IC || Grey&Spectral

Lucas Truesdale

It was not at all fazing for Lucas to receive glares and scowls and otherwise distasteful contortions of the face. He would of grinningly told them they were ugly if he cared enough, so he just grinned, at times window-wiping waving with his arm parallel to the ground, as if he were a celebrated hero returning from a war. Or a beauty queen. Was there a difference, really? Not last he checked, no. And seeing as he stuck with just grinning, he stuck his tongue out between his teeth, too, at the legionnaire if she seemed to notice him. Ohh boy, what was he even doing here? asked the back of his mind as he did. He was acquainted with some of these numbers; none of their owners personally, but of their reputations, certainly. It was a diverse assortment of characters here, not at all difficult for them to stand out from each other. He might be able to name half of them if he nudged his wrinkled little brain enough, or actually felt like trying to sound like a complete novice at the trade of Redemption (or whatever they fancied calling it these days, redeeming, redooming). For him to be among them seemed a silly decision of the Big Guys, but hey, who was he to question them? He was, alas, but a prawn: fished from the waters of his natural habitat, goes great with egg rice and soup. He was probably a pawn in that board (pft, bored) game he's never played too, but Lucas preferred comparing himself to things he was actually familiar with.

Lucas pocketed one of his hands in his back pocket, cradling his spear in the crook of other his arm so it was taller than it was, and resting against his ear. He did his best to stay away from the middle of the group, though the tall buildings and staring citizens did a fine job of making him feel claustrophobic anyway. His skin seemed to almost bubble from that combined with the heat. He stretched at the lips and pressed them together, doing his best not to let his merry expression drop. When the expression goes, the mood follows, and he didn't feel like dealing with himself when he was grouchy.

When the Redeemer walking nearest to him did a spittake, Lucas thought about whistling as she'd tried to earlier. No dice, he didn't feel like whistling. Not even a dayum whistle. Normally he liked sizzling, but it was not usually literally--"Shit!" he'd hissed, throwing an arm over his head moments before the bird hit the ground. ...Yeah, I don't like that either, thought he as he bared his teeth, in a manner that said, Oooh, sorry, dude, I left your oven on last night. Still, it was disturbing. Lucas liked birds. They were so happy, always singing. Pooped too much was all... Did he just make another pun to himself? Concerning a dead bird? He hoped that didn't count, for that was an especially bad one.

When they entered the ballroom, he shifted his weight from his heels to his toes and back. Floor was awful clean, almost made him want to take off his awful, dirty shoes; to prevent the grime and grass on them from entering further. Almost. He peered at it, wondering if he could clear it up enough to see his reflection under the sheer force of his merciless good looks. Heh. Lucas realized he was slouching, and rolled his shoulders as he straightened up a bit. There was their lovely appointed spirit guide. He could only assume, after all, she radiated Path of Spiritual Righteousness. Though he didn't think it would be a woman. Still, the lowest of the lows waggled his fingers and the highest of the highs. And then he grimaced as the bird was brought up again. Scream "pink elephants!" why don't you. She scampered off, and Lucas pursed his lips. For now, he was going to stay right here with his good friend Wooden Spear (first name Wooden, last name you get it). He didn't like circles of any sort. Especially rings, but now his mind was drifting. "Least it's nicer in here, hey?" he said, getting a proper look around.

Vivian eyes those in front of her with a blank expression on her face. She was only vaguely aware of the heat. Having come from a rich upbringing, she had been to this city a number of time, and after time you tend to get used to it. She was aware that she had sweat rolling down her entire body, but she really did not mind it. It was somewhat familiar, this place, and it gave her a pang of unwanted comfort. Comfort lead to laziness. Laziness lead to death. This was something she had learned in the past. She took comfort in the heavy weight of the metor hammer that was concealed under her long, flowing purple gown, a dress that really did not fit in with the rest of the crowd.

She noticed some others glance at something falling from the sky, but took no notice of it. Squish. Glancing down at her shoe, she had realized that her heel had managed to pierce into a sky-baked bird. "Damnit!" She frantically kicked at her foot, the bird clinging onto her stilettos as much as it possibly could, as if saying 'Please. Let me live here forever.' Eventually the bird did slide off and went soaring into a nearby house, where it forcibly hit the wall with a splurt before sticking there, most likely baking onto the hot surface. She stood up straight to regain her poise and composure, and began her graceful, gliding walk among the rest of the Redeemers once more.

They were lead to the Orion Ballroom, a place where Vivian had never actually went, but she had heard of it. It was said to be elegant, beautiful, and massive. She was, deep down, excited to finally see it. She thought of dancing there, of twirling in her gown at an elegnat, royal ball. She thought of sitting down to a large banquet there, to a massive party made just for them, with wondrous sights and sounds. She smiled a little, something that she did quite a bit, and her stride quickened (although there was a small, red square of blood wherever her left heel went) at the thought of the ballroom.

She was lead into the ballroom, but there was no party. No banquet. Nothing. There were a few people sitting in a circle. She joined them, sitting next to the first woman in the circle, who bid her a calm ‘Hello.’ ”Good afternoon, miss, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Missus Vivian Cross nee Eros, although you may simply call me ‘Vi’ for short. It is indeed an utmost pleasure.” She said this blankly, plainly, and without emotion, as if regurgitated from a parrot. She then removed the pack from her back and pulled out a large ball of yarn and her knitting needles.

She hummed silently to herself, the clicking of her needles filling her head as her fingers danced across the yarn, half of a scarf already dangling from the end and slowly, more and more, the scarf began to take further shape. Her eyes wandered around the other three she had noticed already. One appeared to be upbeat, sickeningly so. The other appeared to be full of herself, some sort of cynical bitch, no doubt. And the third was a man, and that was enough said for him, as they are all pigs. ’If he just touches me, just once,’ she thought, ’I’ll bury my needles into his eye sockets and Delilah into his stomach.’

Heat waves blurred the outlines of far away buildings, making the skyline dance. Lan ignored the heat despite all of the armor weighing him down. Years of living on the plains made him highly resistant to the heat, but it didn't make him totally immune. Sweat beaded on his brow, but only a few beads. Beneath his armor was an entirely different story. He felt sweat begin to run down his back, chest, arms, and legs. Tugging his scarf a little looser on his neck, he let his eyes wander over the various sights of the city. There were many different sights, but nothing that really made an impression on him. His thoughts drifted back to Carai, his warhorse, and the care he was receiving.

