Garyn affixes his own helmet and nods, his face stern and determined. His armor is stainless durasteel with a matte grey finish, polished, but with no shine. He looks every bit the hard man, the hired muscle that he is meant to be. It is an easy role for him to play.

And then he casts his eyes upon the city itself - spires upon spires, towers upon Towers, as though someone had stacked White-Gold atop Ada-Mantia and built them all again a thousand times. He cannot see the bottom.

Well. So much for acting like I belong.

"B'vek..."