his mother in the head.

"Who trails us this time?" he barked. It was almost a funny sight: an average-sized man glowering up at a larger woman. She seemed without ill intent from the lack of stealth in her manner of dress, as well as her lack of charging into the group. These notions, however, did not quell his apparent hostility. In truth, he was only barely testy, but he always disliked unannounced presences.

Grey

That was painful. Not only Cinnamon brushing him off, but that gods-awful abomination of a phrase Amaryliss called a joke. She had the audacity to call that a joke? Grey visibly winced at the notion, but smiled and looked towards the sky. Ama probably thought that she had been genuinely funny, and hadn't the faintest idea how terrible she was. He smirked and thought of his cousin Eos. That smarmy bastard is probably turning in his grave right now. Now that was a man who could tell a mean joke.

Another wince ensued as Grey's attention shifted to the wound in Ama's side. That woman could take a hell of a stabbing, and smiled, pouted and talked it off like it was nothing. Having deadened nerves would have been useful during some of Grey's assignments as a soldier when he was still human. Of course, he probably would have died on several occasions with such a boon as well. Grey could not count the times that he had used pain to sharpen his senses and focus his thoughts in one dire situation or another. There had been a few times when he had been hit with a poisoned quarrel or gotten a wound infected. Maybe Amaryliss wasn't so lucky...

Stumbling over a cracked section of the walkway brought Grey back to the present. Staring at the sky was not the best way to spend one's walking time, but at least he was able to see the loathsome shades of industrial gray and blue shift to softer, warmer hues. Distantly, he wondered if the people of Vincere found any solace in the fact that their toil and sweat did not completely destroy the natural roof above their heads. Each day they would be able to look upon the fiery dusk and bask in the cooling temperature knowing that tomorrow would bring another swathe of color as a reward for a hard day's work.

Oh, crap. I don't feel too well... Grey realized he was still filtering out the heat he absorbed through his mouth. With a sigh that was just barely audible, the manipulator allowed his body to shift back into it's normal routine. The remaining excess heat hissed through his teeth. Grey was already feeling better.

After a day that felt like it would never end, they finally made it to the apothecary or whatever this place was. If the brat wasn't here, Grey thought irritably, he would smack Amaryliss across the face. No questions asked. Well, that would probably entail roughing up her guard dog as well, but Grey had no problem with beating down some mid-ranked chump. His thoughts were cut short when Grey looked upon the girl, Nica. For the first time in a long while(an hour, by his reckoning) Grey felt as if he was missing something of vital importance. The manipulator glanced at Fallon, the Snow and finally some of the cult-follower twits hovering nearby. They obviously knew something that he did not. That big guy that reeked of coppery tang speaking to Ama probably did too.

Maybe it was the child's all-knowing demeanor, or that look in her eyes. It reminded him of the gaze of a deer as the last vestiges of life bleed from it's form. Something between dead and completely sated. Psh, yeah right. I should really clean up though... Grey unclasped his torn cloak. Clad in only shabby leather armor, he proceeded to wipe the partially coagulated blood from his face, neck, and chest. By the end of it he was fairly clean. Grey set the sullied cloak on the ground and stretched. He was utterly and completely bored.

Not the bored where you did not have any options, but that sort of mental lethargy that kept you from doing anything meaningful for no apparent reason. That changed with the arrival of Manon. It was hard to determine what it was exactly that made her stick out aside from the obvious, but Grey felt the need to explore. Before he could say anything however, that angry bastard that had been sulking like a teenage girl for the entire venture started barking at the newcomer. Grey cracked his knuckles and stomped over to stand shoulder to shoulder with Ezekiel, standing a couple inches taller but somehow only just barely matching the man in aggressive presence. "Stop yelling you grumpy little fuck!" Grey scratched the back of his head and turned to address Manon with half-hearted interest(he was suddenly more intent on learning a bit more about the easily angered fellow that was ranked higher than himself), "You'd think he'd be a little less irritable after the day we've had. What he meant to say, was: 'Name and rank?'"

Somehow, Grey didn't seem the least bit friendly. Quite the contrary, actually. As Ezekiel was a baying wolf, Grey was an attentive panther; Each a predator in their own right despite slightly different approaches. Grey finally figured out what it was he immediately liked about the woman though... the fangs. He'd always had a thing for love bites.

As their fearless leader lived up to any expectations someone might have of a fearless leader (taking her horrific injuries (though Lilith couldn't say she didn't deserve them…she had behaved like quite the twat) in stride without so much as a wince or cringe or a whimper, spirits completely unhampered), Lilith drummed the tips of her slender fingers against the steel of her blades, lips pursed heavily. Ama was able to use her powers to find the girl without so much as breaking a sweat despite her heavy injuries. Perhaps she was fit to lead them afterall--at least based upon her abilities it seemed so--she didn't seem quite right in the head from these extreme emotional fluctuations she was undergoing every few moments. Sweet Mommy to hysterical woman and back to mommy dearest all within minutes of each other. Lilith was more than slightly put off.

Yet while she was yet ruminating on why she couldn't bring herself to fawn over dear Ama, perhaps some deep rooted resentment towards her own mother's inability to love her as a child, one of her fledglings suddenly swarmed her vision, face floating in front of her own as he offered her a grimace. Wait. No…it was a smile. Was this a strange attempt to evangelize and gather her aboard the I Love Ama bandwagon? She offered Fallon a radiant smile. "You know, you shouldn't poise your own pretty face so near to mine. I might not be able to resist the temptation."

“No one said this would be easy. Sound advice would be, where to next? You wouldn't have any of that poison left, would you?”