The ballroom was grand, but the amount of finery displayed here was almost disgusting to Lan. He was a man used to simple things, small rooms, and having to do most things on his own. He was not used to wide open rooms in large estates and elaborate finery and decorations. The air was mercifully cooler from the outside and cooled his sweat as well. Two of his companions opted to stand and two others sat cross-legged in the middle of the room. He decided to squat on his heels at the back of the room, facing the door. Lan detached the lance from the sword and set it aside. He swung the sword a few times, listening to it sing through the air. I wonder if they know what we're capable of. Maybe I can mess with them a bit.

Lan waved at a Legionnaire with his sword, simultaneously tugging his scarf lower on his neck. The man turned his head slightly to look at Lan and arched his eyebrow. Lan gave the man a quick grin and a thumbs-up, then slashed himself across the throat. The Legionnaires eyes bulged as he saw Lan slash his own throat; his mouth hung open in disbelief. Blood spurted from his neck for a moment, and then the neck wound closed. No scar marred his neck and Lan was able to catch most of the blood on his scarf. The Legionnaires stared in slack-jawed disbelief at Lan. Lan simply smiled.

Dear gods, but she had forgotten how awful it felt to be roasting in a city of humans. Snow was grateful for the dark cloak she’d picked up a few months ago, now for more than one reason. If the sun currently beating down on her covered head had direct contact with her skin for more than a few minutes, she might as well have put herself on a spit. Lacking the natural protection of melanin was not conducive to agreeing with the daylight. Of course, the same could be said of her eyes, and she was forced to squint so much that everything was substantially blurred by lengths of white lash, fixing her attention on the back of the person immediately preceding her and following.

Fortunately, she was relatively used to not seeing, and so it was not precisely necessary. The same training that had her leaping up and between buildings in her childhood ensured now that she was highly unlikely to lose her footing. A fortunate circumstance, else she may have tripped over one of any number of cracks in the road or divots in the dirt terrain further out. The sun-bright world had very little appeal to her, she would be the first to admit.

The stares were heavy, but she ignored them. Not such a difficult thing, when you’d been enduring them for much of your lifetime. Fate seemed to have dealt her a hand ready-made to be on the receiving end of such irascible sentiment. She was elven, she was strange-looking, she was a Redeemer. Only one of these was even a choice; perhaps it was fitting that it was this hate she endured most easily. It would have to be the sole reason for the present glares from townspeople, as beneath the hood, her sharply-pointed ears and freakish coloration alike were concealed.

A few seemed to spare the townsfolk glances, but Snow did not. There was little to be gained from it. Still, wariness bade her shift her arms slightly beneath the sable fabric; one cupped the pommel of Sunshine, not an aggressive maneuver on its own, but one that would make aggressive actions that much simpler. There was no incident, however, and save for an episode involving a roasted songbird, the journey passed without much in the way of notable occurrence. She noted that the small, dark woman seemed to fancy herself somewhat sociable, and she surmised that the same was true of the easily-startled one. Why they bothered was somewhat beyond Snow, but she supposed it probably didn’t hurt. The one wearing impractical footwear managed to spear that dead bird on one of her shoes, and beneath her hood, Snow's eyebrows ascended her forehead. Now there was something you didn't see everyday. She immediately pegged the woman as formerly of the human upper class. She knew nobody else who acted so.

Their path eventually took them underground, and Snow noted without pause that the internal temperature was actually slightly on the chill side. Much better. Dropping her hood, she blinked a few times. Less horrendously-lit in here, too. The group was greeted by a woman perhaps in middle-age, though certainly remarkably youthful for it, and the first two (the more talkative ones, though perhaps only relatively) took seats in the beginnings of a rough circle. With a slight lift to her shoulder, Snow figured she might as well and sank gently to the floor, returning the verbal greeting with a nod. Whether or not more was demanded by protocol was not something she had any concept of, having aside from her changing only been in contact with any decently-ranked Redeemers a few times. Those were not formal occasions, either, and they tended to relax the standards a bit on the actual battlefields.

Now that she could see, she started matching up faces with the distinct treads she’d marked on the way here. A few were easy: the heavy-footed thudding could only belong to the massive giant of a man who carried no visible weapon. She supposed he probably didn’t need any. A couple marched like soldiers; the darkest man, perhaps, and the southerner? There was another elf here; he moved less obtrusively. Mayhap a relic of life in the city- she knew the same was true of her. The others were closer and harder to place, though she supposed any of them could be wrong. It wasn’t as though it mattered.

She had to admit to a certain level of dull curiosity as to what such a… strange amalgamation of people was doing here, but then she didn’t really feel this strongly enough to inquire. It took much to move Snow to speak, and it would seem an answer she would likely be receiving soon anyway was not enough.

Ezekiel Aldain Mathis

It was not at all fazing for Ezekiel to receive glares, scowls and otherwise distasteful contortions of the face. The idea of returning the favor never crossed his mind. The sneer on his face was merely permanent, like a tattoo in that it was only removable by very special professionals, or else had to be painted over. Thus, it was present even when he politely met the eyes of everyone--every single pair of twitching, squinting, dismayed pair of eyes that looked even remotely in his general direction. Four seconds: It was only fair he try to give them each an equal amount of time to view his mug staring back at them with those judging green irises. Even when the contact of sight was broken, he filled his quota by just mildly raising his chin at the their sweating necks.

It was polite in his mind. It was polite for the superior to allow the inferior to know that the superior sees them, is aware of everything they do, every vile, sinful thought that trickles from their minds out their blistered lips. It was the only way they would learn. He was casual enough about it, rotating his head lazily as if he were admiring the surroundings (which he was, though "admiring" was pushing it). This section of Litas was bronze, smelling of metals as well as looking the part. The air was its rust, and Ezekiel suspected he could rub it between his fingers to produce a stain that would take two days of washing to get out. As for his "companions," he did not even wish to address them. Ezekiel was one of the first to arrive. He was punctual. They, for the most part, were not (be it by two minutes or hours). There were few he recognized from their stature or posture, a few he suspected were New, and then there were the children who acted as if they had never been in the capital before, nor seen a Legionnaire before.

Nor a dead bird. One could suspect Ezekiel didn't even notice the creature and the startled responses it managed to wean off of the others, if one didn't notice the split second flicker between his eyelids. It was the extent of his acknowledgement; his pace did not slow, did not quicken, halting only to firmly plant his feet in the goal that was the Vincere ballroom. He didn't realize how heavy his armor had felt until they went under, and it seemed almost as if he'd taken it off. He hated that feeling more than he could express. Ezekiel slipped a thumb over his balled fist; nails scraping the scales of lime on his palm, knuckles taut and cracking by the time the Legionnaire retired from being their escort. They remained that way even when he noticed she of the red tangles. A valkyrie of the battlefield, he'd thought her. He did not know which God of which story it was that had mercy on his fate, allowed death to open its arms to him and sent the valkyrie to take hold of his bloodied fingers; lead him to the next world, where he might Begin Anew. He was not completely off the mark.

