tarnished silver lies discarded

"Perceval."

Egil's greeting is dull, if not precisely canned.

Maybe the assassin deserves dull. Whenever he should be greeted by any soul - not only those whose gazes he had intended to escape - he gauges their tone; qualifies their hostility and quantifies their sentiment; measures precisely the situation into which he has introduced himself. And thus, perhaps Egil has learned to catch him off guard, to mystify the dark poet and foil all possible mechanisms of preparation.

Or perhaps Egil is just tired.

"Egil," Perceval greets in turn. "How goes your work?"

He has been told time and again (though by fewer and fewer people with each refrain) that Egil's violent methods are only such as they are due to the existence of no other tangible, feasible, practicable solution. That the leader of the Mechonis is striking back against irrevocable inequality, not in turn to a score of distasteful deeds done. They will not be heard- will not be safe any other way.

(If Lady Meyneth were to rise against Zanza once more, vanquishing his sustenance laid unaware...)

Before Egil responds, he takes a moment to collect himself. Perceval watches the pistons of his chest rise and fall.

Then, he begins again: "Perceval."

Perceval waits.

He finds that whatever it is Egil may have to say, he is willing to listen. To adapt, and to walk in new directions.

"I fear Lady Meyneth may not reawaken within our lifetimes."

Machinas' are long. Still...

"No fear, Egil. I was not held impatient."