Centurion

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The clan calls him C.T.R.-ion-- which sounds familiar (Are you sure it's not an acronym for something else?)-- but you're not sure what to make of that (especially since he writes it with periods in between the letters).


His eyes aren't eyes, really. They glow, like gateways or lost stars. His movement is more graceful than it should be, and the markings across his body shift and pulsate to a heartbeat that isn't draconian. There's something odd about his pearl-- the way it glows and pulses when it shouldn't; the way it floats away from the ground when he lets go to continue his studies. His joints whir a bit as they rotate-- strangely enough, part of him seems to be metal, as if he's some sort of cyborg.


«GREETINGS.»


Are you hearing the voice aloud or in your mind? It resonates on a strange frequency...


«I AM C.T.R.-ion. I COLLECT DATA ON SX-42 AND PERFORM NORMAL CLAN FUNCTIONS ON A DIURNAL BASIS. THERE IS NOTHING ELSE TO SEE HERE. MOVE ALONG.»


You're still curious, but you feel compelled to move on anyway.


. . .


Why did you come here, again?

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