"Oh, I have enough poison for nearly every single person here to have the greatest night of their lives," she fluidly reached for her whiskey and offered it to her new companion with a nonchalant hand, the liquid inside sloshing gently against the sides. "You aren't going to spit in it, are you?" she teased lightly, eyebrows wagging humorously up and down her forehead.

As she shared her wealth with the hard-eyed man, swallowing a few very full mouthfuls herself, cheeks swelling with whiskey before gulping it down loudly, fortunately the sensors in the group were solving all their problems. Luckily, Lucas was able to save the entire group from meandering mindlessly as the sun slunk below the horizon. They would have been vulnerable, but now they were well on their way once more. As the group trotted passed him, she noticed the remnants of new blood on his face and shirt. He must have overworked himself. She grinned zealously, dark eyes twinkling appreciatively from their narrow slits. She reached over and rubbed his shoulder, "You did great," she encouraged, offering a friendly wink before trotting off.

And did they ever find what they were looking for. That, and a bag of chips too--the bag of chips being the giant can of tuna lurking in the corner. Their tiny poltergeist drifted about her tiny tent, making adjustments to elixirs and potions, fine-tuning all of their health to the most miniscule levels, insisting she drink some strange and bubbling bright orange drink (just a capful), urging her with a sort of monotone insistency that was difficult to say no to.

And Nica wasn't the only addition to their ragtag group. The giant can of tuna in the corner…a giant stone carving come to life. He smelled terrible and had this pompous, holier-than-thou kind of attitude. He might as well have been riding a giant horse named Righteousness and carried a hammer he called Justice. What gave him the right to be pretend to be so regal? Really, Lilith thought it was all an act; a terrible, ill-kept façade she saw right through. She was contented to keep her distance until he really crossed the line. She witnessed as this bumbling oaf removed a ring from his filthy hand and handed it to their fearless leader. Now Lilith didn't particularly care for Ama, but at least the woman didn't pretend to be something she wasn't. Lilith couldn't contain her disgusted reaction as her face contorted in horror. "Ama…don't put that on…that's disgusting…" she gasped, mouth agape in a strange pairing of a snarl and an O-shaped reaction of surprise.

Despite all the drama it took them to find Nica, it didn't take the explorers long before they were out walking again. Lilith was used to walking long distances with a certain determination and gusto, but once the sun set, she was ready to participate in more recreational activities. Things that would keep her warm as the temperature dipped below comfortable for the seemingly frail young woman. Lilith hated the cold, and she huffed to herself, exhaling the shivers that climbed over her skin until they went inside the city again. She welcomed the warmth as she would any lover, with a soft sigh and half-lidded eyes. When were they going to the Tavern again? The guards stationed at nearly every junction in the city regarded them warily, the same far off expression they had before, only placed a bit more on edge because the Redeemers were still snooping around their cities. She stuck her tongue out at a few of them, pulling faces and crossing her eyes. Her antics were met with stoicism if not more contempt than before.

They finally arrived at the Great Assembly Hall (or whatever it was called). The place that made all the decisions for all of the land. A great place of democracy and corruption. She spit against its great pillars, wiping her nose haughtily with the back of her wrist.

"Perhaps we should have brought him flowers." 

"Oooh,there's an idea. 'Here, sniff these! Can we drink your blood??' Ha...! Nah, I personally think chocolates might work better."

Lilith actually smiled at the exchange. Perhaps the dark skinned man did have a sense of humor. Or maybe that was only on nights with a full moon.
"Both would have probably been best," she chimed in, "that and a few skilled hookers." She absolutely beamed. She was so proud of her tiny addition to the commentary. And yet, suddenly, she was struck with an idea as one might be struck with an arrow. She took a quick step backward, spreading her arms for balance as she stared wide-eyed at the group. "Woah…are we sure it's his blood that we have to drink? What if it was actually--" but her thought, no doubt highly obscene in nature, was cut off suddenly. Ezekiel, the one who had just worked so hard to improve his character in her mind, was again receding back into the dark caverns of "shmuck." He was shouting at some giant that had been following them around. And this shouting was received with more shouting from Grey--because that was always the answer. She rolled her eyes heavily, so heavily she seemed to roll her entire body in the same motion.

"I just thought she was some chick who followed the ole tin cup around. You know. For services. And things," she offered, eyeing Zackary knowingly. "She's the right size for it. And she has a phenomenal rack, I mean look at those tits. Really, I think we should let him keep her. I definitely wouldn't want him crawling into my tent at night suffering from manly needs." The woman didn't know when to stop talking, and as sleep deprivation ate away at her mind, any filter she might have had seemed to slowly be slipping away. Yet she was sincere, the worst part about it all. She bounced around on her heels, placing her hands casually on her hips, shoulders slouched as they fell into an important group meeting about their newest arrival. "Yea," she added again, mulling over her idea and agreeing with herself.

Manon was looking at the people below her, not noticing that she got a little closer to the redeemers. A male barked at her, causing for her to jump back. There was something off about his left arm, but Manon couldn't focus to pinpoint it when another male started to yell. The yelling reminded Manon of her father, her father roaring in anger when Manon was caught sparring with her brothers. Manon's knees and hands were shaking, her knees were for fear, and her hands were for the rage that was burning inside of her. Manon felt a small push in the back of her head, her temper triggering the demoni blood, and then visioned a large dragon wreaking havoc in a village. The demoni blood was trying to overturn Manon with anger, filling her head with violent images and screams.

