Gerald Pithers
What a night this was.
One happening after another. And Gerald was so valiantly calm and dismissive of all the present dangers. The Taken? All they were to him were more jungle beasts. Savage ruffians. Unfavorable creatures of the night, bone-whacked ne'er-do-wells...
"... BELLIGERENT CALCIUM FIENDS, DRAMATIZED OPERA WASTRELS, MEAT-STAHVED VAGABONDS..." Gerald went on and on, coming up with weaker and weaker names for the Taken as Cia and Saaria just went to town on them.
Kind of made him feel a bit bad, being so useless in this situation. He was still hoisted over Saaria's back, able to do naught but provide commentary as she combatted her adversaries. And what a poor seat to have at the show, being turned away from all the action. Was absolutely terrible, all of it. Made Gerald miss the theater groups back in Chapel Valley, before the many churches halted their performances indefinitely. Oh, what he wouldn't give to see those fantastic shows again. That one group, the Westwood Stage League? So many tales involving graveyards and the wonders of the afterlife. Gerald would have been perfect for one of those, given his current physical state of being. Alas, the poor folks were branded necromantic sympathizers and hung at the Weepers' Drop.
Chapel Valley.
How long had it been?
How long had he been asleep?
He thought about it all as flaming bits of Taken flew past him. What'd really happened, and how much of an impact it should have had on him. What he missed upon his demise and would never see again. Lively streets, fond friends, tall drinks...
"AH..." He said, completely lost from the battle at hand.
"WOT A NOIGHT INDEED..."
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