A relatively tall man by human standards stood before a wounded Titaness, a dark, chromatically oscillating tulle mask obscuring his identity as he brazenly confronted her. His sloppily knotted, sandy blond hair, interrupted by fine gray streaks struggling to dread, jostled just off the floor as he advanced.

[i]“Gerrika…”[/i] Tossing her name so casually felt like an affront to her being. 

The half-punched cut-outs of the magical fabric over his face, in quite a few ways, worked as a shield, distorting any direct path from her worn, bright emerald eyes to his. Beyond the veil, his conviction was clear. His gaze not only suggested, but his aura commanded the weakened Titaness bend to the relentless authority of the wicked poppet with white, diamond eyes he held like an urn.

Surrendering consciousness once more, Gerrika's fading image of the masked man and doll was all she could focus on. His beard was long, surprisingly unkempt given the neat button-down and tie he wore under the pashmina shawl draped over his shoulders. Its tassels gently wafted like a drifting jellyfish in response to the energy wrung from her frail figure. She was beginning to feel they would never find her…

In slumber, her dreams rippled, larger waves cascading upon reality. Skies darkened, predators grew bolder, slumbering forces awoke to the tune of her agony, chambers of Orst's inner depths unearthed. A Rube Goldberg machine of occurrences set forth. 

The man before Gerrika sought all the planet’s secrets, for he did not believe they were merely skin-deep. His name was Silvaire, a name befitting of his capitalist urges, hubris, and greed. Yet, were you to entertain his silver tongue, he’d almost sound philanthropic compared to his Ig contemporaries.

Almost.

Any good deeds cankered the moment the methods used to acquire such resources became known. Through deceit, he had convinced the fallen otherworldly Titaness to work with him, and like the true businessman he was, [b]exploited[/b] that.