The image after the dragon was an ogre, it's skin was brown and murky, but it's eyes were red with rage. It wield a trunk of a tree in it's hands as it violently swung. It hit houses, market stands, and if they were too slow, people. Manon could feel the rising anger of the ogre, gradually reaching it's peak as it swung and swung and swung....People were screaming and running, but the noise only contributed to the rampage, bones were cracking in the symphony of screams, and nothing could stop the ogre. Lifting it's hands with the worn tree trunk, it was gaining height to drop on the villagers heads.

"Don't yell at me!" Manon wanted to scream with all of her might, but her voice was caught in her throat, so only a growl escaped. In one minute, Manon bared her teeth, eyes glowing and her right hand reaching behind her back, where her hammers were held. Manon was furious and ready to release Hell on the redeemers heads, to destroy the whole city, ready to go in the rage her body craved. Just a single moment is all she would need. The ogre and her would slam their weapons into skulls and--In the next second, Manon broke out of the vision she was in. Her vision went from blood red to normal colors. The demoni blood had been calmed and Manon reverted back to normal, breathing roughly and looking around confused. She was barely catching what the woman was saying below her.

"And she has a phenomenal rack, I mean look at those tits. Really, I think we should let him keep her. I definitely wouldn't want him crawling into my tent at night suffering from manly needs." That took Manon's mind off of her demoni breakdown. Manon blushed and covered her face with her gloved hands. She did have a phenomenal rack huh? Before the transformation, Manon was flat-chested; now she could suffocate someone.

But all in all, Manon was overwhelmed. She was a little shaken by her visions, and to top it all off, the redeemer's weren't what Manon expected. They were weird and very short, not that Manon expected them to be over eight feet and anxious to meet her of course.

Ok, well she did. Manon can understand them being regular sized, but do they have to yell?

"I-I'm so so sorry....I am." Manon said while holding her head down. Which was a strange position because now she was looking directly at them. "I..." Manon bit her lower lip and whimpered. She was staring at them while apologizing and bowing her head and stuttering and shy and it was all so damn awkward. Manon could barely control her body from being overtaken by the demoni blood, let alone handle socially awkward situations. And so she quickly turned on her heels (which made her slightly trip on her ankles. But Manon managed to save herself) and quickly walked away.

Snow's attention was drawn from whence she was letting her eyes follow the organic curve of the dendriform capital atop the column closest to her (the mathematics involved in such a shape was intriguing, if one were willing to devote enough thought to it), to the much more mundane (some would say important) goings-on amidst the group. Content to ignore in an indifferent sort of way the jibes and snaps that passed between the others, her attention was nonetheless drawn to the appearance of a new soul, one, it seemed, whose physical presence told a lie about her demeanor.

Ezekiel said something, to which Grey responded, but Snow barely paid them any heed, instead watching as the object of the argument departed, apparently rather alarmed by the goings-on. Well, that wouldn't do, now would it? It seemed to the elf that everyone was needed, and perhaps this one had yet to develop a thick psychological skin to go with the physical one her class were so proud of. Quite the opposite, then, of Snow herself, who while more prone to bruising than the average small child, was so far emotionally callused that sometimes she wondered if she was any longer capable of feeling at all.

Without saying anything or waiting for anything to be decided (for truly, she'd made up her own mind some time ago, and that was enough), she padded off after the departed tank, following at some distance which she could have closed but chose not to, until such time as the other woman decided to stop. "You know," she offered aloud, "there's really nothing to apologize for." She hadn't understood why someone would bother showing so much deference when clearly it wasn't called for, and looked up at the much taller Manon with something approaching inquisitiveness or perhaps understanding; it was hard to tell.

"I suppose it is not impossible that they offended you, in which case that's something you'll have to learn to deal with. But on the whole I have not found them to be bad people." A ringing endorsement, for her anyway, even if the whole thing was phrased so bluntly as to probably be not reassuring in the slightest. "You should know, I expect, what we're doing, and we could use your help." She wasn't sure that there was much else to say, really, so she didn't, rather choosing to wait patently for some form of response, calm as the ocean on a fine spring afternoon, with no apparent inclination to be elsewhere. If people felt comfortable speaking to her, it was probably for this, the fact that even in an urgent situation, she seemed always to have limitless patience and time. She'd never seen the point in rushing- it tended to achieve things with much more fanfare and much less actual efficiency.

While trying to figure out a hiding spot to watch the redeemers, Manon heard a quiet voice below her. She turned around to see another woman from the group of redeemers talking to her, and for a moment, Manon couldn't hear a word she was saying. So Manon closed her eyes and leaned forward to only focus on the small sound that was the woman's words.

"You should know, I expect, what we're doing, and we could use your help." If Manon was correct, the woman had stopped speaking, for the hushed voice seemed to disappear with the wind. And so Manon raised back to her full height and nodded slowly in approval. Wow. Not a single word of the elven woman before Manon was yelled or even a pitch above monotone. The contrast between this interaction with the redeemers in comparison to the first interaction was baffling to Manon. 'Just when I thought I figured them all out.' Manon thought as she smiled to the woman. Manon lowered herself again to offer her hand in a shake, her modest proposal to friendship.

"Well I'll come back, I guess. I'm Hellreigel, Rank. 56." Whether the woman accepted the handshake or not, Manon decided to walk back to the group, either trailing behind Snow or walking side by side with her. "And your name?" Manon inquired, while keeping her head down. She did so while sneaking a few glances at Snow, and admiring the strangeness in her appearance. Her tattoo's were colorful and out of the ordinary, mostly due to how bright they were. Manon would suspect that the color's brilliance was contributed to the paleness of Snow's skin.

Snow also looked, if Manon were to lack better words, delicate. Her body was slender and long and her ivory skin was painted with bright colors, as if she were a flower. Before the transformation, Manon was small. Very few people complimented Manon on her beauty, so Manon understood it wasn't just the slender body that made Snow look like a china doll, it was just something about her.

