His eyes flicking about as the ever-present flames danced upon them, Ithalin's cold blue gaze roved about the room. He could appreciate the attempt made by the elves to maintain an illusion of grandeur. After all, what architect wishes to admit that his building does not look as it did the day it was opened after twenty years of weather, war, and wear? While those first two were likely not applicable to this place in particular, the third certainly was. The place had been built with the idea it would be a staging ground for eons to come, with all the funding for upkeep to accompany that status. And now?<br/><br/>Now it was a rotting husk of an idyllic future, cast to the wayside because it didn't have enough realizable 'profit' to its use. At least, not in the eyes of this Reik. Tim, not the man's true given name but the name Ithalin had given to him when the elf foolishly attempted to grasp immortality, had taught the foreigner much about the land he now resided in. Taught him with the bias of a man raised in an ever-expanding empire that would soon decay and collapse upon itself following the age of decadence all empires experienced, but the teachings were nonetheless informative. The Reik's language, the social and militant customs, and the best 'beast-loving' spots in each city, all of these were implanted into the mind of the death knight.<br/><br/>All of these teachings, sans the final one, helped provide Ithalin a frame of reference with which to judge the shortsightedness of these 'volk'. They had pierced space and bent time, only to promptly forget about their newfound power for a little over a decade. Had the thought ever crossed their mind to send in a colonial force to establish a new empire? Or, to create another portal on the world they connected to, and see if 'bouncing' the two would assuage the troubles? Ithalin doubted both of these, doubted that they had ever contemplated something besides grasping their newfound world, the people upon it, and their own expeditionary force in an iron grip, unable to escape the unblinking eye of the Party. Tim was no help in the matter. This was "above his pay grade." He could only regurgitate propaganda pieces from papers, leaving Ithalin to fill in the gaps.<br/><br/>This train of thought was growing boring, however. It would lead to the logical conclusion that a nation effectively running on military efficiency will cease funding inefficient projects. Now what interested the man was the various scientists about the room. His eyes tried to focus upon the devices they worked, but to no avail. Between the obscuring nature of their bodies and distance, Ithalin could make nothing out. He could, however, feel the power in the air, the want to find its source and siphon it itching at his mind.<br/><br/>That wasn't exactly feasible, however. It didn't take very much intelligence to infer that if he moved out from the wonderfully arranged line of misfits, he'd be shot, stabbed, beaten, possibly im-or-exploded, or a delightful combination of all of the above, and so Ithalin brought his eyes about to look over his new 'companions'. They were uniformly short, save for what appeared to be a hairless minotaur, who managed to stand a fair bit taller than the undead's own seven and a half foot tall height. He was also the only other individual in the line who broke the two other norms—gender, and allegiance to the Reik, at least according to Tim. Of course, neither he nor Ithalin knew truly where his, or any other member of the party, loyalties lay. Assumptions made on generalizations were funny like that.<br/><br/>Ithalin's revere was broken suddenly by the blaring of music over a poorly aged speaker system. His muscles twitched at the sudden unified movement by the elves in the room, subconsciously readying himself for an assault even as his conscious thoughts flitted back to his own years on the parade ground. Within a few moments, he had relaxed, and was even humming along to the tune. He was still humming when the music halted, adding his own white noise to that of the dutiful machines as the living in the hall awaited whatever it is the living waste their time waiting for.<br/><br/>Soon enough, a new sound came forth. Resounding clicking, growing closer and closer until Ithalin was greeted with the form of his new jailor, clad in her uniform as expected, the regimented apparel complemented by the grinning visage of death. He particularly enjoyed the roses detailed upon it, as they reminded him of the same flowers the families of his myriad victims would leave upon their bodyless graves. The silence in the room grew awkward as Emlin finished her stroll to the podium, leaving him once more as the only source of noise aside from the machines.<br/><br/>He grew silent, however, as the woman began her rousing, propagandized speech. Pondering briefly if there was some member of the Party's media arm present and taking minutes, he was drawn once more to the myriad misfits this elfling had drawn together. He found them all...quirky, in one way or another. But then again, the man figured, he himself was likely an odd figure. A weathered face, scalp and jaw covered in neatly kept layers of bone-white hair, with eyes covered in an ever-burning blue flame, all solidly attached atop a black leather-clad body that looked like it belonged to a man twenty years younger in the peak of physical condition, towering over their own diminutive forms, save again for the minotaur-not-minotaur. By the time this brief introspective of himself was over, he realized the woman was done speaking. Honestly, he likely would have listened with more attentiveness, had he not found the accent she carried in this new tongue to be grating on his long-dead nerves. He waited until after she had called away the werewolf, or whatever they called them on this—Tim interjected here, annoyingly interrupting his internal monologue to tell him they were called by what they were, faithful wolves—world to step out of line, stretching his arms as he turned to look upon the cohort with fresh eyes and fresh perspective.<br/><br/>His gaze snapped to the tiny human-looking humanoid as she spoke up. He made a mental note, one that would likely be forgotten when he felt the spatter of warm blood upon his face, that she was their combat medic, and that meant she was a liability he would have to ensure wasn't swarmed by enemies who reached the conclusion that the woman mending wounds needed to die first. But, like he knew already, he'd forget about that once the first arm got ripped off, the first soul devoured.<br/><br/>He waited for a few moments after she finished speaking to speak himself in his gruff, eerily echoing voice. His accent was much like Emlin's, except thicker, and lacking any sort of sing-song inflection, which in combination with the fact that each word coming from his mouth suffered the canon effect, made his speech even harder to decipher. "<span style="color: #ff0000">I am Ithalin. I am not at your service, but I know it makes you living feel better if I say I am. If you require something dead, bother me. If you require a treatise on why blue is in fact green, do not bother me.</span>" He nodded, satisfied that he had gotten his point across. His words hadn't carried any noticeable inflection, which made his tone seem mirthless even though he had meant for the latter part of the sentence to be a joke. His eyes roved over the others as he waited for them to speak up, or stay silent.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>