Λ . . . ο . . . υ . . . slowly, the letters began to take shape under Lukas' finger-straining effort. Lukas had never actually done any carving in his life, and the reality of it was far more difficult than how it looked on TV. What's more, the wood proved an adversary mightier than the feeble pair of scissors was accustomed to dealing with, and already the very tips of the blade were beginning to bend. Still, he was making good time. Perhaps the placard would be finished in time for lunch after all.

A voice jolted him from his idle thinking, shattering his focus. His scissors, working down a letter, slip from the wood and cut across his arm. Lukas yelps and grabs where the blade landed. Slowly, he removes his hand and checks the palm. No blood. It hurts, but at least it won't make a mess either. He grimaced. It would have been nice to have his stone skin activate then. "This," he responds, holding his placard face up towards the source of the voice. "Λουκάς Μορ" displayed proudly across its length, the remaining half of the last name not having been done yet. "It's my name. What were you working on?"