Looking a little longer than she wanted to, Manon diverted her eyes on the ground and stayed silent, even if others decided to speak to her.

Lucas' deflated constitution was mildly unsettling. Moment's before, the Sensor had been cajoling with the Redeemer's, specifically the women, and acting as he always had; insufferable and annoyingly brazen. Utilizing his abilities had left him drained and debilitated, slouched unceremoniously against the chilly surface without so much as another word spluttering from his lips. His deadpan stare caused Fallon to cough uncomfortably into his upturned palm, as he solemnly attempted to trace where his flickering pupils were focusing. Nothing in particular caught his attention. Though, he imagined that Lucas wasn't feeling particularly well. Again, subtlety wasn't his strongest suit, but concern lined the corners of his mouth and furrowed his eyebrows together. As they approached, Lucas' lurched forward to catch his footing and straightened with visible difficulty, clearing his throat and swiping the back of his hand across his nose. An enquiring brow raised, then his unspoken question was answered—flecks of blood was slathered across his hand in one grotesque streak, revealing that using his Sensor abilities had taken more of a toll then they understood.

His eyes were like lens-flares; dismissive and quick to divert any questions. Even if Lucas was unconcerned with his sluggishly trickling nose and diminished energy, the Elf wasn't entirely dissuaded. Setting his mouth in a hard line, Fallon's concerned approach stopped short as he caught Lucas' deflective, simpering grin and decidedly shook his head. If he wished to discuss the details of his abilities, then he'd do so on his own terms. Concern was an irrelevant emotion that flared insistently behind his ribcage, ushering soft whispers that reminded him oddly of Amaryliss. It existed in a cruel world, beyond reach of common sense. His bones were glass blown; fragile, and often cracking under the pressure. These were traits that Amaryliss fostered within him and Ezekiel, though Fallon was always weaker, and more prone to becoming a jumbling mess. Instead, Fallon fell into amiable silence with occasionally wary glances.

Fawning over Amaryliss' welfare had always been his top priority, but while Ezekiel seemed more adept at caring for her... he simply watched like a forlorn hound. There was nothing more he could do, and as he grew older, he felt as if his place at her side was dwindling. So, Fallon's smile widened, mere inches from Lilith's exotic face, as she spoke. His gravelly voice rumbled from his lips, accompanied with a strange crinkle of his golden eyes, “That's a hard habit to break. I'll have to do that more often, then.” And then, Fallon withdrew and accepted the flask of whiskey from Lilith's hand. He quickly drew it to his lips, tipped back his head and welcomed the warmth that swept down his gorge. It was stronger than he thought. He made a face, then contorted it into an admirable smile, settling it back into her hands. “And waste good vintage? Never.”

---

Fallon himself added nothing to Lucas' embarrassing attempts to rouse a response from little Nica. Something was entirely offsetting about their present situation, threading onwards with the added company of a hulking knight in peculiar armour, with an unpleasantly silent little girl in tow. It wasn't even her mismatched eyes that made her unsettling, but rather the vacant expression puzzled across her features. Whenever the Elf chanced a curious glance in Nica's direction, he didn't feel as if he were looking at a child. Nothing in the way she carried herself represented a guileless innocence, nor an innocence stolen in the harsh realities of the slums. Did anyone cause her any misery? Perhaps, that's why she chose not to speak. His stomach twisted on itself. Elsewise, Nica wasn't what she appeared to be—old tales of wizened witch-women cloaked in younger vessels came to mind, or haggard beasts who fed on their victims souls whilst slipping into their skins. Such tales circulated the Alienages often, and as children they'd once been mere stories told by the Elder's to instill childish fears. The Elf still remembered them all.

Surely, Lucas hadn't asked whether or not Nica lived by herself. He rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to sneer at the ridiculous question. Couldn't he tell that something was amiss? Fallon's footfalls were ponderously slow, so that he could observe their new comrades without appearing rude. His hawkish gaze was calm, evaluative, taking everything and giving nothing back. But, his mouth was hardened. Amaryliss had always told him that within a child held the brightest innocence; a light that could not be extinguished, no matter the circumstances. Fallon had a hard time believing that. It wasn't because he didn't like children, because he didn't mind them, really, but he understood well enough that if a child harboured hatred, bitterness or venom in their hearts, they could do anything. A child could expand all of those emotions and do the unthinkable, thinking it was justified because they'd been stripped of something precious. Somewhat distracted by Lucas' amiable conversation and irritating use of nicknames, the Elf allowed himself to shake free of those thoughts and trekked quietly alongside his Redeemer allies, allowing himself a few audacious smirks.

The large knight, in turn, took Amaryliss' fingers within his own gauntleted fingers and brought it towards the opening of his helmet, as if planting an imaginary kiss to the back of her slender hand. Fallon's eyes immediately screwed up, eyebrows knitting together. He wasn't sure what he felt at the moment; a mixture of callow apprehension, or dignified homage for his chivalrous manners. He found the more he looked at him, the more it appeared as if his clanking armour was an extension of himself. Odd, very odd. And, he was Vesuvian? Honestly, he'd only heard stories and thought they were grossly exaggerated. Witnessing Zachary in the flesh, perhaps they hadn't been far from the mark. Fallon's mouth crinkled upon hearing that Zachary's band had been ambushed, and slaughtered, by the Tainted shortly before he'd arrived. Well, there went the Elf's beliefs that somehow this knight knew Nica personally. He wasn't her guardian, then. Chancing another glance in the little girl's direction, he mutely admonished that she might've been alone the entire time... tending to her apothecary shop.