"Amaryliss," he would have greeted, but greetings are the lovers of farewells. Ezekiel had long ago decided he cared for neither one.

The others were beginning to take their places, and one of them announced her name, occupation, and life story. It very well could have been a life story for him, anyway. He diverted his face from Ama to give the woman little more than a disinterested glance, then tilted his head forward to cast his gaze behind him, at one of the children who was making noise with his sword... then mutilating himself. (No, Ezekiel was not worried for him. If he were not some form of healer, it would merely be one less individual in the group). It was very difficult to resist the urge to shake his head, but he succeeded. It was even moreso very difficult to resist the urge to begin pacing around the room from corner to corner, occasionally watching them like a hungry, caged beast, but he resisted, standing as static as a statue. If they were being gathered for a ceremony or a speech or an ambush, he prayed it happened quickly, so that he may sooner stave off what felt like the ripping and twisting of muscles under his skin.

Lucas had, meanwhile, decided he'd like to sit down after all; casually plopping himself down in the circle and allowing his spear to rest on his shoulder like he would a sobbing woman. He was even feigning a sympathetic face for it, unless he was just trying to look smart and thoughtful for whatever reason.

Grey

Yep, the big city. Always a fun locale. Blistering heat, air that tastes of charcoal and ash, and not to mention there being no shortage of nosy pedestrians to babble on about the freakish group of newcomers. Oh yes, the freaks are going to lower property values, the city is going downhill! Oh no! Greyais regarded those citizens foolish enough to come within striking distance with an eyeless stare. Rendered effectively blind by a thick strip of fabric over his eyes, Grey felt more than saw their curious gazes.

"Hi." the manipulator came to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk, directing his greeting towards a small group of children that seemed to be more interested in Grey than mere curiosity would warrant. Grey scowled, sank down onto his haunches and 'stared' at the foremost of them. It was hard to tell if it was a boy or a girl, but Grey had gotten used to assuming that everything was male until proven otherwise.

"Hey! Are you wif' the giant?" a boy. Probably missing a couple teeth by the slight drawl on the 'f'. Grey cocked his head to the side in a very bird-like manner and frowned for a moment in thought. Taking the hint, the child elaborated. "Doose, or some'fin. Really big, big voice too! He said he came here to help wif' the evil n' stuff."

"Uh...huh...Deus." fat, lumbering sack of arrogant dog shit. Out of the four or so Redeemers Grey had personally met in the past five years, Deus was easily his least favorite. They had shared a single joint-operation that ended rather...badly. Deus had begun attacking Grey simply because he was showing signs of shifting into an abomination, despite three other abominations surrounding their position. While they had gotten the job done with time to spare, their confrontation did not end there. Their battle had raged on for several days, long after Grey had fully reverted. It was not until a squad of legionnaires intervened that the two decided collateral damage was not an acceptable consequence in this dispute...not when it could be settled at a later date.

"Mister? You ok?" the boy was really close now by the proximity of his voice, and a couple other children had mustered up the courage to stand near the wickedly scarred man as well. "Did he fall asleep-"

"Nah, I'm good. Thanks for asking." Grey drew himself up and began walking past the children when the first boy that spoke pulled lightly on his cloak. Grey turned back and smirked. "Yes...?"

"You din't tell us what you are. You here to help wif' the evil too?"

With one quick tug the boy was on the ground and Grey was on his way. Over his shoulder, the Redeemer called back towards the kids. "I'm Grey, Prince of Hell and slayer of gods. I have also come to destroy evil creatures...and maybe a few 'good' ones too. Stay in school!"

A friendly wave goodbye followed, and Grey was heading towards the palace once more. Despite his dark clothing, the manipulator was not particularly hot. He actively kept his sweat from being released and redirected the flow of heat in his body so that it was exhaled with each breath. As a result, every single breath that Grey spewed was hot enough to distort the air, much like looking above a fire or a very hot road. His lip ring was heated to the point that it would have burned normal skin, but Grey did not seem to be bothered by it.

In fact, the swarthy young man did not notice the change in temperature until entering the palace or whatever it was. Most of the legionnaires were stoic and silent enough to go undetected by the blind manipulator, but a couple had the nerve to scoff or make a rude remark about a sightless demoni. Had he not served in the army for most of his life, Grey would have probably done something flashy and stupid, like slitting his own throat or breaking fingers just to have the wounds heal.

Upon finally entering the ballroom, Grey greeted the foremost speaker with a cordial wave and walked up to join those Redeemers already present. By sheer luck or design of the gods, Grey realized he had pulled up right alongside the hulking mountain of flesh that was Deus. With a feral smile, but not looking directly at him, Grey spoke to his 'comrade'. "How's it goin, Douche--Oh, sorry. Deus. Being number 20 still treating you well?"

Although rankings were not a perfectly accurate form of measuring a Redeemer's individual strength, there was a sort of rivalry for the area that he and Deus dwelled in. Two other Redeemers and himself had been jumping the ranks and each managed to top the other and move up a rank, but for the past two years, Grey had managed to maintain his rank that just so happened to be higher than that of the man who thoughts himself a god. While it may not have directly spoken for battle-prowess, Grey knew it hurt his pride to know that a spindly littel bone-cracker outranked him.

So said the Number 18, Greyias Be'Ureven.

Vivian tracked others entering the room, sparing them glances above her knitting needles and yarn. She glanced at a man who was slitting his own throat for fun, watching the reaction he evoked from those working here. She felt a pang of anger inside of her. ‘Yes,’ she thought, ‘it really is funny to imitate bleeding and beheading.’ Being someone who was rather…intimate with her own blood, she did not take self mutilation lightly. Blood was a commodity, something that shouldn't be drawn just for the sheer fun of it, like savages.

And speaking of savages, who have we here? Vivian glanced at the giant man in the room who seemed to radiate pure ego. She pursed her lips. His name was Deus, which was a reference to his rank , apparently. Another member of the team was belittling the large man. Vivian’s respect for the men in the room was sinking, if at all possible, from where it was before. They seemed to be testosterone driven freaks of nature, hell-bent on one-upping each other. She was tempted to stand up and just scream, ‘We get it! You’re men! Shut the hell up, I’m knitting!’ but she decided against it. They would crush her, she would bleed out and kill them, and her remains would come back to life to wreak havoc on the world. And miss Pearl Hawthorne would still be alive, something that Vivian could not have.

