After all the niceties, welcoming introductions and frigid nods of acknowledgment were conducted, Fallon returned to his noiseless, deliberate stature. He couldn't stop the water that coursed through his veins, freezing when it gets to his heart. It always felt permanent, heavy—but, wholly different. Playing erratic, ivory keys of his organ with stumbling fingertips; his capacity for driveled emotions were cautiously contained. Like his heart was a burden more than it served to keep his blood in pulse. It hampers him to know that he cannot take the pain away, nor can he willingly conjure up witty responses as quickly as Lucas or Grey. Those privilege and traits always belonged to someone else. Like Ezekiel, Fallon understands that warmth withers and died on their fingertips; a mere whipping breeze that may or may not greet them for a moment, then whisk away. It's a feeling that suits him. That thought he cannot help but think. Disappointment has always been life's favorite game to play as far as he has been concerned. Raising his arms above his head, the Elf stretched again until he heard a satisfying pop. Noticing Lucas' affronting stare, Fallon's lips curled back derisively with an added snort before he pointedly looked away. Frankly, he couldn't care less what any of his companions thought of him. Though, Lucas' rusty, invasive eyes were always unsettling. The more that Sensor spouted out nonsense, the more Fallon believed that he preferred the company of hounds. And yet, still, he couldn't help but crack a few unintended smirks whenever Lucas reminded him of a far more lecherous, inappropriate Amaryliss; in comparing their kindness.

Even with Grey's initial snarls, Fallon knew that Ezekiel wouldn't escalate the situation. He never did. A bucolic standstill that could stand that harshest, most ridiculous, maledictions: Ezekiel's response would be a glacial rebuke in the form of being ignored. They shared an unbreakable—albeit, unspeakable—bond and understanding of each other. They welcomed each others' ugliness and bouts of pigheadedness, whilst refilling one another's glass of insensitive bastard. Sometimes, adding a small cube of altruism for taste. So, through Ezekiel and thanks to Ezekiel, Fallon had decided a long time ago that he truly needed companions to survive. And he knew, without a doubt, that Ezekiel would simply ignore Grey's offensive encroachment and continue onwards. He turned away without worrying that another mild-mannered battle would ensue. Their wily, aggressive charms certainly wasn't affecting the newcomer in a positive way, either. Lucas' intervention wasn't exactly needed, except perhaps to manhandle Grey away and cause Manon to feel slightly better about the tense situation. Again, a small impression of flaring jealousy reared it's ugly head within the depths of his belly. For Fallon failed to grasp those gentile capabilities, he only had slathering comments unsuccessfully biting back sarcasm and dreary honesty.

Lightly tapping his lips with cool, gauntleted fingers, Fallon's expression diminished. At times, humanity was difficult to bare. They were all fleshy, fragile, fickle things. Small, and weak, ruled by emotions, whilst others' were ruled by something far more frigid. Even when considering his surrogate mother, Amaryliss, Fallon couldn't help but feel he was at a loss for words—and yet, feeble apologies always seemed the best choice. Still, he thought on the Demoni; the Tainted, and their ilk. Those malformed creatures were rabid animals. They cared nothing for birthrights, or dignity, or the niceties which men accord to one another in war. With these there could be no parlay; no words of possible peace. There could be no surrender. There could be only victory or defeat: life or death. Why then, would these perfect beings not simply wipe the slate clean of anything threatening it's people? A simple flick of the wrist. A few morose, scintillating words spoken. His thoughts were interrupted as Lucas swirled towards the rest of the group who'd dwindled near the large pillars, cupping his hand to his mouth to yell indecently—right next to his ear, which caused his face to contort crossly.

Before Fallon had the chance to smother Lucas' with words of disapproval, Amaryliss had called to them. It was finally time to move onwards. Watching guardedly as Nica pulled Amaryliss past a looming set of gilded double doors, the Elf followed at a leisurely pace a few feet behind Ezekiel's left shoulder. Each chamber was more glorified then the next, depicting how shallow and rapacious these worshiper's were—and as they passed every individual chamber, Fallon couldn't help but breathe out derisive snorts from his nostrils. Lavish images of sweaty backs bent over laborous pillars, marble and crimson materials came to mind, being harshly guided by buck-bellied men who claimed pious, merciful teachings'. If only they finished decorating that door. If only they finished painting the ceiling beyond it's reaches. If only, if only. And then, only then, they would witness a greater day. Such lies. Fallon trudged carefully, feeling the balls of his feet lightly touch the gleaming floor before stealing his stalking form progressively forward. The floor itself was cool against his toes; nearly unnaturally so.

Nica's footfalls were supernaturally quiet as well, though Fallon hardly expected the mute child to produce any sound beyond the crisp, unrelenting movements of the hulking doors swishing open. Passing another threshold, the Elf eyed the shelves laden with ancient artifacts, piled books and tightly-rolled scrolls. He couldn't mirror any of their wanderlust astonishment: places like this disgusted him. These buildings were built by ecclesiastical lambs who followed cowardly, absentee Demigod's because their shaky, weathered wills were far too weak to face another day. Fallon couldn't disregard such weakness. A man had to stand on his own two feet despite any hardships thrown across his path. So, when the Elves tawdry eyes caught sight of movement behind an oaken desk—glaring towards the group as maliciously as a predator regarding an intruder—, he allowed himself a low grumble. Feeling quite impassive at answering this hardened man's fair questions, Fallon glanced towards Amaryliss. Honestly, they hadn't discussed what they would do upon stumbling onto someone in this labyrinth, nor were they expecting such questions to be thrown at them. It wasn't really important.

And who was Mendax? Fallon's nose crinkled incredulously. He couldn't help but think of Ezekiel upon noticing his deepened frown, though the man's eyes reminded him of two sinking ships. He could tell that he was somewhat frightened by their sudden appearance, for a man's fear easily succumbs to anger to protect oneself. As if reading his intrepid thoughts, Snow added her own inquiry as to whom this gnarled, rigid man truly was. There was something glistening in her eyes that offered no signs of merriment if he so chose to go down the contemptuous route—as in, if you damn well say that you're names Mendax, I'll probably make certain that you wish you hadn't. Everything tied together in quick succession, though Fallon's vindication was less than assertive. If a Demigod wanted to hide behind shirttails, it wasn't any of his business. They only needed one thing: it's blood.

