[center][h3][color=aba000]Nicodemus Hathaway[/color][/h3] Interacting With;[@Agent 47][@Silvan Haven][/center][hr]
[i] "Swirling morrows of steam and fog,
surround root of things oft’ not meant
For the drowning of seas and flood.
The mountain stirs in it’s death,
It’s harrowing slumber; 
And great winds course
through the veins of water."
[/i]

	With a sigh, Nicodemus rubbed his eyes in contemplation; it had reached one in the morning as Nicodemus had sat in his dimly lit desk, struggling to phrase the latest series of dreams he had been having. Perhaps he needed more time to read his dream-logs and fit things together, or perhaps he simply needed a moment to step away from his work. Presuming the latter he stood from his desk, returning his dip pen to it's holder, then dimming the authentic oil-lamp on the corner of his desk; he had a love for antiquity.

	 Walking from his desk in the dark room, his form began to adjust, his face fading and being replaced with a gross maw of flesh. Donning his yellow cloak, he began to move, although not in any way natural. Instead of walking, he simply seemed to disappear and re-appear several yards away; continuing this movement, he began to move significantly faster, so quickly that his form began to blur during the moments of his appearance. 

	He made his way to the Saint's warehouse, his direction an unsettling labyrinth to the location; a method he used to guarantee he wasn't tracked, and increase the number of sightings the Saint had. A large part of his persona as a saint regarded the terrifying methods he used to deal with his targets, the psychological terror his victims felt gave Eld Fen more pleasure than the act of killing them. It brought knew material to his writings.

	It wasn't long however until he had found himself on a roof nearby the Warehouse, covered in the shadow of a larger building and looking around, searching for any that may have followed him. Satisfied that he hadn't been, he moved into the building, near the large screen in it's confines. Looking around, he saw that Olive was here, although asleep, and Guardian was a few feet from him watching the crime screens.
	[color=aba000]"Busy Night?"[/color] He asked in a harsh, whispering voice; one he had designed for using specifically when under the moniker of Eld Fen. His featureless face seemed to gesture to the sleeping woman, nodding in her general direction.