The demon attempts further mockery. Rintor has seen it before. Beings like that thrive on the perceptions of others: the fear that they generate and the notion that they're powerful. Were it not for the magical shackles that he'd willingly put on himself, Rintor would slice the man's neck open in an instant and proceed to kill the demon as well. It isn't about morality, but rather scale of harms.[i] Sometimes , some innocents must die so that more innocents are saved.[/i] An odious thought, to be sure, but practical, and the right choice.

Rintor can only answer the odd scientist's question with an admission of his own. "I can see colour," he begins, "but I fear I've taxed myself too far with all of this recent lightbending. I'm out of practice, and ironically, temporary colour blindness is one of the first consequences a lightbender suffers when he overextends himself." [i]No need to mention the others yet, and pray I don't encounter them. I am dangerously rusty.[/i] "At this point, I'm following the others' lead and trusting in their judgement."

He walks quietly, watching, listening, and letting the others sort themselves out. He will have order prevail here even if he has to personally pound it into each and every one of their skulls. There are too many self-important people, hotheads, and liars. He's guilty of being the first himself. The sun is low. Colour starts returning to his world. The grass is strange. He's struck by its appearance. That doesn't mean that it's automatically a threat, but when dealing with an unknown, it's best to minimize your variables. [i]It would be best to reach bare ground.[/i] 

He watches Esailia stalking ahead of the others. For a moment, he's selfishly glad that he comes from a faraway land. Were there more people from the deep south, perhaps he would be as infamous as Victor. Perhaps his past actions would come back to haunt him. Perhaps he would be threatened with death. And he would deserve it.

Rintor Otorik divides his attention between his surroundings and the half-elf, who's approaching Esailia and trying to offer some sort of apology. [i]Clueless child,[/i] he thinks. [i]All strength and no brains.[/i] Surreptitiously, his hands brush the hilts of his daggers and he checks for the threads. It's so much easier - less taxing - for him to lightbend at night. He hopes that he won't have to, but he is ready nonetheless. There is little grass where they are now. The ground rises and falls. The mountains loom overhead, and a thin halo of sunlight crowns the summit of one of the lesser ones.