She then noticed an elf in the building. ‘Oh, thank goodness.’ She smiled to herself, putting down her knitting needles and staring at her. ‘The help has arrived. How wonderful. I expect she will be taking our drink orders soon, and a lovely cup of tea sounds just delightful.’ She smiled wide at the elf, her gaze unwavering. But the elf did nothing. She did not offer refreshments. Did not bring water. She did not even introduce herself. What in the world was this maid doing?

And then the thought hit her. This was no maid. This was one of them. Her lips formed narrow lines on her face and she cast her gaze downward, a pang of anger forming. Elves. Why not? Let’s just recruit whoever we can. I hear there’s a dead bird baking on the side of a house outside with a portion of its innards stuck to the bottom of my shoe, maybe if the elf doesn’t work out, we can make that be a Redeemer. She smiled to herself. At least a dead bird would lay dead on the ground. The dead bird would know its place. This…elf will just get in the way. After all, they are really inferior creatures. Almost as dumb as the demoni themselves.

And how does one go about recruiting an elf? It’s not like they can think for themselves. No, they’re better off serving drinks, cutting fruit, or setting the table. They should be polishing the silver, sweeping the house, and tending to the children when mothers cannot. They have no place on the battlefield. She sighed. Perhaps she could be used as a shield later or be turned into a lovely pack mule.

She had then realized that, after some time, the woman next to her was speaking. She caught the woman’s name. Then a man began speaking, something that she really cared little about. Although he was a man, he did outrank her. She stood, preparing to speak, knowing that not mentioning this egotistical mammoth of a man would only do her harm.

“Well met, Ama and Deus.” Vivian stood to her full height, her purple flowing dress fluttering beneath her. She straightened this out and brushed it off, adjusting it slightly, as if her appearance would somehow ruin this first impression with the rest of those in the room. Clearing he throat, she look a wide glance at the others in the room. “Hello, there, everyone. My name is Lady Vivian Cross nee Eros, although you may call me Vi for short. It is truly a pleasure, and I-.” She cut herself off as a rather large cockroach scurried across the floor, as if heading straight for her.

There was the sound of air being displaced as a large circular ball went hurling through the air, and a sickening crunch noise as the meteor hammer came crashing down with full power onto the creature. Amazingly, despite having its entire body crushed under the weight of Delilah, the creature still moving slightly. She removed the hammer, revealing a crushed cockroach, still twitching slightly. She knelt down to her pack, pulling out a small vial of red liquid with a glass stopper. She removed this stopper and poured the liquid onto the creature, which began writhing on the ground, rattling, and hissing in pain. Bits of it began bubbling up, as if boiling, until they faded away, melting into nothingness, into a puddle of sizzling red bits on the ground, which no longer moved, or even resembled a creature of any sort.

Reaching down, she pulled a scarf from her pack and used it to wipe the remains off of her precious meteor hammer. Untying a string on the side of her dress, she placed Delilah back in its position, with its chain partially wrapped around her waist. She tied her dress back on her in one quick motion and cleared her throat. “As I was saying, you may call me Vi for short. It is truly a pleasure, and I do hope that we can succeed in our missions together. I do…apologize for my rather violent outburst. I am not exactly a fan of these things, as you can plainly see.”

She spoke with a completely blank expression, as if she either did not care what they thought about her, or as if she was too out of her mind to really know where or who she was or what she was doing. ”I enjoy knitting, and it is a very useful skill to have. If anyone would like something- a pair of socks, a scarf, a nice sweater, please let me know.” She spoke without looking at any of the men in the room, her eyes only landing on the females. Well…the human females. She avoided the elf’s gaze completely. But that didn't matter, elves weren't really people. They were like horses. Or puppies. Cute, kind, useful, but when they listened they didn't really understand. Sure they can know their names and simple commands, but abstract speech? Hardly.

”Thank you for your kind attention in listening to me today. I do believe this is the start of a wonderful relationship.” She gave a half-hearted smile, her voice unwavering from a neutral tone, as if she was bored out of her mind.

Edit: Typo. Also made it fit with Deus's post with a little tweaking.

Lucas Truesdale

The thing Lucas liked about women was their sheer diversity. Every single one was different from the next, having some small, precious trait to distinguish them even from their sisters and mothers. Discovering this trait was something of a hobby he had, and the lovely ladies of this room made the game far too easy. It was almost disappointing, but hey, he had something to amuse himself with as people poured in and took their positions in the... circle. Egh. His least favorite shape. Lucas had scooted just a little ways back before the person next to him sat down, aiding the process of rendering it an imperfect circle (though not quite an amoeba). He was more comfortable now, despite the prickling sensation on his skin. Not only was it cold, a lot of these people had weapons and armor and otherwise pointy protrusions. He was glad two--three?--of them decided to stay off to the side, far away from his personal bubble. (Spheres are different from circles. He likes spheres. Sounds like spears, which amuses him).

He had indeed been purposefully trying to look smart and thoughtful; how else would have such a high success percentage of checking out chicks undetected? There were three lined up next to one another, then a hooded fourth. Lucas had caught a glimpse of a white, delicate wrist; it lacked the bulging, beating veins of a man's (it was safe to assume there were none of those piano playing man hands in here for being a Redeemer does tend to rough one's hands up). Four! Four women! Ah-ah-ah-ah.

Ah... The first one he laid eyes on soon introduced herself before she was even prompted. Vi, she said. It was a cute shortening, accompanied by a less cute, disgusted glance in his direction. He had only smiled sweetly in return, and if he weren't a sensor, would have sidled up riiiiight next to her just to be a jerk. Instead, he spared her no more of his attention, though whether it was to be kind or because he knew better than to meddle with her type, he was unsure. She was either a hater of filth or of men, and it was difficult to tell which from a first impression (but it was probably both); her choice in garments and haughtily lowered long lashes were telling.

