While the new students were petering in, Cyril had already been here for several weeks, taking advantage of the fact that his room was his for the remainder of his enrollment. There was little to do away from school. His worldly possessions were limited to a small house and a slightly larger church which had remained silent since his father's passing. Cyril had made a short trip to Ireland to maintain the estate and pay respect to the dead. The family mausoleum had reached capacity with his father, storing the past nine generations of Garnets. He was the only surviving member of the Garnet family and fittingly, though it was to be expected. His father, Cassius, reminded him that Garnets have a nasty tendency to die young and leave the last member to fend for themselves. He doubted he would be an exception.

Cyril had spent much of his summer studying and had taken the time to meet with a priest his father once confided in during his time at Aulani. The priest knew the Garnet name well, the Garnet line having passed through the church for generations. In spite of the traditional requirements to become a man of god, Garnets would receive an honorary Masters of Divinity for their time dedicated to the Church and their time dedicated to the banishment of the children of Lucifer. As of June 3rd, Cyril was a priest of the Roman Catholic church and was given his Clerical collar which he frequently wears beneath his tie. His entry into the Church gave him the right to create weapons of his own, particularly holy water and blessed salt which acts like acid on the skin of daemons. 

The crowd of first years had drawn the young hunter's attention as he took a walk through campus with his daemons in tow, Thane and Set. The two, Cyril and Thane, generally spoke among one another while Set listened in obediently. Set's strength was far less than that of Thane and Set had a respect for Thane much in the way a child views an adult. "Mar sin, go leor i mbliana," Cyril said softly in Gaelic to his daemonic friend that glided along like a shade wrapped in obsidian cloth. It wasn't rare for the two daemons to remain visible, despite their ability to shift out of the visible spectrum and become dormant wraiths. Thane seemed to nod to Cyril's comment, his voice seemed to melt from his body-less form as he spoke "do chomórtas växer för varje år" the daemon responded, shifting from Gaelic to Swedish. It was rare for the daemon to speak more than a few sentences in the same language, Cyril was just relieved to speak one of his more familiar languages for once. Cyril was fluent in well over a dozen living languages and six dead languages, and at least novice level in several dozen through near constant practice with Thane, though Thane's skill far outmatched his own and Cyril knew he could never best a Librarian of Hell itself. Cyril continued, hopping over to Swedish to match the pace of Thane, "De flesta av de nyfödda kommer att förlora sin flamma snart nog dock, både du och jag vet det." The sound of distant rumbling thunder echoed from the Librarian, the odd sound being what Cyril assumed was laughter.

Cyril had little intention for the first years to understand what he was saying, though there was always the chance that among the sea of fresh faces there was one capable of catching one of the languages he would share with his daemonic companion. A familiar face passed by, that of a Latin boy whose daemon was a horse. Cyril had never interacted with the young man, though he had always been good with faces. Many people recognized him rather easily, Cyril being one to always dress sharply and keep his two daemons by his side. His status as one of the top five hunters among third years also made him rather well known. At more than one point he had been the top, though the others were incredibly talented and almost an ambitious as himself. As if on queue the blaring of the spotting alarm rung out across the campus, alerting him to the presence of a daemon.

[i]Perhaps the first years will get to see a small show,[/i] Cyril softly smirked, looking to Thane. "Obrěšti nebo prizoveši," Cyril commanded, his voice sharp as his tongue danced with the ancient language his father taught him as a child. Thane solemnly nodded, spreading the tome he carried wide before him, ethereal fingers running along the pages, a black form beginning to crawl forth from the book. Its body was drenched in ink that seemed to pour off of it once it emerged, revealing a small four winged bat whose wings buzzed like that of a humming bird. Thane's voice twisted and crackled like burning brimstone as he spoke to the class D daemon in their native language, commanding it to take to the sky and tell them where the rogue daemon was for its soul to be freed.

That bat took to the sky and for a moment, Cyril gave himself a chance to look at the fresh faces, his eyes quickly darting over them. He had nothing to say to them as he waited and made to attempt to communicate with neither the new hunters nor his daemons. Set's curiosity got the best of it and it slid between its two masters, approaching the fresh hunters, its veiled face moving close to several of the hunters. The first years didn't seem to know quite how to respond and Cyril had no interest in assisting them. Set reached out to one first year, bringing its ebon claws near her. "Enough." Cyril commanded, Set's hand dropping, its body shrugged downward like a shamed puppy. Thane looked toward his master, continuing to speak in Swedish, "Demonen ligger norr." Cyril closed his eyes tightly in mild frustration for a moment, knowing that if any of the first years could speak Swedish, they'd know where to hunt. He have to remind his companion to watch its words later on. "Come." He nodded sharply, making his way through the crowd which parted like the Red Sea before him and his daemons.