“We've already reached one of our goals, then.” Fallon mumbled offhandedly, sweeping his hand forward before resting it casually against his hip. But, wouldn't that be far too easy? It didn't make sense. Yes, Nica was houndishly leading them forward without so much as indicating what she wanted in return. No one did anything for free. And so, the Elf believed they were making light of this. Either that, or he was merely being paranoid. Grey floundered across their accession with eccentric expressions included—it brought a slight smile across his lips, though he wondered whether or not his outbursts were cleverly hidden rouses.

"Something is not right."

Hellreigel

“Manon Hellreigel—a match in strength with our own Deus, I hear.” Manon heard someone below her speak when she reached the group. She did not respond immediately due to her not knowing who Deus was, and her small aversion to the voice, it was a little too close to Clay for Manon's taste. Not that Manon loathed her oldest brother, since Clay would play with Manon even when their male cousins came to visit. But that part of Manon's life was over, so Manon just stared at the male elf beside her. The elf then bowed his head, and followed by his fist placed above his heart. “It's an honour.”

'Woah, woah, woah!' Manon thought, picking up a small sweat and bringing her hands together as a makeshift shield to her heart. This elf thinks it's an honor to meet her? Was it because of her size and rough skin? Her combat boots? Did the elf think Manon was male? No, Manon's breasts were too large to ignore, and the spandex had no bulge in the nether regions. Which would have been awesome, since Manon knew male was the easiest gender to be. No one cared how much a hearty male warrior ate.

That mental statement set off hundreds more, some tinted with anger, some with joy. And in no time Manon was on auto-pilot, following footsteps but having a conversation in her head. When she heard someone yelling, Manon snapped out of it, looking around her surroundings to see what she got herself into. But no sooner did Manon come back to reality, did she slip back out of it. The elf thought she was an honor to meet!

And now that her mind was on the topic, Manon looked for the male elf and tried to tap his shoulder. The action required bending down and Manon whispering (but saying it loud anyway) 'Excuse me!' every four inches. Now understanding that everything she does will be conspicuous and bothersome, Manon made the note to try and stay quiet in closed areas. Yet with all of her bending and excuses, she was sure that the male elf at least noticed her, so Manon decided to stand straight and not tap him after all.

"Male elf, what is your name? Let's be friends too!" Manon tried to say lightly.

Of course. It was always the humanity injected into the system that destroyed its perfection. Logic only worked when people were logical, and as she was constantly reminded, few were truly capable of it. The flaw was obviously in the first premise, or the inclusion of an intermediary step, and now they were all wasting time. This was why she never said anything aloud. She could appreciate Ezekiel’s contribution, certainly, but in the end, it seemed to herald a tide of words that washed over her and left her with the distinct wish to be somewhere, anywhere else. It was not that Snow patently disliked anyone here; no, dislike would have cost her energy she was not willing to exert on unworthy causes, even if any of them had been deserving of it (and thus far, they were not).

Rather, she was distinctly uncomfortable. Had she been more in touch with her emotions, she would have realized that she felt very much like a fish out of water here, in this grand place with powerful people in it- power and elegance were things she had only known in the forms one can seize by one’s own effort. The ideas of legacy, of inheritance, of systemic power, these were things that she could not truly imagine in their fullest manifestation, and yet here she was, surrounded by the evidence of them, and it all left a faintly bitter taste in the back of her throat.

Mendax’s jocularity only made her more suspicious. Regardless of the circumstances, they had intruded upon him armed and without warning, and not only did he not fear for his life or safety, but he was behaving in a manner which now suggested friendliness, puffing away on a death-stick (as her closest friend had always called them) beside Lillith and in all other ways and means representing the very image of polite indulgence.

Her fingers twitched into hooked claws before she remembered herself and forced them to relax. Fallon had the right of it; there was something going on here and she did not like it in the slightest. What dictator who allows half his population to starve without even a shred of mercy receives uninvited guests- Redeemers, no less, with that kind of manner? She would have been more comfortable if he’d remained hostile- at least that would have made something resembling sense.

Snow repositioned herself slightly, drifting a bit closer to Fallon as everyone else shifted around. She didn’t really notice it, but if asked, the answer would have been obvious- he was most likely to be just as uncomfortable and suspicious as she was of being treated so well by someone who all experience suggested should be doing just the opposite. It was more than just a matter of elven solidarity- it was a common vein of being looked down upon, confined to those filthy, rotting corners of otherwise illustrious places, of being kept away from the grandeur with which they were now surrounded. She met his eyes briefly, but said nothing. She was done talking; as usual, it had done her no good when she’d bothered to say something, so she would recede once more into the small comfort of silence.

Clearly, she was out of her element. It made the most sense to let someone else handle it, perhaps someone with half an idea as to what was actually going on. Surely, they had fallen from the precipice of tenuous sense into sheer absurdity long ago, and in that realm, without any sort of guiding principle of feeling or instinct, she was all but useless. It stung a bit, to know that, but she had never refused to admit anything on grounds of discomfiture alone.

Age and experience always wearied those with heavy hearts. Fallon was no different. They would never grow any softer, or shorter or more prudish, for they were still young men. And women, of course. Redeemer's never chose to pass on the torch. No, they often died in combat and added their names along great weathered tablets for all to see. His fate would be consistent: it would be no different. He was careful, critical, restrained. And still, wariness brewed like caustic acid in his throat. He had never been a talkative man; never one for easy courtesies and polite conversation. He said what he had to say, bluntly and honestly, and when he was done he kept quiet. He didn't talk for the sake of talking, but most of the companions who understood his amenity for reticence never minded the silence, anyway. He was not one who was always laughing; nor always smiling. Such pleasantries were reserved for Redeemer's like Lucas—even Grey, or Amaryliss. Fallon's bared teeth, curled lips and gnarled expressions were often mistaken for smiles. The wastelands unforgiving heat and relentless defiance ran hot in his blood. These were hard truths that struck him when picketing through his own thoughts.