The next was of a lankier breed, with flesh that seemed to directly embrace her bones and a slouch that could make four-legged creatures blush. Ah yes, the bird girl. He had to admit, he was not entirely certain of her gender until she began speaking longer sentences. She was no lady of the typical sort, instead a creature with what could have been the richest skin tone he'd seen, like wrapped candy he'd come across a few times in the markets. The girl (he completely blanks out on assuming her age, though he tends to refrain from guessing the ages of women in general--they don't like that very much) was by far the most conversational and easygoing of the group, perhaps even outranking him. There was a charm in that, as well as a potential for rivalry. Smile tugging on the corner of his lips again, he raised his dropped gaze (Lucas didn't stare) to the ceiling, which was painted with naked babies and conveniently arranged sheets of ivory that floated about their hips. Creepy in his opinion, but obviously created with the intention to make an impression. It was strange how much a ceiling could tell you about a place, yet so few people ever thought of looking up. Darned pessimists.

He glazed over some of the men. Big, scrawny, armored, not armored, pleasant disposition, unpleasant disposition, ladida. His mind sure was blown. Lucas failed to understand how it was his own gender could be so dull; they practically all looked the same. (Okay, they didn't, but it was funny to think so). He didn't spend a long time on each, because as soon as he laid eyes on the dark one with the green knife sticking out of his hand (no, it was his wrist--see, THAT was a man wrist), the man turned his head and looked right into Lucas's eyes. Lucas then felt like he'd had a branding iron slammed into his forehead. Lucas smiled innocently, then stiffly... turned his head... away. Geesh, some people. The man had a symbol of a snake engraved on his shoulder pad, so already Lucas knew they would not get along.

"...number 20 still treating you well?"

Oh, he just knew it. Everyone knew of "The Titan," what with how often he announced his name, and the double crosses... was that what the tattoo was supposed to signify? Betrayal? Baffled by the thought, the corners of Lucas's mouth fell. He didn't even want to try to decipher any further meaning behind that. Back to women... What stuck to him most about the cloaked one was her movements, particularly the fluttering of her fingers in the air, and the way she carried herself with a grace honed to perfection, despite her near-awkward, towering height. Lucas suspected she was a dancer or musician of some sort. Why she chose to conceal a face he was sure to be beautiful, he could not imagine. A scar, perhaps, but those didn't bother him. Women with scars flitting across their features have been some of the best company he's had.

Right then, the heart of the not-circle began to speak, and Lucas seized the opportunity to look to her. While he would still insist she had a part time job converting others to her nunhood, there was an accepting and forgiving glow about her, beyond that of a regular religious woman. She had beautiful hair, strands as if woven together specifically to allow the plucking and placing of blue flowers into it. The placement of her hands were tidy, and her fingers tapered into gentle points, no different from the candles adorning the walls to grant them sight. However, Lucas doubted she could ever burn another living being. She just had an essence about her.... Lucas felt a skittering against his lower back, turning at the spine to see a giant cockroach beginning to scuttle by behind him. How some people could compare him to these things was beyond Lucas; they weren't exactly a feast for the eyes. He wasn't exactly Godly in appearance either, but sheesh--CRACK.......

..... Anyway, if she hadn't made a request for them to address her as Ama, Lucas would have called her Lisa. He did his best not to look at Deus...'s foot on the cockroach, or his waist at best. The man was very tall; Lucas felt his pulse against the back of his neck because Lucas slouched just a little. It was likely one of the heaviest pulses he'd felt in his life, and he didn't like it. It was as if Deus was beating him with a club devoured by cotton and blankets.

And then it struck him. Number eight? Number twenty? Introductions? Lucas felt his upper lip raising like a uneven stage curtain, causing him to grin toothily. It looked confident enough, but in truth, he only smiled that way when he was in a tight spot or self-conscious. It was arguably a defense maneuver of an expression, in a way, and has saved his ass on quite a few occasions. Wasn't this going to be fun...

"Vi" from before had stood up (yes, he sidled up next to her anyway, just not too close), and was continuing her introduction--CRACK... Jeez LOUISE. That was probably a husband and wife roach, goddamn. Couldn't they just pick them up and toss them outside like civil people? Lucas forced out a chuckle. Or maybe it was a scoff, he himself wasn't sure. She was doing something else to it, he could feel it just writhing as its life faded from within its crustacean shell, but Lucas would not be an audience to that.


"You're welcome, Vi-for-short... Hm? Oh," he jutted his pointer finger at his chin with a questioning eyebrow raise, then as easily as a flag flapped in the wind, lowered it so the corners pointed up, consecutively nestling his other brow into his forehead--a sort of you really wanna know? all righty, I'll humor you mask he was wearing. "Number fitty-three, li'l ol' me's Lucas. Hiya." He would have joked that he was trying to drop the number to sixty-nine, but that would be trying too hard. Much like a street comedian, he paused briefly for laughter, so he could grin knowingly and good-naturedly; but in the case of silence it would only seem as though he was pausing to announce something earth shattering. Lucas had slipped into his storyteller's skin.

"... I like pine trees and long walks on the beach; I feel stuff, and I'm sure we'll all be the bestest of pals. Grrrreaat knowin' ya." He ended with a lazy (though sassy) drawl, deftly saluting with two fingers after earlier rotations of the wrist and swimming of the fingers, all timed to synchronize precisely with his words. Lucas made sure not to shy away from anyone who had looked at him, and though it was difficult, he was still breathing. Of course he was. He lived for this kind of thing.

Lan carefully finished sharpening his sword and the edges of his lance before walking over to the circle of his comrades. He looked over his fellow Redeemers, trying not to make negative judgments. When it came to the giant, it was very hard for him to not dislike the man. He seemed to emit an aura of self-importance and arrogance. The way he threw the cores on the floor for someone else to pick them up disgusted him. He was probably waiting for an elven servant or the like to pick them up. Lan did not share the prejudicial ideas about elves that most other humans held. In the plains, nobody is greater than anyone else; elves were just as important as humans. His eyes narrowed in hatred towards the large man. He could foresee some confrontations between himself and the giant.

The other two men in the room did not stand out to him that well, so Lan reserved judgments of them for later. The woman who was knitting immediately gave him a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. She was beautiful yes, but it was an almost predatory beauty. There were many such organisms on the plains, most if not all deadly. He would be very wary of her. She seemed venomous herself, regardless of what abilities she might posses.

"We'll have to go through introductions first. I'm afraid I haven't gotten to know many of you personally. Please say your name, rank, class, and anything else you feel you need to say. We'll be working with each other for a long time if Sapentia's will is upon us." Lan lowered his head slightly in remembrance of the slain goddess. "I'll start us off. My name is Amaryliss Sage. I'm ranked number eight in the organization and I'm an auditory senser. I'm the recruiter for Litas, as well as the commander of our assignment. Please, call me Ama."