A wafting scent of blood filled his nostrils, and forced his attention back to the kneeling knight. He peeled his armour and leathers away from his skin as if he were peeling an onion, except far more unpleasant. He unsuccessfully attempted not to wrinkle his nose, though he kept his distaste silent and wondered whether or not anyone else was appalled by this peculiar act. When it came to the Redeemer's transformations, it wasn't unheard of them sporting numerous scars and deformities, but he couldn't recall anyone smelling like fresh slaughter. Fallon arched an eyebrow, blinking twice in quick succession before his sight amplified onto Zachary's alabaster hand; every rancid follicle was magnified, as was the repulsive crypts accessorizing his arms like hostile footprints. More than anything, Zachary put him of the mind of a corpse. Blinking again, Fallon's sight returned to normal. His stomach tightened uncomfortably, reminding how sickly he felt because of the smell. It gurgled in protest. It didn't help that they hadn't stopped for food. The knight pulled a signet ring from his ashen finger and placed it gingerly in Amaryliss' opened palm, retreating just as quickly. He was quiet when they entered the tent, and thankful when Nica purposely moved about, aiding those who suffered injuries. Ezekiel's shadow cast itself across the exterior, dancing against the flaps whenever he paced. Again, the Elf resisted the urge to join him.

Within the confines of the pillared structure, the Redeemer's stood and talked either loudly, or quietly, pondering their next steps in finding this Demigod. A small smile played across Fallon's lips as Ezekiel proposed that they should have brought an offering—flowers, ha! Well, seeing as they knew nothing of this Demigod, it wouldn't be too wild of a proposition that he might have approved of such a frivolous gift. Some of the Demigod's were known to like lesser gifts of nature, whilst others only wanted blood sacrifices and hefty gems. All of these were mere denotations of the worshipper’s, and so the Elf could only snort.

A booming voice echoed off the marble walls, casting it's baritone vibration back across the Redeemer's. Like an alerted falcon, the Elf's head jerked towards the unfamiliar source with an expression that deterred on snarlingly feral and abashed surprise. Not that he'd ever admit to being startled, but he gave an involuntary jump. Goosebumps freckled across his flesh. An amazon of a woman towered above them, complaining of Vincere's ruthless heat. Though, it'd died down considerably and he couldn't justify her complaints. Maybe, it was hotter up there? He found himself staring up at her, wondering why she seemed so familiar. Ezekiel was quick to question who she was, without gentility. The way he glowered reminded him of a rather grumpy dog; all snarls and fangs. Fallon's eyes caught movement just behind Ezekiel's shoulder, where Grey suddenly appeared and growled just as savagely next to Ezekiel's ear. It didn't assuage the sense of squirming, half-caught guilt that whined at his mind for nearly breaking into laughter. Whilst Grey brought an unnecessary amount of sexuality when it came to women, Ezekiel brought an unending disapproval for disrespect and coltish attitudes.

Now, Fallon was looking around the Council Chambers and ignoring the fight that might have erupted between Grey and Ezekiel, before catching Lilith spit against one of the holy pillars, then swipe her hand beneath her nose in an act of defiance. Well, at least he knew what she thought of these holier-than-thou, pious people. The Elf didn't have much of an opinion, save that they needed to find this Demigod without angering any baby-faced monks, priests, or holy worshipper's. He arched his back in a feline stretch, before settling his arms across his chest. “Hookers, chocolate, and flowers.” He finally spoke, then chuckled softly. What would a Demigod want from meagre mortals? Pure virgin sacrifices came to mind, but was quickly dismissed as horrible stories drawn up by the Elder's. Human Demigod's were seen as ruthless, and unkind to it's people, unless they were sated with gifts. Lilith's outburst regarding the colossal woman caused his lips to twitch uncertainly, then falter into another frown. Again, Fallon regarded Manon carefully. He felt dwarfed by the massive solidity of her imposing figure, absurdly like a mild-mannered child trying to decipher a puzzle.

Manon. Manon Hellreigel. Monumental warrior-woman. Yes, Fallon had heard of her. Who else could attain such a reputation as one of the only female Tank's in the Redeemer ranks? Like Deus, every Tank was renown for their strength, their rippling figures, and their tremendous presence. It was a little startling that Manon's countenance was shy, and rather passive. She quickly turned on her heels, daunted by all the yelling, and began retreating towards the entrance. That was when Snow's pleasant voice called after her; mild and nonthreatening, although disarmingly blunt, wholly kind. The Elf found himself nodding placidly, agreeing that they did need another source of strength within the group without adding his voice. Perhaps, like Vivian, she didn't like men?

“Manon Hellreigel—a match in strength with our own Deus, I hear.” He began ponderously. From what he could see, Manon hadn't an ounce of arrogance that Deus so candidly displayed. It was refreshing. The Elf bowed his head, and quickly placed his fist above his heart. Elven procedures of greeting were odd to others, but somewhat familiar to himself. “It's an honour.”

Lucas Truesdale

Lucas smacked his forehead, accompanied with the mute mouthing of "Hookers...! Of course." He knocked on his temple before opening his palm skywards, shaking his head as if to say Why didn't I think of that? "Y'know you're a genius, right Lils?" If she didn't already have three awards for being delightful company, Lucas was going to have to write a very stiff letter of complaint to... Dominatio, he supposed, considering He was their only God remaining.