So, it came to him as a surprise when Manon tittered nervously at his civil mannerisms. Fallon's ears lowered momentarily, then fell back into their neutral position; relaying a small twitch of befuddlement. Wasn't she used to conventional courtesy? Of course, the Elf understood that his customs were frequently misunderstood. Perhaps, his genuine formalities might have made her feel uncomfortable. His eyebrows drew together, then faltered. A small, unusual smile touched his lips before quickly disappearing. His expressions were flashcards—displayed only for a few seconds before receding into something hidden, something that vanished behind velvet curtains. “I meant what I said,” He added, nodding his head curtly. Each word tumbled out like scraping whetstones sharpening a blade; harsh, and numbly honest. Nothing more came to mind on that matter. She would either accept his words, acknowledge his meager introduction, and conclude her initial impression of him. It wouldn't be the first time that someone had called him a broody bastard shortly after being introduced. He might've heard those words slip from Lucas' lips on occasion, though Fallon's retaliation's had always been violent. Anything was better than being called, “Darling.”

Nervous reflexes caused Fallon to snap backwards, snatching Manon's fingers before quickly releasing them upon realizing who'd touched him. His mouth opened, then closed. He hadn't heard her calling after him—of course, he hadn't explained his unfortunate ailment. His punishment for relenting his life to the Redeemer's. It was always costly, and he wasn't the only one suffering. All of the Redeemer's had lost something or another, whether or be something they could physically feel or vividly recall. Fallon was deaf, but he could feel: the steady thuds of their footsteps slapping against the marble floors, the repetitive rhythm of celebratory drums echoing in the distance, and the baritone thump of his heartbeat rumbling in his ears with each jolt of adrenaline. The world in which Fallon lived in was silent. Fortunately, or unfortunately enough for him, the Elf remembered a time when he could hear things. Living things all around him, vibrating with existence. The gentle beat of small wings, the simple sounds of his breathing, and so much more. Sounds that he could only dream of. Sounds of individual voices, giving each of his companions' faces. And now, nothing. He'd never spent time pondering what Ezekiel's voice sounded like, nor Amaryliss'. It was a useless thought. His posture stiffened. Though, Fallon's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Manon's lips move. Somehow, Manon reminded him of a larger, more amiable Ezekiel. It might've been the size comparison. “Ah, Manon. Fallon Rothillion—a man cannot be without too many allies. So, we will be.” Better to leave things unsaid. She would know soon enough.

Lilith's dry poison still sat in the depths of his stomach like a heavy, burning weight. Though, it was far more welcome than unpleasant. With whiskey lips, Fallon rubbed the pad of his thumb against his clammy palms. He wasn't particularly nervous, but he was increasingly wary of this Mendax character. Licking his lips and swallowing his doubts, the Elf remained silent whilst denying himself the temptation of Lilith's flask swaying alluringly at her hip—she was far too busy interrogating the greasy-eyed, laughing monstrosity which caused Fallon to settle his aching fingers across his forearm blades. Unsurprisingly, it didn't make him feel any better. Didn't make him feel any safer; not at all. The noisy predispositions racketing loud crescendos through his temples skidded into a final squealing halt. With a sick sense of disappointment and alarm, Fallon knew that Amaryliss would ignore any sentiments regarding Mendax' true nature. His intentions. His chameleon expressions and sudden ease. She walked a terrifyingly thin line that separated selflessness with self destruction; leaving them with a tightrope of dangerous choices. If only it were so easy, to fit himself into Amaryliss' recycled charisma; an endlessly guileless delight. Or, better yet, Ezekiel's second-hand indifference. All of these things equaled, more or less, to Lilith's casually slumped shoulders and confident intake of the stranger's cigarette. He would not panic. He would not. His heart had been small then, like a rabbit, quivering and afraid, prey sensing predators everywhere. It told him to run and so he did, bound up in knots. But these days, Fallon was different. He would not panic.

And, Lucas wasn't acting any more responsibly. He didn't seem deterred by Mendax' awry presence, either. Crashing within the confines of the office whilst appreciating Lilith's swaying behind, Lucas took his own place in front of Mendax' polished desk with foreseen gusto. For someone who could wield a pair of daggers quicker than that eye could see and move like smoke across a battlefield, Lucas was the noisiest cretin within the group. This friendship business was more trouble than it was worth, clearly. A shiver of breath spanned across his neck and ears, sending unwelcome jolts down his spine. Ignoring his earlier statement about attaining a girlfriend (mostly because he only glimpsed Lucas' smarmy lips uttering the last word while jumping away), Fallon's golden eyes narrowed harshly. A small chortled sound escaped the corner of his lips, but nothing more was said. He was fairly unimpressed. Cupping Lucas' across the head would have been the first reaction had the Sensor lingered near his elongated ears. Again, there was nothing he could really do about this situation but watch. Linger close enough so that he could resort to action if need be, but far enough not to be seen as a nuisance. Unease swept across his shoulders like a molten cloak, leaving Fallon glancing towards the other Redeemer's for mutuality. Fortunately enough, only Snow seemed perfectly aware that something wasn't appropriate. Quickly, Fallon met her gaze. Nothing needed to be said—he only need to be aware that he wasn't the only one.

A soft sigh escaped his lips. Barely audible. Fallon's lanky frame extended forward, placing gauntleted fingers across Ezekiel's shoulder. If anyone else felt like something was off, it would have been his ominous blood brother. He verily believed that standing about talking to a slant-eyed, political figure would do nothing for their cause. Whilst Amaryliss and the others spoke to Mendax; he believed it would be prudent to begin searching the large chamber for clues. Surely, Mendax wouldn't question them trudging around his office, eyeing their whereabouts with feigned interest. For once, Fallon outright refused to stand around with that rotting feeling pulsing through his belly. It'd been Ama, after all, who'd told him to trust his gut.

There was a moment of silence when Mendax smiled "endearingly" at the group in the room- or more specifically at Lilith. He was presumably listening to what the gaggle of geese were gawking about, but he didn't respond until much after everything had quieted. There was a long pause. So long and so paused that it looked like the man might have simply frozen. Finally, the silence was broken, though when he spoke, he didn't so much as acknowledge what the redheaded "commander" had said or the fact that a ghostly little girl was hiding behind the bulking warriors, instead, he moved towards Lilith and took her small hand in his own, patting it gently. He did not stop this motion, instead, a growing look of bewilderment spread across his face. He looked down at her delicate fingers, bringing them closer to his face as he inspected them closely, incredibly concerned by the matters at hand.