At least she is trying to get us to reveal a little of ourselves. It's the first step in making a cohesive unit. Lan could remember seeing other commanders not be so interesting in their men. Those commanders saw their men beneath them as meat; tools with which they could attempt to wrestle a victory. He enjoyed killing ignorant men like that, the world was better off without them. Ama had earned his respect, although she did not know it.

The giant spoke next. “You should all know who Deus is, for those who don't: he is the force of the gods, the will of the people -- forged in the heavens and set free on earth; the ground quivers in his wake and his enemies shatter under his might; rank number twenty, tank redeemer, Deus Erasmus also known as the titan. Be thankful you are his ally.”

Lans list of reasons he disliked this man grew. Great. Just what we need - a muscle-bound ogre with his head up his ass. Men like that disgusted Lan. They were always hard to get them to work with other people. Being a tank would not help his ego, it would only inflate it. And that would make him even less reluctant to trust allies, and probably make him think he could take on the world on his own. Lan fought the urge to insult the man.

“Hello, there, everyone. My name is Lady Vivian Cross nee Eros, although you may call me Vi for short. It is truly a pleasure, and I-. Her introduction was interrupted by a loud crash as a sizable cockroach was smashed into a crunchy pulp. When Vi saw that the bug continued to twitch, she dribbled some red substance on it that burned like acid. The coppery odor that Lan was so familiar with left only one option as to the nature of the substance. Blood. “As I was saying, you may call me Vi for short. It is truly a pleasure, and I do hope that we can succeed in our missions together. I do…apologize for my rather violent outburst. I am not exactly a fan of these things, as you can plainly see.” No kidding, thought Lan. Looks as if my instincts were not unwarranted.

"Number fitty-three, li'l ol' me's Lucas. Hiya. ... I like pine trees and long walks on the beach; I feel stuff, and I'm sure we'll all be the bestest of pals. Grrrreaat knowin' ya." Lan felt that he genuinely like this man who called himself Lucas. He seemed to be a carefree man, one who had seen much. Whether or not that was true Lan could not be sure, but the man had seemed to keep in good spirits despite the times. Lan respected him for that.

When his turn came around, he stood bowed his head at the circle. In the plains, this was the formal way to greet others. "Greetings, Ama, Deus, Vi and Lucas. I am Lan, last of the Seia Sorei. Redeemer rank thirty-nine, Magnifier class." He felt that his introduction was sufficient, and returned to sitting on his heels.

The city of Vincere- infamous for it’s stunning heat, metallic structures, resident Legionnaires... and no one could forget that elves did not enter it’s boundaries on any ordinary occasion. Perhaps this, alone should have excited her, or even ensparked some reaction from her, in such topic.
It did not.

To be honest, Solvej Roanoke was just happy enough to be in the city. After two nights and three days loitering the gates, she eventually got bored of the suspicious aura that was hovering about her, just waiting outside the metropolis of Litas. Even when there were other Redeemers about, she seemed to distance herself from them. Think of it as impolite on Solvej’s part, but, on the bright-side, the aloofness this time around was unintentional. Her reasons of some severance probably all resulted down to sheer pondering, however it was never certain with Solvej. For all anyone knew, she could have been plotting to kill them all, for what she could believe as the “better good”. The scary bit about it? It wouldn’t be surprising if she did so, with some sort of “justice” playing in her mind whilst doing so...

Back to the “pondering” bit, because she had yet to finish the session. One would think three provided days would be enough for idle thinking. Of course it wasn’t, especially if the thinker found cities, no matter how high esteemed they are and no matter how much she loved them, still just simple cities. Vincere was almost the same to any city, give or take a detail here and there. One of such said details noted to be the “gawking”, something so common within a rural village, yet, for a city?

”I’m presuming- fans?” Solvej could not help but sarcastically think to herself, wondering if such staring was of the norm of a Redeemer stepping into a city, or whether this case was a new situation altogether. Whatever it was, their stares were starting to creep her out, and were hers. Nothing was less threatening then a looming, dark-skin elf, shadowing over you under a hooded helm and shaded face. As Solvej’s innocent intentions of doing so was simply to observe, her studying led to even more curious stares, which seemed to motivate her to stop. She got enough attention as it were, both entering and travelling through the capital of Litas with a band of misfits (To put it politely). With her back seat taken by the other resident Tank, to which Solvej was guilty to admit she knew little of, Solvej ended up somewhere along the ends of the moving group, playing little to none antics to these newly found “brethren”, rather enjoying the scenery that was offered. Hell, it could help, in time- if someone was paranoid enough to attempt to remember the paths they were pacing, guided by another Redeemer who was new to Solvej’s eyes. The novelty of being surrounded by strangers seemed to be dragging on for too long for her liking by that point. Though, they were only considered strangers if she actually cared of befriending, or even getting to know them. It goes without saying what Solvej was thinking- not of the people around her, however on the task ahead of them, her. Yet, did any of them hold any curiosity?

At the moment of such thought, a few jumping around about some dead bird. To add to the maturity, a woman, clad in clothing too luxurious to the eyes, decided to stomp the pinnacle that was glued at the bottom of her shoe-wear into the bird. Probably by accident, and not for effect, the timing just too good for her liking, as she beat the bird off her heels. It fluttered away eventually to witness it’s death somewhere else, most likely far away from the crowd of oddities, to which Solvej could hardly blame it for. She sure as hell would’ve done the same, to spare all the scenarios that awaited her getting involved with the bunch. Her curiosity, however, festering up violent, within the core of her mind. What was the meaning of this entire journey? It was something they would eventually all find out, which did not ease the impatience Solvej felt about it all. Her own guessing kept the insanity of the individual Redeemers at bay, along with the dreaded heat, as their guide lead them underground. Only time would answer Solvej questions- not without, however, many other obstacles to bear, of course.


The magnificent hall, or “Orion Ballroom”, was, to put it briefly, “shiny”, the floors well polished, twisted designs and architecture garnishing every inch of the room. It was such a large contrast to the city they just left (Or what they have seen), dusty streets and crowded roads somehow leading them to a desolate room of grandeur. It was probably less amazing then what Solvej was making it out to be. She admitted not paying much attention to the group that surrounded her after the “bird incident”, finding her own thoughts more interesting then any antics they had to offer her. However, in a much isolated area, Solvej could see them more clearly, underneath her hooded helm. They all seemed more like a group of individuals rather then a group itself.
Solvej’s attention now focused on the rest of the group- five human males, three human females, and just one other elf, female also. Some were outlandish, even just in the way they acted upon arriving in the ballroom, the female who walked on stilted heels and bird blood taking out some of her knitting. Whereas others, such as the male Tank, started to eat apples, littering their corpses on the mirroring floor. Those examples, of course, being things Solvej simply bothered to acknowledge so far.