"Woah…are we sure it's his blood that we have to drink? What if it was actually--"

He pressed his lips together to avert the escape of an immature giggle, knuckling his upper lip to be safe. A snort weaseled through his nostrils, but he managed to stay relatively silent despite the way his eyes squinted terribly in amusement. Maybe it wouldn't be as supercilious of a community as he had previously thought. Even Tats was getting in on the absurd gag, in spite of his microscopic contribution to growing the list of tributes. The elf did betray his apparent aloof mannerisms previously, on the other hand, and actually had done so a number of times: threatening twitches of his lip that had easily given way to nailed down smiles, which in turn pushed the rims of his dandelion irises into displaying an almost genuine expression of mirth; hesitant hands that crumbled into loose fists, as if yearning for something above his basic necessities before changing his mind; the bizarre willingness to converse with others even when sidestepping behind a wall of irritation. It was an almost alarmingly stark contrast to the one that rolled about in Demoni (or Tainted, whatever) blood, commanding even his superiors to not leave a single one alive; to the sneering face that could not humor Lucas's jabs at his delicate ego. Mister Tats, Lucas concluded, had a smidge more of a peachy disposition than he let on. And with a dash of sass--just because Lucas did little to react to Fallon treating him like a coat hanger did not mean he didn't notice. Then there was the concerned little heart-filled glances at the unsteady walkers and the wounded. Then there was how he keeps staring at Lucas's mouth.

"Who trails us this time?"

Then Lucas wanted to punch Ezekiel Mathis in the bulging, Godforsaken neck. Like the moody, many-faced hydra the tinman was, he had gone from cracking jolly old jokes to prickly cactus in a matter of seconds. And now Grey was in on it, too? Dammit, Lucas had thought he was decently cool and everything. A socially scatterbrained caterpillar who creeped on the underside of branches, but decent enough. That they were looking at a woman--a woman they hadn't even gotten to know yet--a woman HE hadn't gotten to know yet, no less! in such a manner nearly disgusted the spear-less spearman. At least one of their comrades knew better. The first to trail after the newcomer as she retreated was Snow, the essence of elegance trapped in mortal form. Truly an angel. Lucas might have tried to fall in love with her if he weren't inflicted with the terrible disease of Multiple Skirt Chasing Syndrome. "Oh would you knock it off, you two?" Lucas mumbled at the testosterone duo as he shoved between the pair of them to meander over to their newest addition as well (though Ezekiel seemed to already have been trying to get a move on, probably on his way to go and refill his cup of insensitive bastard).

"Whatever it was Flower Pot said..." Lucas began as he neared, which took a baffling while; he was surprised by the impressive distance the female Tank managed to cover in such a short amount of time, much like Zachary's monstrous strides. Size sure did have its perks. "She's right. I'm sorry about those guys--they recently broke their manners. You might've heard it screeeeaaming in agony, even from miles away." He casually diverted his gaze as his description came to a close, and lowered his playfully wiggling fingers from the sides of his face, back to their lax positions around his waist. He grinned his least lecherous grin soon after, adopting an almost bashful visage from the dimpled cheeks to the invitingly raised eyebrows.

"But point is: since you're here in Vincere, and we're here, too, and we're aaall in the grand old Redeemer clubhouse, so we should all just hold hands and love each other, hey?" As his felicitous speech came to a close, he dove into a quiet, more thoughtful tone of voice. "Doubt Ama would mind too much if you came along, since we just got that other guy--" Lucas halted abruptly, half-turning on his heel and cupping his hands around his mouth-- "Hey, Ama! CAN SHE COME WITH US? Anyway, we were just talking about goin' out, getting us some flowers and chocolate and... booze, for the princess on top of the tower. C'mon, it'll be fun."

Ama rolled her shoulders around a couple times and stretched as the commentary began, realizing now that the sun was falling, her energy did too. There was talk of offerings and jokes and much else to keep her rightly entertained, though sleepiness made its mark and kept her eyelids heavy and lidded. A yawn escaped from her nostrils (she was too stubborn to allow it to keep her mouth gaping) and her eyes had only opened in time to see the bulky woman who’d been following them to actually appear. Of course Ama knew. Don’t be silly. She had practically super sonic hearing and recognized armor when she heard it. This woman was surely a new recruit- you could hear the unsurity in just about everything she did. Yet, Ama didn’t want to push her. It was not wise to trap a frightened dog into a corner, and the same could be said about people. She would let her show herself when she saw fit, and not before then.

It might have worked if Ezekiel hadn’t barked out a snappy demand and all hell was let loose from there. Grey and Lucas seemed adamant of charming her in their own strangely forward ways and snow was quick to calm her when she sprinted away. Ama stayed where she was, knowing that based on her stammering replies and anxious disposition that adding yet another person to the mix of new faces would only make her more uncomfortable. She stood by Nica’s side who did even bother watching the scene take place, oddly enough. She continued to stare at the murky horizon, haunting eyes plastered onto the distance. "Doubt Ama would mind too much if you came along, since we just got that other guy-- Hey, Ama! CAN SHE COME WITH US?” Lucas had asked, the shouting having been entirely too loud for her fragile ears when they were tuned in to listen to hushed conversations. She smiled warmly despite this, and nodded her head. “Of course. Welcome, Manon.”

Just as she lifted her front foot to take a staggering step towards the newcomer, Nica firmly grabbed Ama’s and shifted her gaze up to the older woman’s face. Nica shook her head, which Ama took as a disapproval of this time wasting before she tugged her towards the double doors. She kept hold of the leader’s hand as she tenaciously pushed it open with what little body weight she had. Ama looked at the group behind her with a confused grin on her face, almost apologetic. “Oh! Well then! I guess it’s, er, time to go! We’ll have plenty of time to chat tonight as we set up camp, though. Come along!”

