His face meant nothing. Even if the saarebas knew his name, even that wouldn’t strike any chord of familiarity into his mind. He cared not for the tiresome history of that outside the Qun--the Qun supplied him with what he needed to know, for all history that was pertinent to his existence. Unsurprisingly there was little that he needed to know. He was a weapon, not intended to craft opinion or belief of his own, but rather simply to act when given orders. There had never been any room for questions, and he learned everything he needed to survive in this role. With the bonds lost the saarebas did give pause now and then, for he was forced to think for himself, forced to consider his actions because he had do deal with the consequences as a person rather than a thing. That was why he stood there, electricity still webbing between is fingers as he looked upon the warden. It was why he did not strike right away, as he had been so conditioned to do. In these green wilds he didn’t know what to do--had killing become so normalized that he knew nothing else? “What do you want?” Nevermind that he had been the one to stumble across the warden.
wardenshonor
