(Untitled)

[hermeshaight]

Ah, midnight. His favorite time of day. Hermes drifted through the deathly silent halls, reveling in the darkness beyond the windows. Even the stars and moon were hiding behind thick, black storm clouds. It hadn't rained yet, he realized suddenly. He wondered if it would. Then, irrationally, if it even could

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[blackcompany1]

Sitting in a random chair, his armor left in his room, but still wearing his sword, Croaker has been practicing his English. The bookstore has been an amazing help, and some of the stuff he's read, has been, well, interesting. This is not his world, it becomes more and more apparent.

His deep voice reads aloud from the books of poems he found, as his gaze lifts from time to time to stare into the night.

"Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude
Which is not loneliness--for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again
In death around thee--and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.
The night--tho' clear--shall frown--
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given--
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee forever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish--
Now are visions ne'er to vanish--
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more--like dew-drops from the grass.
The breeze--the breath of God--is still--
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy--shadowy--yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token--
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!"

[hermeshaight]

Hermes heard the voice, but he didn't look around. Let whoever it was come find him; might prove amusing to watch as they looked around, desperately trying to figure out where the voice came from. To that end, he let his form evaporate into shapeless fog before he called out, "...Poetry is for pussies."

[blackcompany1]

Croaker glances over towards the sound of the voice, frowning. He sets down the poetry book, and fishes out his dictionary. Pussies, pussies... Ah! "It is for, some form of cat?" His voice is heavily accented.

[hermeshaight]

Hermes laughed; obviously, the guy wasn't great with English slang. "...Yes," he said. "That's it...exactly." Now, he was curious enough to wonder who he was talking to. He drifted, close along the ground, until he found his fellow insomniac.

Who was wearing a sword. Not the most absurd thing he'd ever seen, but out of place enough to make him curious. "...What's with the sword? You a collector...or do you just like being that close?"

[blackcompany1]

It's kind of odd. Croaker is looking at the place where the voice comes from. He doesn't seem to have any problem disbelieving his ears, as a normal person might. He's used to the supernatural. Like this place.

A couple of seconds of page turning, just to make sure, before he responds. "It is a part of my...(Whats that word?) Ah! Job. Just in case."

[hermeshaight]

So he wasn't good with English, period. That could be fun. And he wasn't unnerved by the disembodied voice. That was less fun, but Hermes was more interested in the sword anyway. "...You kill people for a living?" Then, remembering that the man might not know what he meant, clarified, "A job? Murderer...or executioner?" He couldn't resist asking, even if it was the same profession either way. Swords just reeked of stylized "Warrior of God" type murderers, though. This guy didn't seem quite crazy enough for that, but the most dangerous ones never did.

[blackcompany1]

"Dictator. Leader. Captain of the Black Company." He smirks, still watching the area the voice comes from. "(Lifetaker.)" He says the last one in his own langauge, but the way he speaks it, it sounds like a title.

[hermeshaight]

Oh, so he was some kind of warrior of God. Stupid thing, religon. Hermes reformed, the better to fold his arms and return the guy's smirk. What kind of idiot carried a sword, really? Not that he had anything against collectors; he liked a nice bladed weapon himself. But no one actually used them except the crazies. "So...where's your army now, Captain?" he sneered.

[blackcompany1]

No god thing here. Croaker doesn't believe in them. After all, in a few hundred years, some people will look back on him as a god.It's better if you don't worship.

A thick dark eyebrow is raised at the smoky form, but that's about all the reaction he shows. Compared to villains like Shifter, or the Faceless Man, this is just a bunch of smoke. "Home. Dejagore. Fight the Shadowmasters."

[hermeshaight]

Dejagore...Dejagore...Hermes had never heard of it, but it sounded vaguely Spanish to him. He hadn't yet encountered anyone claiming to be from another time, let alone another world, and so it didn't occur to him that Dejagore wasn't on Earth. Between the sword and the word "Shadowmasters", however, he was quite ready to believe that the man was delusional.

Inmates came up with all kinds of excuses, after all, and usually shouted them out at the top of their lungs when it came time for the needle. He'd heard them all.

"...Shadowmasters..." he breathed, laughter lurking just behind his deadpan tone. "...Right. Well, Captain," and again with a sneer; he just couldn't help it, "I'm a captain, too. Call me Haight."

[blackcompany1]

He taps his chest, because he's grown used to the gesture. "Croaker." He doesn't offer his hand. Something about this man... There are some people who get driven out of the Company quickly, men who enjoy pain, and suffering, who want the world to hurt. The voice is similar.

Croaker has seen far too many men in his time with the Company.

[hermeshaight]

He knew a lost cause when he saw one. Nothing seemed to shake the man. Torque was like that, too, but Hermes knew what buttons to press. He wasn't sure Croaker was interesting enough to invest that kind of time. But at least it had shaken him out of his mood; he hated it when his thoughts ran to the existential.

"...Croaker, then. How long have you been here?"

[blackcompany1]

Croaker glances out the window, frowning again. "It is difficult to know. This place is strange. Weeks, at least." He turns his gaze back to the strange being. "Are you a (wizard), then? (Damn!)" He flips through his dictionary again, before coming up with "Magic maker?"

[hermeshaight]

"Magic?" Hermes scoffed, breathless and barely audible, followed by his wheezing laugh. "...No," he managed at a more reasonable volumn. "I'm an executioner. I kill bad guys for a...job." He shrugged. "...And some good. You know the word prison, yet?"

[blackcompany1]

"Executioner. Prison." He nods at that. "Guard? (Let me see) you keep in, those who break laws? Kill by legal order?" He's familiar with such things. Doesn't like them, but familiar with them.

It should probably be noted that other members of the black company have described Croaker as looking like a serial killer.

[hermeshaight]

He already thought Croaker was a deranged criminal. He wouldn't have thought serial killer, however, simply because they always looked perfectly normal. It was the family man with two kids and a dog, the happy banker, the CEO of a Fortune 500 company you had to watch out for. The guy with the sword was just way too obvious. Spree, maybe. Not serial.

Hermes nodded. "...That's me. Captain Hermes Haight: executioner, prison guard, and professional asshole." He laughed lightly at his own joke, well aware that Croaker would probably have to look up "asshole" and reasonably certain that he wouldn't find it outside one of those insult dictionaries.