The ghostly girl lead them down winding hallways and glorious chambers with a strange sense of direction, as if she’d traveled through this labyrinth like palace time after time again. Suddenly, her hand snaked out of Ama’s and she was turning directly to her left. A door stood in her path, mahogany and carved in with intricate designs. She grabbed the knob without hesitation, turned it, and pushed it open whilst walking in. While this would more than likely be undetected by all the others, Ama was sure she heard the sound of a lock unclicking as Nica opened the door, yet she had obviously not used a key. Feeling alien in her own body and in this strange environment, Ama cautiously entered the large, magnificent room, filled to the brim with books and scrolls and other academic artifacts. She might have marveled at it longer if a man hadn’t have been in the room and glaring at the intruders at that very same moment. As the door had swung open, he stood from his chair behind the glorious desk he now stood behind and looked at them just as surprised as he was angry.

“Who are you? How did you get in here? What do you want?” he demanded. Ama took a good look at his face, feeling all too embarrassed and ashamed at their blatant lack of manners and the absence of a good excuse to give. Hardened features and grisly demeanor might have made her shrink where she stood if she hadn’t been so accustomed to slaying monsters… ”Wait a second…” she thought as she studied him more closely… “You’re Mendax!” she cried out after a moment of inspection. Mendax- as in the ruler/dictator of Litas. And they were in his study! Why was he unguarded? Why wasn’t he ordering their demise at the very second? Ama’s eyes grew wide and her mouth began to try to form explanations until she finally rested her stare at Nica. Just why had she brought them to Mendax? Nica didn’t seem to feel particularly motivated to tell her, even as they were in his presence. The little girl sniffed once and flashed an almost challenging look to Ama, but her lips stay sealed.

"Well?!" he snapped, a frown that seemed like it suited his face carving itself into his jaw.

“Why, I, um… I’m not… sure…” Ama stammered honestly.

“Well, I’ll come back I guess. I’m Hellriegel, rank: 56. And your name?” The tank woman fell into step beside Snow, who was now leading them back within earshot of the group. Well, they’d probably been within Amaryllis’s earshot the entire time, but everyone else anyway. An arm was extended towards her, and Snow took it without hesitation, shaking Manon’s hand before she loosed her surprisingly firm grip and resumed her former pace.

“My name is Snow, and my rank is forty. I am grateful for the assistance, and I am certain the others will be also… eventually. You may even get used to them.” Snow wasn’t really sure whether she had or not. Perhaps it remained to be seen. Certainly, there were those with which she had some commonalities; Fallon and Ezekiel seemed almost as disposed to quietude as she was, though the former was, she guessed, considerably more bitter and the latter much more defensive. The others, well. Lucas was chatty, Lilith was acidic and saccharine by strange turns that the white elf did not understand, Amaryllis was too gentle, she hadn’t spoken to the tall man in armor at all, and Grey was just… odd. Altogether the assortment couldn’t get much stranger, so whatever pathologies or idiosyncrasies this woman held hardly threatened to throw them out-of-balance.

---

The girl-who-was-not-a-child led them into the building shortly after, and Snow followed complacently despite a nagging unease somewhere in the back of her mind. There was something too strange about this situation, though she would not speak her doubts aloud quite yet. They lurked like blurring shadows at the edges of her cognition, occasionally seeping forth when she was not immediately attending to the process of keeping them at bay. Instead of letting them manifest in anything other than a general caution, she took in details as she went, filtering information and memorizing the route they took as they went by.

Initially, she ignored the angry human and scanned the room in much the same manner, noting a window that could be smashed through for escape purposes if that became entirely necessary. Eventually, though, she turned to the person, recognizing his face almost immediately. Not because she had seen it before in person of course; oh no, she was far too lowly a citizen to properly be in the company of such important folk as he. Rather, though, his visage could be seen in several places throughout Litas, and stamped on some of the all-important currency as well.

“I think the proper question is, who are you?” She asked, a little more pointedly than usual, and the slightly-dreamy quality to her voice was completely gone, replaced with something approaching a cold pragmatism. She looked over at Nica, and the challenging expression the girl was giving Amaryllis seemed to confirm something, after which Snow fell silent and would say no more, instead looking directly at the man, waiting with what seemed like disciplined patience for an answer to what she was aware sounded like a ridiculous inquiry on the surface. If what Nica seemed to be implying by her actions was true, it was the only answer that mattered anyway- well, except for the one that would come to her next question. And don’t say you’re Mendax, either. The expression on her face was probably enough to convey the thought, though there was nothing hostile in it.

Premise One: Nica is leading us to Litatio.
Premise Two: She led us to Mendax.
Ergo, Mendax is Litatio, assuming the truth of the premises. Either that, or our journey is yet incomplete.

The simplest of deductions, and she was not about to let something so insignificant as prior assumption stand in the way of logic. The only possible ways it would be otherwise were either a mistake or intentional (perhaps necessary, though she could not say) diversion on Nica’s part, or for some reason Litatio was choosing to impersonate Mendax, which seemed both pointless and unlikely.

Ezekiel Mathis

As a former soldier with former posts and former duties of protecting his social superiors, this all felt very wrong; like a play's protagonist leaving home to face a dragon, and finding the beast already slain, and the treasure ready for plundering. That was not how it was supposed to go. When the motley lot of them neared the end of their little stroll, Ezekiel was severely tempted to excuse himself and call some guards to arrest himself with, and at the same time verbally castigating the men so harshly that nothing could thereafter bring a brighter blush to their faces. This was how they served their lord in the halls of the Council? Almost in an attempt to give them the benefit of his doubt, Ezekiel would cease walking with the group to look around the corner for patrols, for the slightest hint of security the demigod could invest in. He had half a mind to try and usurp the damned place to train them all anew... but he caught himself becoming emotionally invested in the ordeal, and tore off the patches of the notion. He had no time, and no business, to be worrying about things so trivial concerning others outside his immediate vicinity.