She would label them all slightly insane, as that was the only word she could think of, at the moment, to describe them all. At least the Redeemer who guided them there seemed of decent sort, picking up after the apple bits that were not hers to pick up. Solvej would have thought more of her, if only she did not insist that all of them introduce themselves, calling herself Ama.
By this point, Solvej ended up sitting on the marble ground, pulling her horned helm off her head, to cool her head down after the earlier assault of the sun. Consisting of blonde hair, dusty brown irises and a lanky stature, she was not beautiful or glowing in any sense, though she doubted anyone would mention it. She gingerly placed her weapon down beside her, a variant of a tall pick-axe and hammer hybrid, it’s bronze head similiar to the hue the Vincere buildings held.

The point of sitting in a circle, altogether- she couldn’t care less. But if it meant they could get on the road faster, Solvej was willing to try it, her knees stretching upwards in her sitting posistion, her cheek resting, in a lax, bored, manner on the sharp joints. She created a theory that in doing such, she could keep herself in reality long enough to listen to others introducing themselves. Her concentration was minimal in such an lax stage of the task. Her eyes eventually wandered away from the first of them, who were introducing themselves, as Deus the giant-like Tank, to a large enough roach, that was idly skittering around the outline of her metal boot.
Curious of how such a creature could dwell in such grand housing, Solvej lifted it up, detaching herself from the introductions at hand to pick up the being. She wasn’t fond of animals, but insects were so small in their anatomy, it was easy to loath it, yet hard to find a reason why to crush it. She even let the most likely disease-ridden traveller to linger on her finger before a mini fissure vibrated in the flooring. Looking up, the pinnacle heeled woman, to which she called herself Vi, was handling her meteor hammer, facing her foe, the innocent floor,Following her attack Solvej’s roach flinted away, falling from her hands, to wander vigilantly to the dangers of the middle of the circle.
”May you go bravely.” Solvej couldn’t help but think, watching the roach wobble to the middle of the floor, even after witnessing one of his brethren being melted off with red liquid by Vi only second beforehand.
Her mind half on the travelling roach, and on the introductions as well, Vi took leave of the stage, a Redeemer by the name of Lucas going on to introduce himself, who left an uneasy feeling in Solvej. He seemed harmless, yet she couldn’t get by how easy-going he seemed, to her percievement. A frown was plastered on her face at the thought, still staring at her lone roach skittering away, undetected by the rest so far.

From Lucas, the Redeemer who called himself Lan stepped forward, his introduction smooth and plain enough to render any judgement so far from Solvej eagle eyes. She left him as “undetermined” in her head so far, as her diligence of the greet-and-meet quick to fall, as raw restlessness ensnared her. The need of getting this all over and done with the most attractive option Solvej was left with, letting a pause hover on the group before deciding to speak out.
“Hello, I’m Solvej Roanoke, rank forty-seven, of the Tank profession. This gathering has been strange so far.”
Solvej words lolloped lazily on the air, quickened by her childish haste, yet still holding the wavering tone her voice was accustomed of emitting. She held nothing back, instead of the usual “please to meet you”, Solvej couldn’t help but admit the peculiarity the meeting had so far. In truth, calling it “strange” was the most pleasant thing Solvej had to offer on the current situation.

”This’ll be over soon, right?” was the only thing that Solvej had left on her mind, her body still tense, after her introduction, resting her eyes once more on her roach. For it’s size, it was doing well not to be seen so far, as it lingered moronically near the center of the floor. It was probably counting it’s day until it eventually inspired a roach phobia to spark inside someone else, the reaction strong enough to prompt said person to kill it. It was only a matter of time, to which Solvej felt no sympathy to her short-termed comrade- it’s idiocy would be it’s own death. Instead of escaping when it had the chance it chose to stay with the dangerous strangers instead. What a fatal error, that was all Solvej could think.

Snow sat cross-legged on the cool flooring, resting her wrists on her knees and allowing her hands to dangle in the air, eyes for once actually open, but staring into middle distance without much focus. For all intents and purposes, she was perfectly at ease.

It would seem that the same could not be said for everyone. What was that little saying? He who has the least to say speaks the loudest. Ah yes, that was about right. At least one of them spoke very loud and in third person, no less. Surely he must be compensating for something, though she knew not what. Still, even if it produced the first twinges of irritation, all the talking, she was not being compelled to participate and thus she didn’t much care. Snow had once been a creature of proud disdain herself, all vinegar and bile at the injustice in the world and convinced that humans were oppressive, beastly things and so on and so forth. She still resented them a bit. But beyond that, she simply didn’t feel much at all. People were people, and they would do as they wished. She’d be a fool if she thought she was enough to change this, and an idealist if she wanted to.

Small revision. It seemed they were all intended to speak, and Snow resisted the urge to sigh. Practically, she could recognize the utility of having some concept as to what, precisely, the others were capable of or, more importantly, thought themselves capable of, but all the same she could not claim that she at all desired to participate. Still, she dutifully filed away names, faces, ranks, classes, and quirks as she saw them. Information was half the battle, and knowing your… allies was in many ways more important than knowing your enemies. It became even more crucial when those allies were capable of becoming enemies with little more than a lapse of judgment or willpower, something that she was not so foolish as to put beyond anyone, not the kind-eyed Ama or the affable Lucas or the prissy (in a strangely-violent way) Vi or even herself. Especially not herself.

Two tanks, two sensers, and two other magnifiers thus far. She’d wager a few of those left were manipulators, because in her limited experience the Redeemers tended to enjoy mixing their classes together in groups as large as this one. Two elves, several humans, one creature who seemed to be comprised entirely of muscle and ego. She imagined that for all its faults in more polite company, it translated well onto a battlefield. The woman with the extremely long introduction and extremely short nickname seemed to have a rather overblown aversion to insects. The man with the spear was perhaps somewhat self-conscious about his rank.

There was a small lull in the conversation, and she inserted her own introduction efficiently into the silence. “My name is Snow. Magnifier… perhaps forty,” she answered vaguely. She honestly couldn’t care less what her rank was, and scarcely bothered to pay attention when it changed or if it did. For all she knew, she’d been forty from the time she’d woken up and stuck her scimitars in a couple abominations and would be forty until the day she died. It was illogical to place stock in a number that reflected experience rather than skill. It was also illogical to assume that either experience or skill really mattered too much. Neither seemed to hold quite the weight of sheer, dumb, unreliable luck.