"Your hands are so tiny," he finally commented, rolling it over in his own. He looked at her in horror with a sudden realization, his expression turned hurt as if she had just kicked him in the gut. "You're a woman?!?!" he gasped, appalled. He seemed truly offended, and he grimaced away from her without a further moment, as if her hand might have been a carrier for disease. He silently peered at her from a distance, leaning away, though all disappointment melted when he returned his attention back to the talkative lad who'd spoken to him earlier. Something about treasure maps and X marking the spot, he recalled. He waltzed over to him with an attempted Clark Gable grin gone horribly, horribly, horribly wrong.

"HA. Of course I know how to laugh, boy. Doesn't everybody?" he said, clapping the buck with a kind-of-mullet on his back and keeping his arm around his shoulder in a one-hugged, extremely awkward embrace. He continued to talk with the boy still in his grasp, an oblivious grin plastered on his face that read, "I have no idea that any of this is socially unacceptable."

"Why, I hope to never meet your brother, scout. Such closed minded people in the world..." he tutted, eyes twinkling in a way that might have conveyed that he had encountered many a people like that in his life time and they may or may not have been responsible for countless times of ridicule. "No, I'm much more sociable than the blasted media likes to project. You see..." he said, tilting his face off to the side to look at a vacant wall - an apparent flash back - "I wasn't always a politician." he purred, vulnerability shining from the very core of him, something about his behavior and speech made him seem like the long lost brother to Tim Curry. Suddenly, the hurt facade was over and he was onto a victorious shout," I used to be an ACTOR! A thespian.... one of the many gentle hearts throbbing in the theatre. This," he bravadoed, swinging a hand dramatically to gesture to nothing in particular, "Why, this... is my biggest role yet." And then he stood, stance proud with legs considerably wider than a normal man might stand, and tilted his head downward as he smirked. He was really quite smitten with himself. After his long winded monologue was over, he finally released the young colt from his grasp and paced back over to the back of his desk.

"Such trifling times, no? Oh, but I guess you're not here to see me, are you?" he said, heartbroken. "They always come for Litatio. Litatio this, Litatio that. Someday, it'll be my turn to shine." he said despite the fact that this might have been the first time in his life that anyone had asked about Litatio at all. He was always so dramatic. "OH, BUT OF COURSE. The call of duty cries out for you. Yes! Yes! yyeeeesssssssss-ssuuaahhh" and with that, he trotted to the entrance of his office and flung the doors open. He led them down a corridor, which they entered from swinging a bookcase open, and gesticulated wildly with a cigarette in one hand and a wine glass in another. "I do apologize for my behavior today. I'm afraid I've been a bit naughty, but with all this... demoni nonsense," he spat "going on, I've taken to drink. Ain't that my life story, eh? Hahahaha!" he boomed in a voice far too loud for this secretive, elusive slender hallway. "But, then again, what true, artistic genius hasn't been one to dip in a little booze, huh?" Another round of laughing on his part echoed the halls.

Suddenly, they were before a small door about one head shorter than the man, and he had a change of heart, his unsurity written all over his face. He cleared his throat. "Yes, well. For fair warning, Litatio is a bit...different. Don't take anything personally, mind you. If I had ever took anything personally, as an ~*~ACTOR~*~ I would have set myself on fire ages ago. Ohahahahaheheheheoahahahahahaha. Especially now in this current position. You might hear of government scandal all the time, but let me assure you, it doesn't happen nearly as often as you might hope- er, think... I swear, everyone in this damn council has skin thicker than the head of that brute over there," he play whispered loud enough for everyone to hear as he motioned towards the tall, bulky, dark one. ," WHY, I'M JUST KIDDING MY BOY. No hard feelings. This is not but a taste of the bitter dose of how cruel the world can be if you let it get to you. " he added a moment later, now slapping him in the back as well.

He paused and smiled, waiting for a reaction. A bit disappointed that his audience remained detached and disinterested (whether this was the case or not, it mattered not to him), he sighed and swooshed the door open, bowing deeply as he motioned them inside. "I'll wait for you out here," he graciously offered, the nobility of this self-sacrifice evident in the humble way he offered, as if it were doing them a huge favor. As they entered the room, however, you could clearly hear him say, "Well, I'm glad that's over with. I ought to go see what Sir Eislenger is up to..." getting fainter and fainter with the sound of his dissenting footsteps.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Inside the room, it was dimly lit in comparison to the bright as day hallways (thanks to the blazing torches every foot or so). It took Lilith a few hesitant moments for her eyes to adjust as she held her arm in front of her to steady herself from the vertigo achieved from the sudden change in ambience.

This entire event had been built up so much, the importance of this mission slowly building in weight and pressure, a smelly bear that was slowly leaning on her more and more. She had never met a demigod before. None of them had. And somehow, despite her lackadaisical nature, she still felt the importance of this momentous occasion. How many people actually had met the man before? Did they even appear as men? Was she about to meet a giant talking bird? Did they speak? Did they communicate telepathically? Would he be able to read her mind? She pressed her lips together as the thoughts raced through her head.
Before the room slowly came into focus, the way it might as an amateur attempted to focus the lens of their new camera, she was able to feel the claustrophobic atmosphere closing in on her. She could feel the smallness, as the hot stuffy air smothered her nose and mouth, a group of closely clustered candles, five or six waxy stalagmites rising from a large wooden desk, licked at each surface in the room. No walls were to be seen. Instead, stacks of paper were set everywhere.

As the group trailed in behind her, they all began to realize just how little space in the room there was, bodies all squished together in a huddled mass at the foot of his desk. A single hunched figure sat over the work area, form entirely in shadow. The figure seemed small, scrawny, and short, but on further inspection you could see that he had excessively long, spidery limbs, his legs being forced to curl up beside his body in his too-small chair (although it seemed like a rather large chair if the figure at hand hadn't been the one perched on it). In all actuality, the man would've probably towered over the group if he were to stand. It seemed as if he had multiple alarmingly thin and long limbs sprouting from his sides because of how quickly he moved them, shuffling papers and dabbing pen into ink. A bulbous head teeter atop the thin tower of his body, too large to be proportionately correct. Really, the details were hard to make out in this awful lighting The figure, presumably Litatio despite his unimposing humanoid form, appeared to be frantically scribbling on papers, shuffling and sifting, all at the same time, before he turned toward the ragtag group of Redeemers unintentionally to reach for a paper atop one of the many piles in the room. Their presence was realized, and he froze, It was understood he store directly at them though only his silhouette could be seen. The candlelight lit up his small round spectacles, creating an eerie, boogeyman-caught-in-the-beam-of-your-flashlight-while-you're-alone-in-the-woods-effect. Once the tense moment had elapsed, he simply sniffed at them, a single pair of his many hands slowly returning to work though the rest of him remained intently still and concentrated on the Redeemers for a moment longer before he went frantically back to work.


