Absolom rarely slept, at least in the proper sense. It was a side effect of the conditioning that accompanied the army life mixed with no small amount of bio-thaumaturgy. The result was an existence at the cusp between sleeping and waking, unable to shake the nagging suspicion that everything he experienced was merely a dream. He only truly slumbered to commune with his subconscious, and then only to refresh his psyche in contemplation of terrible things. And more often than not, he'd wake screaming at the disturbing content of his dreams.<br/><br/>But this time, he just... woke up. From a blank fog, he returned to consciousness. It was a strange sensation, disquieting after so many years. The Skeleton was almost relieved when he realized something was wrong with the world about him, it was so much more palatable than returning to the mor... well, it was just more palatable.<br/><br/>The first thing he noticed prickled at his perception before he even tried to open his eyes. All about the Skeleton, as oppressive as that acrid stench of the burnt flesh, was the sensation of a weakened veil. It flitted at the back of all of his senses; not quite a smell or a sound, yet still bitter, dissonant, and almost ticklish. Spirits pressed hard against the gossamer barrier, their melancholy whispers urgent as they fought against ethereal predators. The passing of such ghostly beasts send ripples through the veil, dangerous distortions that brought validity to the sorcerous analogies to the spirit world being the sea to the material world's shore. It was that sensation that reminded him of why he had been unconscious, and sent him jackknifing into a sitting position.<br/><br/>His eyes shot open -aided by the screaming pain that spread from every point of his flesh that moved- searching frantically for the fish that had struck him, or for evidence of the terrifying possibility of his having entered the immaterial coil. But he was met only by the opaque chips of his mask. It was a reassuring measure for the Skeleton, since his Grave Goods wouldn't likely have included such a rare and potent artifact. If it was here, then the Skeleton was probably still walking. Cool, reassuring steel.<br/><br/>It was reassuring until he tried to remove it, at any rate. The first fright was the sheer pain that the action resulted in. He had expected the pain from sitting up; being bull-rushed -salmon-rushed?- by an enemy in heavy armor plating was bound to bruise beyond belief. But this pain was pervasive and all-encompassing, as if his skin had been ritualistically flayed from his still-living flesh. A scream was bit back as the boney spellcaster's hand slapped onto the cold metal plate, fingers scrabbling for purchase as Absolom struggled to accomplish his task as soon as possible. The sooner he was done, the sooner the pain could recede. Yet the scrabbling was futile; his mask had meshed seamlessly with his flesh. Absolom's heart sunk like a bismuth nugget in a glass of vitriol, eaten away by some faint, disheartening whisper at the back of his mind.<br/><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #000000">You're blind, and mutilated. How does it feel necromancer? That mask you've clung to now clings to you, adorned with eyes that will never permit the redeeming light to cross their threshold.</span></span><br/><br/>Defiantly -although defiant against<span style="font-style: italic">what</span>Absolom wasn't sure- the Skeleton switched to his deathsight. It was much as he had expected; the battlefield was a mortician's utopia and the veil was frayed worse than a beggar's loincloth. He was going to have his work cut out for him restabilizing the area, indeed if it was repairable at all. There were no rifts yet, but several patches felt more fragile than soap bubbles. Slowly the Skeleton swept his gaze about, avoiding exacerbating his protesting muscles and rebelling skin.<br/><br/>Looking at the world in deathsight was much like looking into an abyss filled with light-forged inhabitants. Everyone had their reflection in deathsight, an indistinct construct that took on the most defining features of the individual. One could tell the power of a person based on how bright their construct shone, and their mood by the shades that skittered like rainbows across each construct's surface - colloquially called their Banner. Objects became gray shadows of themselves distinguished only by the most structurally-significant features, while the rest of the world was consigned to nonexistence. All in all, deathsight was better suited to supplement visual input, not become the sole means of seeing as Absolom was attempting.<br/><br/>Then again, it wouldn't have made the Legionnaire kneeling beside him any less disconcerting. From her muted soul-Banner he first thought she was one of the dead, albeit fallen in an awkward position. Corpses generally did not sit seiza unless arranged thus by some strange fancy of the living, but Absolom had seen stranger death-positions. No, what stood the Legionnaire apart from the cadavers was how her strangely cold and emotionless Banner still flickered with the small movements that not even the most powerful Risen Dead could mimic. Every living creature moved, whether within or without, and their Banner would reflect that. Her Banner was more akin to static, deathsight sliding off her as if searching for a purchase and finding only a void.<br/><br/>They stared at each other for a few moments. Details in deathsight were limited to only the features that most people noticed; the shape of the nose, the depth of eyes, the shapeliness of a figure. Clothes and armor clung to Banners more as a testament to modesty than anything else; they were gossamer enough to reveal the form of a Banner without being indecent, much to the despair of many a young spellcaster. The legionnaire was armored in a standard XIV kit, her weapons sitting atop her shield beside her. Her helm was still firmly strapped to her head, but through it's indistinct form Absolom could make out a nest of feathery short-cropped hair. Her actually expression was much harder to make out, but the Skeleton judged it to be somewhere between cold, indifferent, and emotionless. The Banner neither confirmed or denied this assessment, a rather frustrating nuisance.  It seemed the most logical assumption however; while the legions took in everyone regardless of race or gender -indeed, some of the best legions were all-female- XIV was mainly composed of murderers and madmen, whose crimes were more often perpetrated by men. Or at least the ones caught were mostly men. A few women slipped into the XIV under thievery charges or similar accusations, but for the most part XIV was a sausage fest. The few women among them either cultivated an air of lethal untouchability or endeared themselves to tougher squad mates. This soldier seemed to be of the former group.<br/><br/>Absolom was drawn from his musings by the legionnaire shifting to a crouch, her hand coming to rest lightly on his shoulder. He winced as the cool metal of her gauntlet brushed his skin, making it apparent to his mutilated senses that he wasn't wearing a shirt.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">I must have <span style="font-weight: bold">burned</span>.</span>the Skeleton realized with a shudder. It would explain why every inch of him felt raw, although how he could still feel<span style="font-style: italic">anything</span>or was going to stop a MASSIVE infection were worries that flitted through the rafters of his mind.<br/><br/>"Lie down Quartermaster. You were conduit to the Warp, lucky to still be alive. The commander and Honored Dead were convinced you were too far gone, but acquiesced that I keep a vigil over you until you passed." She paused, much to Absolom's displeasure. Her monotone voice oddly soothing, conveying no emotion yet subtly demanding attention. It was gentle and clear, an anchor in the Skeleton's crippled world. On the other hand, it had a curt, clipped feeling that implied that she did not deign to speak often.<br/><br/>"It seems I was right to insist. Your friend there, at least, will be pleased that you still live."<br/><br/>She went quiet again as the crunch of legion boots drew near. Absolom forced his taut maw to grin as a familiar Banner-light grew behind him.<br/><br/>"Heya Titus. Long day at the office, huh?"