<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'">Lethargic verbs coaxed a humming fury. The languid drip of an uncouth aura upon the stern rock face of his being, eroding the surface into a tremulous canyon of weary patience. It blossomed, unseen, splintering thoughts surmounting until he—<br/>
<br/>
A slow inhalation. The opening of the chest, the collapsing of the lungs, until he found solace in a regained conscience.<br/>
<br/>
He wasn’t back home anymore, where his very title would prostrate masses. The maggots of disgust that writhed in the crevices of his features feasted on a long dead supremacy. They would do him no good in this land, nor would they serve his plans.<br/>
<br/>
Such a teeming concept was splatter beneath the heel of determination.<br/>
<br/>
His eyes slipped closed, and from there—he was free. He roamed the prairies of vengeance, soaking in the fragrant sanctuary—a fusion of passionate scarlet and magnetic saffron—a tantalizing radiance that softened his disposition into a grin. A cascade of brilliant hope rousing a sleeping simper. Those eyes of his reopened, darkened to wicked amber.<br/>
<br/>
A man who is a master of patience, is a master of everything else.<br/>
<br/>
He, along with the strange female and her canine companion, were led to a room housing even stranger folk. A motley of odd beings sewn together like a patchwork quilt.<br/>
<br/>
His frame swiftly filled the space the automaton had left for him, and the lizard man allowed himself to soak up the energies of the room. Energies, chromatic and bold, radiating in swirls and curls, melding into the diaphanous realm of his keen mind. There was a story—a secret—woven into every fiber of their vast beings. A tale in their marrow, a scroll of etchings carved into their very cells.<br/>
<br/>
<i>How very interesting</i>, the lizard would muse within the depths of his own mind, <i>such an odd group, all together, some of natures never seen before.</i><br/>
<br/>
His gaze wandered along the man who had addressed them with the scrape of a tool—with the keen edges of a lock-pick. They ventured along the natural elegance those who carried even an ounce of elven blood possessed—from his hair; the hush of amber above swaying citrine blossoms, such a sepia tinted dusk frilled with ribbons of fluorescent lightning, to his eyes—like embers—bearing the same fiery brilliance, to the the attire that clad his ethereal bones.<br/>
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<i>“Torrim,” </i>Flowed his fathomless timbre, words that rumbled with finality, as if his very name were wreathed in gems and vibrant stones,<i> “Though, the pleasure is truly mine, Mr. Helia.”</i></span>