Goose pimples chased across Lilith's skin so violently, she thought she might crawl out of her fucking skin. "Fuck, that's creepy," she breathed, apparently at a loss for words for one of the few times in her life.

Ah, but of course. A thespian. It all made so very much sense now.

Snow had never had much use for thespians, and now she had even less. This man, cavorting about the room and making nice with everyone, was proving himself more impediment than use. Even if he could get them to Litatio, he wasn’t, and it was sufficiently irksome (and obnoxious), that her eyes found the ceiling in short order and she commenced counting backwards in her head from an arbitrarily-selected number. Not because she was trying to contain any kind of anger, but because it was honestly more useful, which was saying something. Well, that and the fact that she could do that and listen and also keep up a third train of thought without any real difficulty. Demoni powers weren’t always helpful.

Ezekiel and Fallon seemed to have taken it upon themselves to try and… search the room? Truthfully, she wasn’t certain what they were driving at, but it all became painfully irrelevant the moment Mr. Thespian decided that perhaps doing something of merit was worth the effort after all. The fact that he was drunk registered with her, and she wondered if he was actually feeling the stress of the so-called “Demoni Business” or if he was simply inclined to behave in such a way most of the time. She discarded the musing as unimportant almost immediately.

It was at times like this, with torches shining in her eyes, walking in file down a hallway, that she wished she did not abhor any semblance of some sentiment that impeded upon the air of careful autonomy she tried to project. Physical proximity was not a problem; personal boundaries had blurred for her quite some time ago, but she had been painfully forced to reinstate certain kinds of emotional bordering, and disliked the vulnerability that came of reneging on the silent promises she told herself to ease a troubled mind. She might have let her eyes drift closed and guided herself by means of a hand on a shoulder, but she refused to allow it. Amaryllis probably would have consented, and her retinas would have been in less pain, and certainly without the moisture currently gathering at their corners. She blinked that away and squinted narrowly, peering through a veil of white lashes until they reached the door.

Wordlessly, she passed the thespian and entered the narrow room. Lucas, who had been in front of her, backed up and bumped her shoulder, but she didn’t think much of it. It was hard to blame a person for that sort of thing in this situation, and she murmured something soft and vaguely conciliatory beneath her breath. Her eyes, much better able to function in the darkness, lingered only momentarily on the strange silhouette that might have been Litatio, but she was not overly perturbed. What did one expect a demigod to look like? Snow herself did not presume to know; perhaps this was simply it.

She did not bother trying to gain his attention in the conventional way, as that was clearly not working for anyone else. Instead, she inspected the large stacks of paper that seemed to run floor-to-ceiling and trap them inside a parchment prison. Better than a gilt one? Snow could not say.

So instead of saying anything at all, she moved to the side of the group, weaving between bodies with hairsbreadths of distance but no contact, and came to a stack only half-completed. Delicately selecting a parchment from the top of this stack, she did not look in the demigod’s direction but nonetheless remained attuned to his movements as well as she was able. Who knew; it might provoke him, or it might provide no useful information (if whatever it is would be comprehensible at all), but it was certainly worth a try more than simply imitating what was already being done.

Amaryliss was many things; a shoulder to lean on, an ear to lend, and a thoughtful mind. She was not, however, unkind or a disciplinary figure. She would tolerate all manners of impertinence and ignore the most impudent comments in forgiving strides, while Ezekiel and Fallon stewed on the irrelevance. The surrogate brothers' understood how subordinates must act; with respect and level-headed attitudes, never speaking unless it posed to solve something that must be done. She roused compassion, drawing flowers from wilted grass. She would not slap anyone's fingers to stipple their insolence. If Ezekiel wished to beat some form of consideration into their fellow, frivolous Redeemers, it would fall to him to shoulder such duties. Fallon wanted no part in that. It wasn't his responsibility to instill sensibility or dignity in people so keen on flapping their tongues. He would hold no hands through the darkness. It fell to them to develop their own sense of soldiering. What Fallon could say about the Redeemer's, from the short amount of time travelling with them, was that they weren't lacking in boldness. Without a doubt, each Redeemer held a face of individual resistance and determination, whether it be in the form of coquettish smiles twirling upon their lips, or solemn frowns withholding impatience.

He repeated a logical mantra through his weary mind to try and clear his thoughts, that today's events should not bother him so. It never worked, couldn't possibly rid himself of the demon's that licked at his heels. It offered no solace, no forgiving words. That feeling of frustration and helplessness would not shake off his shoulders and leave him be. So, Fallon's gauntleted fingers rested across Ezekiel's oafish shoulder before dropping back to his side, unmolested and unmarked by any testy slaps. His welfare was not contingent on Ezekiel. However, the Elf was far less habituated to relying on anyone but the brutish man who stood before him. His mouth twisted into a contemptuous snarl, though it was meant as a boyish grin—long years of hardships and prejudice often transformed even the most innocent of expressions, it was hard for Fallon to do anything but grimace. A matter of duty shone brightly in his golden eyes, relaying how he felt about the awry situation.

As always, Ezekiel didn't outright refuse his apprehensive distress. Perhaps, if only to entertain his restlessness. He could still envision the stocky, stone-faced young man who'd scoffed at his weakness, often comparing him to coltish girls he'd once known. It always left him feeling humiliated and somber, of a mind to prove himself repeatedly. You cannot change the past. But you can ruin the present by worrying about the future. Had it been Ezekiel who'd told him that? Always the worrier, Fallon's reflective thoughts bound shackles and chains around his wrists, slowing his graceful gait to a metaphorical lumber. Every passing second was a second they would never get again. Those seconds dragged on to minutes, which dragged on to hours, which continued seamlessly in days. It was all time they would never get back. It was like… a weed that had grown in the back of his mind. And, despite attempts to root it out, it stayed there, stubbornly, overtaking his mind until the mere thought of failure, of his mistakes, became a wild obsession. To live amongst humans, Elves would always have to prove themselves to someone.

