Azuriel's manner darkens further as Masina turns away, as though the ink of his mask were settling into chasms of contempt and old ravines of resentment.  His stare gouges her back, then turns to glitter like distant jewels in the wound of a mountain to present itself to Anastasius and Quintus.<br/><br/><strong>"Men.  Farewell to you, all." </strong>Hands opening in an instant of grace, he links them hard before him.<strong>"May I hear of your exploits in whispers, and not in the enemy's war reports."</strong><br/><br/>Everything is silence about him then; the silent darkness of a final word on a fresh page.  Even when Atnorsa snarls, Azuriel remains still - just poised black script, drying into the dim around him.<br/><br/>Not so from the next room over.<br/><br/>When Atnorsa snarls aloud, there is a cry from the kiln room, gutteral and ragged - the form of agony that cannot be expressed from a human body by air; only by being cut from it.  It a sound made more of blood than breath.  Something heavy and moist smacks the ground.  And the steady tread of ursine breathing halts with a snort.<br/><br/>And all within the room of eagles can hear the source of the breathing - the sheer weight of it - turned to the tired task of listening.  Its silence is a hand of stone, readying to close.<br/><br/>