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[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

[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?"