The edges of his figure glow dully from the faint light that creeps in from the cavern’s opening. Imbra’s deep roseate eyes cut to his face as a bolt of light flashes and his twisted grin gleams. His question goes unanswered as he begins to speak again in the waxing shadows; the spidery tendrils of lightning fading into the dark sky. He settles into a restful state as he clamors on about himself and it becomes clear to Imbra exactly what type Sindicate was.

”Are you finished?” her deadpan stare is unyielding as he finally stops to take a breath. Perhaps she had been so used to Sekhmet’s lack of verbal communication that this onslaught of self-involved word vomit was appalling to her. Or maybe it was just because he seemed to only care about hearing himself talk instead of getting an answer out of her. ”A true genius and a true hero would never claim to be one. They simply are.” Her indignation for his first impression is blatant but she does not fear his reprisal.

Thunder cracks and rolls above them, its intensity almost deafening as it reverberates. It breaks the conversation between them momentarily and when it dies down she chooses to speak up again. ”Some call me Myrria,” she impassively responds. He doesn’t deserve her new name, not until she decides that he is worth giving it to. He has earned her disfavor so far and will continue to do so until he shows her the respect she’s warranted. Even still, she can tell that the familiarity of despair slumbers within him as it does with herself. And on that note they can relate.