Was it just her, or did this place have more cockroaches than a back alley in a slum? Seriously; what were they eating these days? And how was it that people as upper-class as the ones that were bound to live here tolerated it? Didn’t they have pointy-eared servants to send after the bugs? It was all a large number of them thought elves were good for, was it not? Well, that and standing around looking pretty. Her nose wrinkled slightly in distaste at the mere thought.

Grey

Grey had to suppress a snicker at the lumbering goliath's diatribe. Although he hated Deus with a passion and graced the beast with the prestigious honor of being the only Redeemer that Grey actually wanted to fight, Grey had to give him credit; The guy was a wiz when it came to cracks, jokes and snarky comments. At the word snarky Grey's mind began to wander and he completely missed when Deus walked away.

Hmm...whatever happened to those two? Grey's mind was two years in the past at a backwater town on the western edge of Litas. He had been assigned to slay a pair of darkseed that had been ravaging a village. Given the relatively meager population of the village and the time it would take to get there from his current location, Grey assumed that there would be naught but corpses and demoni to greet him. Strangely enough, the Redeemer walked in on a full-blown fight to the death. Two young women were leaping rooftops and ducking into tight nooks in a fast-paced hit and run with the two demoni. Both creatures resembled pincushions more than demoni at the time, skewered with bolts, arrows and even a few throwing knives. Needless to say, Grey was impressed.

It took a while to convince the pair of lady-warriors that the freakishly scarred contortionist that just tore their adversaries apart was not a demoni himself, but eventually Grey managed to explain the origins and function of the Redeemers. Apparently this place was so out of touch with the civilized world that they had never even heard of Redeemers, and the appaearance of the darkseed was a shock to them as well. Not quite knowing why, Grey had decided to stay a while under the pretense of defending the village against any further attacks. Although he would never admit it...Grey had fun. The villagers were much more tolerant of a man with demoni blood in his veins that...well, anyone he had ever met.

A missive requesting his presence in another area arrived in town two weeks later, and Grey was forced to move on. He was loaded down with food and drink as a gift for his help and shooed along to go help the next victims. Those who remained to keep waving even after the crowd had dispersed, even after Grey was well over five miles away, were the two women: Sable and Citrine.

“My name is Snow. Magnifier… perhaps forty,” a sudden lilting voice intruded upon Grey's thoughts. The manipulator immediately perked up and tried to piece together what was happening. Oh shit, people are talking? Uh...she sounds cute. Maybe just a peek... Grey almost regretted lifting his blinder oh so slightly as the rush of light in even this fairly dim locale threatened to blind his sun-deprived eyes. Almost. One curious dark eye coming in to focus, Grey stared at the speaker for a moment. He had met elves before, but Grey was unaware that they came in such extreme tints. She was pretty though...not in a sexual way, but more like how people collect the pelts of snow wolves and dire peacocks.

Grey replaced the blinder and listened on to the next introduction. "I'm Lilith, ranked 13, hold your applause....There isn't much to know about me that you don't get from a first impression." the woman roled her shoulders as if there was nothing more to say. "What you see is really what you get."

Grey cocked an eyebrow and waited a moment more before taking up the torch. The darkly-clad man straightened himself and waved to the assortment as a whole.

"Hey. Name's Grey, number 18 and currently a bit depressed that there's such a shorty that's higher ranked than me." he smirked and shrugged, trying to find more to say. "I like beef, long walks around lakes and the glint of demon blood on my sword in the moonlight."

Ezekiel Aldain Mathis

It was strange how one could stand out of respect for another, as well as disrespect for others. Somehow it was easy to tell which was the intent of the stander. He felt his pupils crawling across his features to glower a glance at the giant, but not for long. It was clear he wanted attention, and it was not something Ezekiel would simply grant on a whim, so he dwelled on the colossus no longer... Had it been anyone else who proposed an ice-breaker, Ezekiel would have tromped out the room and right back into the heat. Instead, he stubbornly stood his ground, not even opening his mouth to breathe. They could have been sewn together from the inside, no one would ever know the difference.

He did, however, look a remotely confused when all the hullaballoo about the cockroaches ensued. He even watched the dark skin girl do the cha-cha out the door with one. They were only insects; what was the problem? He'd never seen anyone make such a fuss over their meager little existences. They were certainly larger than most he'd seen, he could admit, but... he thought on the subject no further, instead choosing to be more aware of his surroundings.

One by one they spoke of their names, their positions, and of other nonsense that was entirely irrelevant to what they were. Forged by the Gods? Knitting? Pine trees? Long walks, long walks--They were Redeemers, not a book club. If anything, they should be sharing kill counts and sightings of unusual numbers or forms of Demoni. Though naturally, in the case of that, Ezekiel would have been only mildly less testy. He preferred nothing: that is, silence. Still, he allowed his opinion of the less talkative to rise, even if it were only slightly. Strangely it seemed only to apply to the female elves; he suspected it due to their soft-spoken, meek little natures, but fair was fair. His new comrades were now lesser than female elves... Except perhaps Thirteen, who had to have been doing something right to earn the rank. Named after the first succubus, yet seemed as far from the concept as she could be. Then there was Viviane: lady of the lake, once more an incorrect role. The rest were literal, not worth a rumination session.

All right, he'd thought that of thirteen until she stuck out her foot. It was another child. If he were nearby, as well as more of a greenhorn, he might have kicked her foot back into place and berated her into sitting properly. He could almost roll his eyes just remembering all the time he'd wasted on squires, giving them blunt pointers and backhanding their elbows into correct postures. It wasn't as if they'd improved a terrible amount.

At first it seemed as though he would not speak, as he'd barely shifted from how he was when he first entered the room--as if awaiting orders, which he, in a way, was. Then finally--after an motionless pause on the part of the others, and an expectant look from Eight--Ezekiel relented.

"Fourteen. Parasitic." He said, lumbering forth five steps into a gap in the circle. There were three requirements, he recalled. What was he missing...? Ah. Without enthusiasm, and he reaching the spot that was now his: "Ezekiel Mathis."

But he did not sit. It was not that he forgot his name, besides, but that he did not feel it was of any use. A name was no more than a tag by which someone was known, ridiculed and praised. He was very honestly blind to how numbers did not suffice as decent substitutes... One of his hands twitched twice, the nerves recoiling. He realized he'd been idling far too long as it was, but quelled his impatience still... He should have bought that book from the man with the fleas. The others probably have books that they're dying to tell him all about.