He tromped into a room after the ghost girl and her bridal train. The warmth of the room's lighting brushed his silhouette as he noticed the dozens upon dozens of bound books; a few of them he recognized from the spines. What remained of his previous frustrations were quelled as he ruminated over how long it had been since he'd been in the company of flapping pages and ink-stained fingertips. What could have borne fruit from the ruminations were quelled by the resident of the space, who upon raising his voice at the leader of their merry troupe, gained much of Ezekiel's criticism (which is so terribly heartbreaking for the recipients, yes, he knows). He wished to lumber forward in case the man lashed out, but ultimately decided it would be best to remain in the back, in case those guards he so looked forward to seeing would show their mugs.

It seemed now they were trying to figure out this man's identity. He turned to look at the child... or, at the top of her pale head, and from which he gained little information. "'What', you mean," he tacked on tenderly in response to Snow's questioning statement, a corner of his lip raising mildly from its deepset frown. "Most proper would be 'what'."

---

Did Forehead just... try to make a funny? Again? Oh boy; Lucas chuckled weakly under his breath, shaking his head. So not the time for that, Forehead, so not the time. More importantly, no one seemed interested in answering the man's questions so far, which made Lucas feel rather bad. Rude as his tone of voice was, they did sort of wander into his room without the proper fanfare procedures. "And we're, uh. We're the resident Redeemers." Chummy ones. Lucas thought they would of had an appointment, but he guessed intruding works, too. Thank you, Nica. He wondered wryly if he should have called Mendax "sir," in case it lightened up his attitude a bit. In any case, ought to smooth things over with the man in power before one of his meathead buddies gets them in trouble. He pressed his lips together, bowing forward at the shoulders in an attempt at portraying sincerity. "I apologize for my comrades here, and for rudely barging in. We mean no harm, really... sir."

Despite having put his best foot forward, Grey found himself staring after the giant of a woman as she went off somewhere to cry. Had he cared enough to be more than mildly offended, Grey might have chased Manon down and demanded an explanation for her reaction. Honestly, what had he done wrong? With a glance at Ezekiel, Grey decided to place the majority of the blame on that bastard's shoulders and call it a day. Night. Whatever. Now that he thought about it, Grey had lost track of time a while ago. Now the manipulator stared at Ama and that girl. It was as if being in proximity to both of them at once made time come to a grinding halt. Grey spat at the ground. He did not like the sensation of timelessness. The only time such a phenomenon was ever appropriate was when you were dead, and Grey sure as hell was not dead yet.

The sudden exclamation of the word hooker made Grey's ears perk up in interest. Leaning against the wall again, he picked out the speaker as Luka. No, Lacrima? Lucky...? "Lucas," Grey whispered under his breath, observing the man intently for the first time since their introduction. It did not take long for Grey to decide that he liked Lucas. The way he poked fun with Lilith so easily was something that Grey found he respected. Sociable people had always piqued the interest of the manipulator, even before he became a Redeemer. As a boy trained only to fight, survive, and care only for the soldiers to your left and right, Grey had little experience with normal social interaction. As such, it was hard for him to make friends that did not share his love for battle. Hell, the only reason he even got a girlfriend was because they ended up sparring and...

Aura... Grey found himself staring at the ceiling with a blank expression. He did not know how much time had passed or if anybody noticed his lapse in cogent thought. Rarely, if ever, did he reminisce on Aura, his betrothed since becoming a Redeemer. Indeed, he only remembered seeing Aura one time after his transformation. She was arrayed in a line of soldiers posted to assist in the defense of one of the larger townships out on the countryside. For no particular reason, Grey had chosen not to wear his blinder that day. When their eyes met, Grey's heart skipped a beat. He had assumed that Aura was dead or retired. Imagine his surprise when the love of his life was staring at him from the ranks of a platoon of defenders. No, not staring at him, but through him. At first, he thought that she was simply being a good soldier. Later, when the platoon was given rec-time, Grey was proven wrong in his assumption. Aura did not spare him any more than a glance and a sneer. As he walked away from his former betrothed and her new friends, Grey caught the last words Aura would ever say to him.

"Monster..." Grey caught himself mouthing the word. He was staring at Amaryliss now. He grinned as he caught the last of Lucas' request to allow Manon to accompany their troupe. "As if we're in a position to decline any sort of help." he said with no small amount of sarcasm. Before long, after exchanging some sort of silent conversation, Ama and Nica were ready to head out. Grey grabbed his weapons and practically leaped to their leader's side. "Finally!" his happiness was short-lived when they simply moved to another, much more heavily decorated room. Gaudy, was the word that came to Grey's mind. When the rude pudge of a man snarled in incredulity, Grey made to deliver a biting retort. Sadly, Snow beat him to the punch. Figuratively, of course.

"Hm. I second the motion. Who are you? I thought Mendax was a...wait," he glanced at Ezekiel with a raised eyebrow, "Wadd'ya mean 'what'? He's obviously a...wait." Nica was supposed to help them find the demigods, and there would be no point in leading the group there unless... with a sudden spark of realization, Grey's mouth formed a wide 'O' shape and the scarred Redeemer pointed an accusatory finger at the man before them. "I figured it out! You're Literario!"

Grey pouted, despite his self-satisfaction at having solved the mystery, and looked to Ama, Ezekiel, Snow, Lucas and then Lilith for some direction. He was unsure of whether or not he should draw steel or not. According to the stories he was told in the army, deities were at their most vulnerable while wearing a mortal shell. This may well be the best and only time for them to acquire the blood they need.