One betrayal is all it takes to smother any inch of trust in an already guarded boy. Memories resurged; memories of his mother and father, memories of his isolated city-clan, memories of a happier time brutally cut short by the wiles and whims of greed and prejudice. Seeds of distrust were sewn as a giant hand of dismal hatred swept the land, shepherding Elves in dark corners. Those seeds had already flourished in Fallon's heart, growing into large, impregnable vines. He'd snarl and snap and distrust the helping hand, and yet crave affection more than any. Far more than Ezekiel, it seemed. Doubt; a strange feeling to say the least. It is odd; uncomfortable. Uncomfortable to say, and even more unpleasant to feel. It washes over him, bathing him, tainting him. He feels it as it worms itself underneath his skin, threading itself deeper than the tattoos that mark his face and chest, shoulders and back. So, Fallon wouldn't admit it—would never let it slip from his lips—, but Ezekiel was one of few that would ever glimpse that look in his eyes. A solemn admonition that he need help, even if he wouldn't voice such things.

He wanted more than anything to be able to scrub himself clean of this achingly distressing feeling, scratch away it's scabby layers until there was nothing else to worry about. Fallon's mouth formed another tell-tale hard line, until he felt a flick as his exposed elbow. Raising his eyes from a particularly dusty corner of Mendax' library, Fallon's eyebrows knit together and the corner's of his lips twitched. It wasn't a smile, but it bordered on amusement. He was naturally meticulous in nature, far less prone to violence if physically touched (unless said fingers were poised around his face). Ezekiel did not like being touched. He hadn't forgotten. “Eil o, shor sar eis os os.” He responded softly, rolling the words across his tongue more comfortably than the Western language they all spoke. Ezekiel and Amaryliss both understood the Elven language, if not to understand his garbled speech when they'd first met. It'd been those two who'd taught him the Human language.

While Mendax insulted Lilith's gender and stonkered forward, wrapping his arm around Lucas' shoulder with that sickening grin plastered across his weathered face, Fallon busied himself not with the books littering the shelves but rather with the mysterious documents strewn about his now-vacant desk. The man was obviously drunk but that didn't mean that any prior feelings of wrongness should be so quickly dismissed. So, as Mendax blabbered irrelevantly, Fallon's deft fingers caught the folds of dogeared papers and rolled them quickly, slipping the new scrolls into his leather pouch. The Elf removed himself from the desk when he'd gathered enough and stole a few disgusted glances towards the eccentric man. Purposefully ignoring his theatrics, Fallon moved a few paces behind Amaryliss and made a small noise in the back of his throat. He needn't say anymore. It was a silent nudge of caution, and he hoped that for once, she would heed his wisdom. Finally, they were moving forward with the maddening wretch at the front. He followed behind, watching every flick of the man's wrist like a savaged beast awaiting his collar to be removed.

* ((And you, with that arm of yours))

Why would they need Mendax to wait for them, after, pray tell? Fallon merely offered a scathing look as he passed through the immense doors, gilded with enough gold scriptures and designs that could have fed it's entire kingdom in the form of bread, rice, and meat. Weaving between the Redeemer's, Fallon took his position next to Lilith and Lucas. The ambiance was far more dismal than the torched hallways. His pupils contracted, then quickly adjusted. He searched for heatwaves; any sigh of another living being threading it's way through the blackened chambers. Heaping stacks of documentation lifted themselves from the grounds like inked, faded mountains; strands of light flickered across the nearest stack of papers, faintly casting ember hues. His Sensory abilities focused solely on the hunched figure occupying the seemingly tiny chair staunched in front of the oaken desk; long limbs curled inwards, grasping several sheets of parchment from the piles before shuffling them outwards, constantly sinking multiple quills into bottles of ink. For once, Fallon regretted having such abilities. The dim lights did nothing to hide the monstrosity that sat before him, but rather highlighted each malformation in alarming detail.

The lecherous Sensor hastily stumbled to the back of the group, excusing himself with a newfound meekness that Fallon had yet to witness. His lips curled back derisively, though nothing was spoken of Lucas' cravenness. The oppressive, insufficient space of the chamber's did press down across his back, breathing uncomfortable breath's across his ears, but Fallon still was unwilling to vacate the area. Not while the other Redeemer's stood listlessly in front of this creature—because, it was clearly not a man. It resembled something they'd recently slew. Amaryliss attempted conversing with the scribbling creature, whom seemed wholly interested in finishing his work. Far less interested in the ragtag group that'd stumbled into his chambers. Had Mendax' ramblings been a mummer's farse? Had he led them into a trap, or merely thrown them into a labyrinth prone to circles? Could this truly be Litatio? Once Amaryliss glanced about, silently asking the only question that needed answers, Fallon stepped forward and placed his gauntleted fingers across the desk.

“Shi eisi Vaedaestae'sm. Tysti thys Jhorar. Air air bai taesi tylodaeli shi karaes shaerysi o byrn. Pystolarai car vorael oli tysi. Mandraesol si vaedi o mysi sai vyraes. Ci ter shi mydaer. Shi'bi tysti thys os eir.” Long-winded and elegant. It might've been the only thing Fallon had said thus far that hitched with compassion, and faltered into a low hiss. Demigod's, from the stories Amaryliss and his own mother had told him, understood ancient languages. His own were as old as his cultural roots. “Air shor pai bai oli kyr sai aindrysi sor. Ci short byr myr.” There was no point wasting time with another dance, trying their best not to step on any toes. Even if Litatio's many fingers could easily wring his neck.

* ((We are the remnants of the Redeemer's, coming from Litas. It is no coincidence that we come before you now. Dominatio has risen again. Slaughtering the people you've vowed to protect. We've come seeking your aid.))

* ((It will do no one any good to ignore this. He will not stop))

Greyais Be'Ureven

So this was not Litamamio? Greyais scowled and studied the scene before him. Given his marked lack of social skills, it was a wonder that he had taken the time to absorb the words spouted from so many mouths instead of grunting in annoyance and taking a swing at this odd little pomp. This situation felt surreal. Grey often found himself in similar settings in his dreams. A multitude of faces he was on the verge of recognizing. Many voices that felt right enough to evoke a vague sense of familiarity. But in each, it was always a small room, and oh so many words. The words were what threw Grey off. They fell out of mouths in a stream that seemed to make sense to everyone but him.

