To him, the booming thud of the blaring discoteque was dull, and far away.  Other men, men like him, would have been antagonized.  The roaring bass reminded men like him of explosions.  And explosions made men like him value their lives and fear for their flesh.  But notice!  Husk, with one hand upon his glass, lifted it as if nothing, placed the rim upon his lips, and ahh, drank at his leisure.  But Husk hadn't forgotten what woes betide men of his variety.  Men of action.  Men of valor.  Indeed, while his left hand portrayed him so well at ease, the right hand clutched the blaster holstered at his thigh, his finger on the trigger, ready to blast away and smolder the enemy.  Because Husk hadn't forgotten.  He would never forget.<br/><br/>The music assaulted him, but he was pacific; and when the most ferocious of beasts is pacific, watch out!  He is dangerous.  This wasn't explained.  To be sure, there probably wasn't a committee of party-goers that made everyone aware that everyone should keep their distance from this tall, gaunt, chiseled figure who sat somberly,  nursing one drink after the other, while he gazed, his eyes unmoving, never moving, at nothing.  But everyone knew to keep away.  And it was well that they did.  Husk liked violence.  And sometimes, even the innocent sauntered into the path of his consuming rage.  Because Husk had been made into a soldier, and all soldiers must, whether by nature or by nurture, become tyrants.<br/><br/>So he watched, paying attention but not paying anyone any mind.  At least, until Maria Mercurial entered the stage.  He paid attention then.