Shaking his head at the incomprehensible drivel, Greyais tried to focus on one sentence at a time. He had his arms crossed over his chest in a defensive gesture, as if his demoni-enhanced flesh would repel his own misgivings. The wispy man was indulging some sort of fascination with Lilith when Grey managed to get his bearings. Apparently the group was going somewhere. Despite his current anxiety, even Grey could tell that this man was jerking them around. Grey's hand twitched several times in the span of a few heartbeats and a sudden urge to lash out with chain in hand-

“Sapentia's breasts, shut up.” Grey's mouth twitched even as the words left his mouth. It was not a phrase he was familiar with, but it felt right. He was glad that nobody more than a couple paces away would have heard.

With a low, wordless growl, Grey passed by the thespian man and followed Lucas and Fallon in to the room. He allowed Snow to pass by ahead of him, giving the tall elf a wide berth. Judging by the brief exchange they shared earlier Grey assumed that she was not one for idle whispers. With a muffled curse the scarred Redeemer shuffled forward after accidentally grinding his heel in to the foot of someone following behind. His eyes were closed as they advanced, Grey preferring to rely on his more finely tuned senses than taking the time to allow his eyesight to adjust to the sudden change in lighting.

As bodies pressed and heat began to build between the Redeemers Grey's mind began to wander again. He recalled trudging through a narrow, damp corridor alongside his sister and two other comrades in arms. They had been tasked to infiltrate the enemy stronghold through seldom used slave access tunnels. For the most part, the journey was a cold and quiet one. He had not become aware of just how close they had been until resistance reared its head. Grey almost died that night when he and his fellow soldier struggled against one another, lacking the space necessary to draw their hand and a half swords.

Greyais let his musings die when the tension in the air took a sudden turn. He opened his eyes and the sight set his blood humming and made Grey's teeth itch. Not simply the sight, but the presence. That usually only happened around demoni...without realizing it, his hand was clenched around the spiked chain at his waist. At no point did it occur to the no. 18 ranked Redeemer that biting lengths of steel and infernal tenacity may not do much to an avatar of divinity.

As tall as he was, Grey could see over most of the other Redeemers—or at the very least through the gaps in height, barring Snow and maybe Fallon. He could see Amaryliss. How he hated her at this moment. Pushing past whomever was not fast enough or smart enough to get out of his way, Grey moved towards the desk. The dusky Redeemer popped his left shoulder back in to place as he hefted the weighty serrated chain that had been released from its bindings for the first time in what felt like months. Peeling his lips back in a bare-fanged snarl, Grey made no attempt to hide his intent. He spat at Fallon's flowery speech and drew back the chain for a strike.

Using Ezekiel as a buffer between himself and the creature, Grey bounded forward with a sudden burst of speed. He grasped the back of the parasitic's head and proceeded to slam it in to the desk as his chain came around for a heavy-ended lash that would take a sizeable chunk out of Amaryliss's forearm as well as pulp the head of the scholarly little freak. The resulting arterial spray brought a feral smile to Grey's lips. He basked in it, spreading his arms, regardless of the others nearby and cried out in exuberant bloodlust...

At least, that was what he would have done, had Ezekiel not initiated 'leader-that-Sage-should-be' mode and made the creature pay attention.

In lieu of overt acts of brutality, Grey settled for a growing smile and sidling up beside Ezekiel in the cramped confines. The manipulator's free hand idled around the edge of a paper, smudging it with dirt as the other gripped the spiked chain—at his side, not at the ready—in a wary manner. After a moment, Grey smirked at Ezekiel and nodded at the scholar.

”What he said.” t'was a moment for brotherly bonding if there ever was one.

Nothing was working; nothing was happening. The demigod was muttering something about inefficiency, their presence impeding the frantic pace he normally and continuously carried out his work. He seemed absolutely fixated on the concept, strange angular body twitching through his work, scanning, scribbling, and sorting papers all at once. From glancing at the papers, Lilith realized that each stack must be filled with paperwork that kept the entire kingdom's internal clock ticking. Contained within the teetering stacks were things that the council enacted, ruled on, and permits granted or denied.  Perhaps Litatio was even sketching out scripts for his public puppets. It was now obvious that Litatio took care of everything here in this basement. 
Lilith's left eye twitched, the beginning of a migraine creeping behind her eyes. Stress. Who knew that this impossible task would be so stressful.  
She decidedly lit up another cigarette; it had been nearly fifteen minutes since her last, and that was unacceptable. She inhaled shakily, narrowing her eyes at the creature broodily. Sucking her teeth, she tut-tutted as she swayed forward, smoke trailing behind her in spirals. She was done with this little game. "I'm gonna burn this entire fucking place down if you don't help," she purred, voice soft yet with the stubborn conviction of any sociopath. If he refused his blood, the entire mission was a moot point. The safety of the Kingdom would be compromised, there would be no point in any of these documents anymore. She didn't give one of her infamous faux grins or an indication that she was chumming around. She wasn't. Not at all.
 

---

 
 Suddenly, Litatio had gone stiff, entire body rigid, all twelve arms halting in mid-motion. He didn't offer her a glance, instead keeping his head downcast as he contemplated, a tense and tight-lipped sigh spilling out from his stubbly little jaw. He resembled a scorpion pre-strike. Apparently this had been the last straw-- the nuisance of the group too much for him to properly concentrate on running the largest Kingdom in the world now that the threat of his precious work billowing up into flames became a part of the picture. "Didn't your mother ever teach you manners?" he mused condescendingly, a grim smile reaching his lips but not stretching far enough to take the quiet fury from his eyes, focused on a piece of parchment on the table. "You can't even comprehend the amount of work that has gone into this…"he said, his smile dropping as he licked his lips, letting the words permeate throughout him.
 
  It seemed as if he was coming to the realization that, indeed, they really didn't comprehend, and he couldn't possibly expect them to. Holding them responsible for their ignorance was about as logical as blaming an ant for its inability to complete arithmetic sequences. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes with one of his many arms, the others still swaying as if they itched to return to work, electronic impulses spamming in a freshly severed lizard's tail. It was perhaps the most human he'd seemed the entire time they'd been in their presence, the robotics draining from his fingertips and flaking from his eyelashes with each blink. "This had better be worth it, little boy. It's been at least eight years since I wasted so much time." he muttered, deep set lines forming in his forehead and at the sides of his mouth as he frowned. His own statement took a toll on him, a devastating confirmation of the last thing he ever wanted to admit. He felt foreign in his own body, twitching every now and then and having to reel his fidgeting fingers back every time he went to reach for a pen, as if he were fighting inner demons with each passing second. One single "inefficient" dribbled down his chin, cut off into chunks and incredibly drawn out. It was almost physically illing him to be away from his duties. Why had they found him? It was forbidden to speak his name-- he made sure of that two centuries ago.

---

   
She grew stiff. Little boy? She wondered. Today really wasn't her day. As stony as she felt, her face held none of the hostility that seemed to be seeking sanctuary in her spine. It stretched into a toothless grin, eyelashes slowly greeting each other lazily, remaining shut as she said a silent prayer, something along the lines of "Oh most gracious Sapentia, grant me the strength to keep from punching this freak in the face," She clenched and unclenched her fingers subtly at her sides.
 
"If you really want to be efficient, then give us your blood, and we'll be on our way," she returned while her eyes remained shut. Allowing them to open, but not yet looking at him, eyes directed at the darkness that was sieging against the power of the candlelight while focusing at nothing in particular, "Or I burn the place down, and my friends and I cut off a limb, which I'm sure will afford us enough blood for our mission. It'd be sure to slow down your work for a while. At least... until you grow a new one," she spoke half-heartedly, contemplating the entire time whether she had used 'I' appropriately, feeling stupidity would detract from how menacing her threats appeared. "That is if you grow a new one," she concluded. 
 
It was obvious he grew more and more agitated by the voices in his room, his room, his room. His limbs all quivered, and he hissed lowly through his teeth. Well good. She was having an effect. 
 
Lilith finished her cigarette and flicked it on the ground with intent, but his hand shot out immediately, grasping it tightly in one of his fists. The cherry sizzled through his skin. A cold sweat began to sheen on his skin, a desperation radiating off of his entire being, like his entire essence was screaming for the strangers to leave him to his peace. 
 

---

 
Litatio finally raised his gaze to Lilith, with all the hostility a burnt out demi-god could, though expectant none the less. "Fine!" he spat. "Fine, fine. I'll give you my blood." he said, finally caving in. Anything to get them to leave him alone. He really didn't like speaking to other people. Really, really, really didn't like it.  "But it won't be free. That would be truly inefficient." he added, mostly to console himself. That wasn't how equal exchange worked, however much he wanted them gone. You could see him raking his brain for something they could do to pay him back, biting his bottom lip so hard that a thin trickle of blood dripped onto his desk. He looked down as the droplet and the gears in his brain clicked together, a lightbulb illuminated in his mental landscape. He slowly placed the nasty burn on his hand from Lilith's cigarette onto the red blemish on the table and lifted it back up again to reveal the wound closing up rapidly until there was no indication it had even existed in the first place. 

"You're going to clean something up for me," he said, the very faintest upward curl of lips turning into the loosest definition of what a smile could be touched his face, shutters flashing over his eyes as he finally took in each and every one of the Redeemers. "I'm sure you're capable of it. There's a bit of a mess in district 7 that needs to be fixed. A couple rogue abominations are wreaking havoc at the edge of town,  former wealthy adolescents having abused demoni blood under the pretense that it would act as a hallucinogen. Dispose of them and my blood is yours. You have," he paused to let a bony finger cross over his heart. The skin underneath glowed a warm orange underneath his white fleece shirt, "my word as Sapentia's child." He ran the idea through one more time before nodding at it, deciding it was explained well enough. "I'll leave you to it. Escort yourselves out." he said, his character draining almost instantly as his hands resumed their busy work.

---

“That’s… it?” Snow had looked up from the documents she was examining and now stared in some much milder semblance of utter disbelief at the spindle-spider-man that called himself Litatio. She hadn’t meant to speak, actually, but that particular mental process had overrun the rest with its own brand of urgency and the words had simply spilled out over her lips, unchecked, into the air. The utterance was quiet, so it was entirely possible nobody had heard anyway. Not that she would mind if they had; she did not fear this being’s wrath if he would roll over for a mere threat. It would be imprudent for her to be seen as the sort of person who did not give careful consideration to everything she said before she said it, however, and so she at once composed her features back into easy neutrality.

It was hard to quell the unease, though, that their success had instilled in her. Perhaps that was ironic- she had expected so much more difficulty. A puzzle to be solved, a riddle to be worked out, some kind of challenge to be met. Oh, he was giving them a task surely enough, but that alone was both unsurprising and insufficient. His reaction to Lilith’s words had been so typical, so human that conversely it had been the last thing she expected. Snow understood the loveliness of efficiency, certainly, and she would not take much better to having hers interfered with than Litatio had, but she would not acquiesce without further ado for mere words.

Was it also ironic that a demigod was behaving in a more ordinary fashion than she would have?

For some reason, the whole thing left a bad taste in her mouth, and she considered replacing the stack of papers she was now carrying in the wrong order. Immediately, she shook her head minutely and dismissed the notion as childish and beneath her. She had the mental acuity to put everything back correctly, she might as well do so. She used the pads of her thumbs to square up the edges of the parchments and frowned when she came away with a paper-cut for her trouble. Ignoring it, she decided there was no point in lingering and followed those already moving out the door.

No. There was no way he was just rolling over. Her mind could not apply the cowardice involved to a demigod, and so she concluded that there must be some kind of catch. The imperfections of pure logic glared balefully at her from somewhere inside her mind, and a small voice reminded her that the world didn’t really work in propositions and formulae and what was reasonable. She stubbornly ignored it. For all the flaws inherent in her system, it was still less painful than the alternative, and much less… messy.

Pulling her hood back up over her head, she braced herself for the overbright hallway and exited the study, feet alighting once again on stone floors. This time, though, she knew exactly where she was going- the route had not been difficult to memorize. That feeling of dissatisfaction still blooming in her chest like some overwrought, poisonous belladonna blossom did not leave her, though she tried studiously to ignore it. Her worldview would be sufficient for the rest of this insane quest, it would. It had to be, for she was sure she was beyond change by this point.